The Demon Bergthor, Part 1.

The north winds blew
Down the mountain side,
Filling the air with a piercing
Chill, howling and haunting
The shivering village below.

The inhabitance huddled
Close to one another
Within the walls of their
Banquet hall, telling stories
Of adventure and woe.

When out of the darkness,
The sleet and the snow
Walked the hyperborean,
Stranger, the bringer of sorrow,
Bergthor the Crow.

The butcher of Sagrath,
The harbinger of hate.
Dark oblate to the old ones.
Death be their name.
The village knew not.

They welcomed him in
To sit by their fire,
Offered him Meade and a place to retire,
Oh woe to this village
Of soon to be sorrow.

One by one the villagers slept,
The hour grew late, Akin to their fate,
Until only Bergthor the crow
And the elders grandson Roe
Were left by the raging warmth.

Roe the fair, Roe the Bear
Young in years and soul,
But old in wisdom,
Keen of heart, A leader
Of future days to come.

Roe sat steady, watching
The quiet stranger,
Inside feelings of turmoil
Forcefully wrapped
Their way within him.

Bergthor smiled back
At the young warrior,
“It’s a deep dark night
Out there young’un”.
Shadows decayed the light.

With a flash of his eyes
He jumped to his feet
And swung at poor Roe.
Unconscious he lay,
Cold as the winds cry.

As morning arrived
Roe slowly came to,
And before his eyes
The horror grew.
All he knew was gone.

The walls of the halls
We’re painted crimson,
The cardinal of sins,
Vermillion as the blood
That boiled deep within.

Out into the frost he ran,
Vomiting the sorrow before him,
Where the abomination grew
And the blood flew.
Sieged was his eternal soul.

Every home was razed,
With his kin within,
All those he had known and loved
Their bodies lay black and butchered.
Inside his heart turned to stone.

Roe cried out with anguish,
Damned to the world,
All around lay ruin and vile
Hatred, the bodies of all,
Men, women and child.

Up from the mountain came the darkest
Of sounds, Bergthor
The harbinger sang
Of his nightly mirth,
Laughing that unholy sound.

He turned and walked
Back into the misty
Mountains, cold and numb.
Roe, his heart like winter,
Swore revenge to Hel.

To be continued…


Image © Michael Davini
Poem © Phen Weston


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