Two Norsemen and a Maiden

In a kingdom not so far from this one, in not so far off a time ago upon a summer's heated day, trickster Loki was having a wondrously fine day after carefully cunning planning.

What should have been a gloriously fine planned wedding day, since birth arranged by aging chieftains looking for peace, now has a bit of a twist in it.

The wedding guests may yet eat funeral cake if a certain entertainer, constantly traipsing away from voluptuous Valkyries, doesn't think his way tactfully out of an unavoidably -- for lack of a better word -- precarious predicament. Silly sod of a lad should have known a graceful vagabond is no stranger to duels.

Apparently, the only daughter of the ancient chieftain arose earlier that morning a wee bit too shamefaced and glowing from her four-posted bed for her lady-in-waiting to not notice the abandoned hose leggings of a certain bard.

The crouched warriors now face off in the gathering dusk, the tension thick as foaming mead. Flickering light is running down the blades like rain streaking down a dragon-headed prow. The well-nicked blade stops short of the tightly gripped hand. It comes to the other's v-shaped hilt and eyes linger along bright runes of the blade, searching for any motion.

Their eyes remain locked similar search of the battle to come. Bemusement masks malice in the handsome chiseled features. For a singing charmer, even far Eastern snakes during his younger days of trading knew well enough to let well alone in search of easier prey.

Young determination and blood lust stare back at him, furious words still ring in the heavy silence with threats to redeem wounded honour of his soon-to-be bride -- smoldering fierce gray eyes in the sparkle in the smokey light.

Muscles strained like leather thongs suddenly spring loose in the flick of an equally light wrist movement, blooding the forearm of the younger of the warriors. A lesson in belated reflexes almost failed completely.

In that split second, he responds and throws a lightning fast counter-thurst. The grizzled Norseman feels this might be his last glorious fight. He grins, supposing mayhap it be worthy of a ballad to be written with dying hands, as he seemingly casually glances aside the younger suitor's strong blow. It still vibrates through guarded handle of the fiercely painted eye of his rounded targe shield.

He glances over the targe's much sword-nicked thick bronze rim at the young fool with raised eyebrows as if to ask, was that all?

Ringing blade sequenced thrusts rattle the younger warrior struggling, however he's managing to keep parry for thrust of the experienced dueling bard laying the iron length into the other's defenses.

The golden braids of the maiden, awaiting her two enraged lovers' to cease fighting, is nearly torn in two over whom shall still claim her hand; bloody it might be to stain guilt into her never-to-clean hand.

Her emerald green Arab silken-clad bosom, a seemingly innocent bolt of satin of a gift from the bard to her father upon hearing of her engagement, rises and falls in rapid successions. She remember too fondly the last foray of caresses of the previous night. Heart aching already, she wonders what will become of the duel.

Her two warriors whirl and toss blow after thunderous blow at each other, locked in an embrace far more deadly. The last wild night surely wasn't worth this. She grins anyway, the bard knew as well as she did that this secret love would come an end most spectacularly.

Her crystal blue eyes trickle bitter tears and winch as the young nobleman dips back his weight suddenly, managing to glance a blow off her dear wandering bard's iron helm and nicking his ear slightly. Boyish charm gives too easily to boyish pride of the equally young and barely bearded boy she had been chosen to marry and tarried away from too easily.

The bard laughs aloud, shaking head and whirling another roundhouse blow with his targe shield boss; its well placed buffet causing the prince to stagger back a few precarious steps on the beam.

Only fools agree to fight a duel on a dusty lodge lintel above the hall's chandeliers of candles. He felt that way upon agreeing after the stinging slap of challenge in leather hunting gloves from a man almost half his age.

The bard under-estimated the soft looking hands of the prince -- those hands knew the weight of a long sword well and there would be no easy way out of this fight of honour.

The candles shrink lower as the blows become slower. Crinkled powder grey mail tunics become greased with blood from milder quick slashing blows met without an answering block. The prince is looking ghostly pale in earning a few more licks then he intended to reciprocate.

The bard is fading as well though still lightly moving forth and back to meet the blows cleanly with answering blow. He ducks to the left and swats the flattened side of the blade the buttocks of the now exposed hindquarter of the heir.

He catches and steadies the sword arm of the bewildered prince about to tumble to the stone tiles below. They pause, wordlessly agreeing it to be honourable to disengage. A dishonour redeemed in a noble life saving throw. They bow to one another, swords raised in salute to Odin's intervention of opportunities to end without bloodshed on a wedding day.

Dropping to the stout oaken feast table, the bard, though tired, still manages to catch a stein of mead and offer drinking horn to his noble adversary. Escaping with only a pain in the arse, the lucky lad will be a bit less pridefully longevity on his wedding eve. A fitting beginning to the peaceable festivities.

The bard casts down his targe and sheathes sword to pick up harp and begins to play the traditional march of the less the pure virgin's steps to the exasperated druid who spoke too soon in announcing the union ceremony to start.

A fresh tale this may be, but as I saw it with mine own two eyes, for I was that brass bard who now sits before your hearth. Thanks for the mead and shelter from the storm my Liege. Shall I play a little while longer before the fire fades for the night?

The elderly chieftain laughs heartily and passes another huge drinking stein to the bard, wondering if that rascal never cease to harass his distant neighbours' kingdoms? He shrugs, knowing it better to have hands full with a bride's wandering heart than the young fool have time to coming knocking on his old hall doors looking for trouble.

The harp, shimmering lacquered from many loving caresses of song, reverberates joyously with softly plucked reels to stave back the fierce winter winds hearkening to lighter summer days.