XI.

Bereft of bearings, flound’ring in the dark,

I cursed the knight and my own foolish schemes.

'Vincent?' To a dead sea sans soul to hark.

But lo! A fey shadow there through the steams,

I hailed thither, but he saw only dreams,

A madman raving, his mind left without.

We clashed and broke, I fled his tortured screams,

Then gauntlet caught me, and helm stood there stout,

Companions reunited, so cleansed was my doubt.

XII.

Through the gloaming we roved, and there above:

Across the valley, bridged arches of stone,

Endeavours great we passed, labours of love,

Carved figures posed from verdure overgrown,

Athletes, orators, a king on his throne.

A gleam beneath the tangled copse revealed,

A mighty dial once high, fallen prone,

Lost to century, its craft yet to yield.

The works of giants, here within this vale concealed.

XIII.

'Where are they now, these architects of old?'

‘In you and I, ere the fall of our race.

Be blood or splendour, all has come to fold.

Of what once was, smouldering embers trace,

And dormant memory lingers in place.'

By ruinous towers came we to rest,

‘What worldly muse spurred them so? By what grace?

Abyss and grim I see from East to West!’

'Aye,' said Vincent, 'Of greater zeal, were they possessed.'

XIV.

'The cursed fog, there lies the putrid root,

Our minds will dull, benumb’d to fugue in shroud,

Left blind beyond ourselves with vain pursuit,

Forgotten that which once could make us proud.'

A light he lit and darkness came to crowd,

In fierce affray, the mist seemed near subdued,

Alas, anon, the flame soon snuffed by cloud,

'With fire so frail, so do our hopes conclude.'

His talk grew tired, my words did spew with ale imbued.

XV.

'You think too grim, good knight, join me in jest,

The world in truth, see it through motley eyes:

Tis’ but a patchwork cloak of whimsy dressed,

Pray, fall not for so pitiful a guise,

In revelry and wanton spells, live wise!

Yea, drink with me now. Cheers to merry chance!

Our deeds, a fleeting thing. All with us dies.'

'In riddles wry, you feign a song and dance,

But friend, your heart I knew from first I took your glance.'

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XVI.

We came at last to sunken temple walls,

Inside the stone was life, in silent wake,

'My master’s scarf, he lies here in these halls!'

Through hallowed caverns, great windows opaque,

I looked about for treasure I might take,

'These books of old, their contents your reward!'

Cheated, yet this sight stirred my soul to ache:

A painted scene, a gentle sea abroad,

No dismal haze but light above and life restored!

XVII.

As strange it seemed, I felt I could have wept,

With echoes once lost, emerging of home.

Below the nave, along the vaults we crept,

Then heaved the footfall of mountainous chrome,

A visage stark, serene eyes topped with dome,

Then drooping limbs. Orders held to this day,

Outlived its makers, still to vigil roam.

'It sees us!' Fist flung- I leapt out the way,

A sword was swung, but made no mark in arcane clay.

XVIII.

Not strength or steel, but cunning this would take!

Each tome I swept until I found the lore,

'A moment, good knight!' 'Hurry for my sake!'

I read the words and it shook from its core,

By piece it fell, until it was no more.

'Your mind is sharp, Marcel, I am your shield!'

We noticed trailing blood along the floor,

Led to archive shelves, where pushing revealed:

Our sad, old knight long dead, inside this chamber sealed.

XIX.

Before his lord, Vincent fell to his knees.

Books by dozen scattered and notes piled high,

I read: 'At last! It lies not overseas,

But in the land beyond the sunset nigh!

Alas, that I have not the strength to try,

Childe Vincent, the duty is yours to claim.'

'Rest now, Sir Lloyd.' He rose with heavy sigh,

'Begins, my search for everlasting flame,

To keep the fog at bay and then the sky reclaim.'

XX.

He took his master’s sword then took his leave,

Myself, purloined volumes of verse and prose,

'Of whose value?' 'My own, would you believe?'

His quest was mine to join if I so chose,

A fool am I, through and through, I suppose.

A fool was he, but a friend none the less.

I asked the symbol on his outer clothes,

'The setting sun, as all our order dress.'

‘Follow,' said he, 'for words alone cannot express.'