Ondoliad. Song III

We shall rise to the sky, fair muse, and return to great Mount Olympus.
There, the king of the gods in his throne did recline, majestic and languid,
A-nibbling at grapes, and observing events that transpired below.

As he watched, he beheld a Nord hunter walk by, unsuspecting, 'cross a mammoth herd's pastures.
This herd, it belonged to a being worth hymns and much praise in a legend.
A giant, so tall that the king of the gods could reach down and pat him
On the top of his skull, thick and gnarly and rock-like. And now, this giant
Had spotted the man at his feet and, enraged by the daring foray in his pastures,
Swung a mighty great club, the size of a sturdy pine tree in a wild green forest.
Ye gods! As it struck at the rimy, hard earth, this fearsome weapon
Sent the hunter in flight to the loftiest peaks of the Mount Olympus.
Zeuseol shook his head as the wretch whizzed him by, arms and legs all a-flailing,
And thought to himself, 'Soon, his soul shall belong to my pale big brother'.

But no-one ever came; no-one claimed the soul from the hapless man's body.
He had safely escaped from his doom, having slid down the side of a mountain.
Watch him go, fair muse, while nibbling on cheese to replenish his health bar!

The sight of the hunter unharmed filled the lounging god with much doubt and wonder;
And arose he thus from his kingly gold throne, the last of the grapes having swallowed,
And put on his best armour, reserved for official occasions and visits
(Which comprised two fig leaves: one a pauldron, one for the loins,
Not unlike the scant garb that young maids are clothed into by modders),
And descended from chambers wherein he doth dwell on the mountain reaching to heavens,
To the pitch-black, blood-curdling, and fathomless depths of the netherworld's bowels,
Where even Olympian gods have to tread with the uttermost caution.

And waded he on, through the slithering sea of dark creatures a-creeping,
And he passed by the shades condemned by himself to be tortured forever,
For their sins grave and vile. Marching on, the great king heard their hissing and cursing,
The most loud was - lo! - olden Grelod the Kind, a harpy thus known out of jest, wry and bitter,
For kind was she not; nay, she beat and she starved little bairns to her care entrusted,
Till one of them fled, and whispered his woes at the shrine of god Lumenysus.
The god heard his cries, and inspired blind rage in the hearts of wild women a-feasting.
Entranced by the wine and dance, they swept off in a furious whirlwind.
And seek out the harpy, and catch her they did, despite her attempts at concealment,
And when that was done, they ripped her apart, and offered the gods her black soul,
Zeuseol, he condemned her to chip at the rock in a mine that doth bear enchantment:
Whenever she pauses to wipe off her sweat or to sooth her old bones, the face of the stone
Smoothes over, and old Grelod is forced to begin all anew. But the hag is relentless,
For 'tis said: should the harpy reveal a rich vein of gold, she'll be freed from her torment.

Having passed by her rock, Zeuseol soon approached the nether lord's chambers,
And discovered them locked from within. With his godly eyebrows a-furrowed,
Thrice he knocked on the door, but his summons were left with no answer.
Then, he raised his great voice, and let it roll through the kingdom's dark reaches,
And quoth thus, rumble-like, 'Brother mine, thou hast been neglecting thy duty!
For but moments before, I observed from above as a puny, weak mortal
Walked away, not a scratch, from a fall that insooth should have scattered his bones.
'Tis against the laws that the gods put in place for the fragile earth-dwellers.
With a mind so cold, brother mine, methought thee would follow the rules to the letter -
And yet thou dost break them. Come out, I prithee, and explain thy actions uncanny!'

For a while, he waited, impatient - till lo! - the grim silence was broken,
Ondolehades emerged, legs unsteady, from darkness,
And groaned, his voice like the breath of a rustling cold breeze in the treetops,
'Godly brother! Thee beholdest a wretch that was struck by a strange and grave illness.
There's an ache in my heart that doth bar me from rest - and the purest sweet nectar
Is like bile to my lips. My superior mind - oh woe! - hath become weak and muddled,
And all of my thoughts turn towards a young maiden I saw among mortals'.

Zeuseol, he did grin when he heard his dread brother's confession,
And, a-slapping his knees, he guffawed, kingly manners forgotten,
'Oh by my... bolts, why didn't you say so at once, silly fellow?
Your so-called disease is easy to remedy, easy to conquer!
Just creep up, on the sly, the maiden that has you ensnared to tightly -
And abduct her! 'Tis easy, and I have performed this, why, dozens of times!
Transforming might help do the trick: I favour the shape of a bull, or a swan, or of rain...'

The king of the dead curled his lips in reply, to display his revulsion,
And quoth thus, 'Though my overlord, you are truly barbaric.
I repeat: I am sick! 'Tis a potion I need, not abduction of maidens!
And to think you'd suggest that I follow your footsteps...'

Zeuseol cut him short, 'No such potion exists, my misguided big brother!
With my brilliant scheme, you will truly break free of your pesky affliction,
And return to your job as the netherworld god, restoring the natural order'.

'This, I would like,' the dread ruler replied, after musing some while in silence.
'Very well, brother god! But mark this: I had better not end up regretting
This plan you propose'. Concluding the talk on matters of greatest importance,
The two brothers engaged in a round of devious scheming.

What their strategy meant for the innocent maiden Kiare,
We shall shortly unveil, oh muse, if the listeners muster their patience.