A Tale of Might and Death

I vow to those who hear my tale,
Those soldiers before us clashed like hollow shells,
How desperate it must be when death's door opens like Hel’s.

Yet we were not as they.
We saw the spark in his heart before the gods cast his fate,
Through howling wastes we marched whilst forging our blade.

Beloved Orf, he walked the glorious way.
So great was his might, so boundless his fame,
That our very earth proudly took his name.

By the divine revered, an ephemeral most dearly held,
Blest was he with a crown born of Loki’s cunning breath,
For it could ne’er be shattered, but by his very death.

From the frozen peaks they poured, the giant-kin of old,
Winter cloaked their stout necks as they marched on us,
We swore to wed the bitter steel, for our king commanded thus.

Molding Orf’s sacred flesh into the earth,
Odd forced our mighty king to his knees,
An act of dark defiance to the gods’ decrees.

Ic beode þam þe gehyrþ min spell,
Þa heorotmen ðe onfēngon swǣslicum hylle,
Hū dǣlġearne hit mæg beon, þonne deaðes dura öppnað swā Hel's.

Ac wē ne wæron swā hi.
Wē gesawon þæt glēow in his heorte ǣr þā godas ādrenchedon his wyrd,
Þurh hælende wildnesse wē feredon, hwilst we ālēdon ūre sweord.

Ealdor Orf, he gæð þone herian weg.
Sōþlice micel wæs his miht, sō boundless his fæmne,
Þæt ūre earðe fulwihte namen hine geornodan.

Đurh ða godcund líchaman, ænne ceaster gemett,
Bletsod wæs he mid cyningcrown æfter Loki’s fǣgen blæst,
For hit cuðe ne meahte forlæten, ac þurh his sylfan deaþ.

Frām ðām freosan hyrstum hi gearwe folgdon, se jǫtunn-weras of ealdum,
Winter næglade hira strang neckum swa hi on us færden,
Wē sworon to wedden þæt bitere steorfene, for ure cyning geboden sā.

Moldan Orf’s halgan lic into þære eorðan,
Cynde forcynge our mægen cyning tō his cneowe;
An dæda of deorcene forwyrd ætȳwan þær goda deedum.