Beneath his bloody spear they cowered all
The fiercest warriors of that icy land,
Able champions but they could not stand
Before his righteous wrath and fiery gall.
And yet the opposing host was vast
With rank on rank of soldiers holding strong
To protect their keep in a mighty throng
As was their vow since ancient ages past.
Thus from the youth a mighty cry of pain
At this prolonged and stagnant, deadly dance,
Still held at bay, unable to advance,
Nor the day’s vict’ry nor his true love gain.
Then from the mist a massive shape arose,
An elder being from the tales of old
His breath, the wind, his very blood, the cold:
The winter’s lord, patron god of his foes.
It spake, “Invading youth, great is thy might,
Yet my people’s walls cannot be breached
Nor the great tower that holds thy maiden reached
Unless that thou possess the gift of flight,
Which pow’r may I, the ancient king of ice,
Impart unto thy frail mortal’s care
If thou with me a certain bargain swear—
O youth, beware! For great is this gift’s price!”