Once upon a time, the child of a hero knelt.
In honour of his father's memory, of the life he never spent.
The child lifted mountains, held them high upon his head.
His father did so too, long before his death did call.
He always loved his father dear but, now his father's dead.

His mother loved him all the world.
His long black hair tenderly curled.
It fell about his shoulders bare.
Sadly, his father was not there.
The only things remaining of  father dear father, merely carbon dated principles, found writ upon an icy rock.
Existing in a fantasy, a book of ancient heroes.
He looked up at his mother, she who loved both of them so.
Buried his book of honour, beneath the winter snows.
As spring broke through a sudden thaw, father back once more from war.
Somehow his heart and mind survived.
A son and heir as unexpected.
(c)LIVVI