Years have passed,
Time an enemy that cannot be conquered,
Leaving heros to be quietly forgotten.

The Prince is older now then when he started this self imposed exile,
Golden hair grown out,
Lines showing signs of setting deep on a once youthful face,
Adorned in a cloak to better conceal himself from recognition.

The Queen,
Old now,
Sitting stooped upon the Cursed throne,
The only one left with claim over it,
Heedless of the consequences of her own pride and greed.

As the distance greatens,
The Prince sheds his cloak,
His slip into anonymity complete,
He stops to look behind him,
To gaze upon the watchers,
Their careful gaze taking in all.

Always silent before,
Never to judge,
Just to bear witness to the acts of all,
And now the watchers call out.

The Travelers heart aches,
Upon such a sorrowful sound,
A last gift given to the man in ancient tongue,
A key to success in the Travels future,
And then the traveler walks on.

The Old Queen receives word from the Traveler,
Sharing his knowledge imparted to him by the Watchers,
But only for him to not realize it is knowledge delivered too late,
The Curse would not be lifted in time

The Traveler pauses at the beginning of the Mountain path,
Seeing the beautiful range starting  just a mile off,
A welcomed change,
To give away the Watchers gift to others as well.

The days grow long,
But many sights are beholden to the Traveler,
So many things to see,
Beauty of the journey not lost on him as he still silently mourns his home

Ages pass,
Great deeds are accomplished,
Friends made,
Loves lost,
Wisdom gained,
Muscles lost,
Eyes dulled a bit,
As adventures slowed down,
And the travelers name is lost to time.

Roots are formed,
Set atop the tallest mountain,
Not far from a kingdom,
Set in the valley below,
Not too different from his home,
The one left behind too long ago.

The Hermit takes the Travelers place.

A sweet saga sung,
A cigarette crackles as it ignites,
A tale tragic for my lungs,
But chemicals rush through the brain setting it alight.

Sweet accents to the tune as the tale unfolds,
As our hero's story unfolds,
A bittersweet departure,
Kept apart,
Held at bay by ideology and circumstance.

But a darkness approaches,
A dark fate comes closer,
To destroy them all,
And she orders her opposite to take her bow,
Standing shoulder to shoulder to bear the brunt of the storm.

The dark haze creep in the Valley,
Eyes peeled to the east for their only chance to survive to hold out,
Already morning the orchards that would soon be lost.

The rot begins to spread,
Grotesquely twisting the trees as they shrivel and waste away,
The scion of the ****** angered at the pyrrhic victory.

The long night bringing a great battle,
The feral calls are cried,
They meet in a great clash of steel and magic,
In a secret war away from private eyes,
How can just one battle last so long?

Armor is rent asunder as weapons are damaged and woundss attained,
The Scion steps forward with a sword set ablaze,
And the woman lies bloodied off to the side,
The warrior lays set with her bow pulled and arrow drawned back,
Her aiding him even after she was taken off the board.

The Scion draws closer still,
His face finally shown to him,
As the symbols of the before set aglow along the bow,
The arrow is loosed,
Sending it along it's trajectory as the sun finally climbs from the east, washing everything in light.