By Iain Muir
In the darkness, a man lies in thrall,
Lost in the greatness of an Elven hall.
His features are proud, his hair spun gold.
Not for him is Death's shroud, not for him the long cold.

His robes are of silk, silver begirt,
White as new milk, with cloth-of-gold skirt.
His sword on breast lies, blade Dwarf-wrought,
It's hilts in palms pressed, the last battle unfought.

Nearby sleeps his steed, a snow-white mare,
In time of need she shall be where
In an age long forgot she first was lain,
The heir unbegot of one who was slain.

Around him lie his grim, still men.
They do not die; they shall live again.
Their faces are proud, their demeanour grave.
They are sworn to him who shares this cave.

An old man tends this vaulted tomb,
His grey cloak blending with the gloom.
Though his beard is argent, his arm is strong,
His gaze still ardent, after a life o'er long.

He was Council's chief in the Sleeper's reign.
His charge: bring relief when 'tis needed again.
For a day shall dawn when evil will rise,
And the Devil's spawn will fill the skies.

Then the Sleeper shall wake, from his tomb he'll come,
His long vigil he'll break, for the task is begun.
The voices shall mutter, and rise to a shout,
As the pennants flutter and prophecy comes about.

Then war-horn shall wail and trumpet bray.
The Dark must fail upon that day
When the knights of old shall ride again
To lead the bold legions of men.

But until that hour, that greatest need,
This man of power sleeps near his steed.
He has a Name, who is not dead,
A name of Power, and Magic, and Dread.

Arturus is he.  The King that Was, and Is, and Shall Be.
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