They came with their axes. They came with their bows.
The invaders brought Denumaet many a woe.
They ripped and they killed, unbending to all,
from the ceorl in the field to the lord in his hall.
They slaughtered alike the great and the small.
Indeed, Denumaet had a grievious foe.
In a miserable hovel, Widow Cwen fret.
Out in the din and darkness her first-born was set,
set against unrelenting murderers,
barbarious fiends, ghouls, blood-splurting plunderers.
She hated these vandals, these mercerers.
For her eldest, she feared he would die. Widow Cwen wept.
Then her other son, Hieran, he was eight,
crept near her. At her side in silence he did wait.
Through falling tears, Cwen saw her youngest stand.
The mother, bent with grief, reached out and grabbed his hand.
She held him close, gave a desparate command,
and then flew into the street to meet her fate.
Cwen was frantic. She must find her oldest son.
Hieran would stay. He had a job to get done.
Her youngest was faithful in bone and breath.
He would obey; he’d trust her in his life and death.
The boy sat alone. He saw not the depth
of hot battles. He would stay, guard the One.
His mother had told him, “If Cempa has passed
the River Death, then Hieran, you’re my hope last.
I must seek out your brother, if he lives.
These murderers are fierce. Aid a mother may give.
Stay here, my son. Wait for me; I’ll come fast.
Aye, wait. Guard our One here from this tribe’s ravage.”
In room black, Hieran waited in fear.
Clash of arms, blood-curdling yelps outside he could hear.
The boy crept to the window, across the dirt floor.
He cringed at the rancor of fresh-spilled gore.
He peered out. Down his cheek rolled a hot tear:
his hamlet was ablaze, what meant peace before.
He wanted to run, see if Mother was alright.
No! He must stay. Wait inside, safe from the fell fight.
He must guard the One, his family heirloom.
It was a golden belt with engraved Elvish runes.
On it were pearls unsullied as the moon.
His grand-sire had seized it from a barrow-wight.
This belt was precious. It carried their fortune.
They could sell it, if out a vittles they did run.
Of course, that was a last resort in need.
Now Hieran’s family had on plenty to feed.
Their harvest might be good; they had new seed.
Yet he wondered. He hoped the battle’d be won.
Through fiery village, Cwen rushed to and fro.
Then unknown hands shoved her in a dark alley. Lo!
There sprawled a young man’s body, dead, ash-hue,
his face unrecognizable by flame-spew.
But he was Cempa. She was sure. She knew.
Then Cwen wept bitter tears. She hated this foe!
Still Hieran waited in sheer agony.
“What if the invaders find and then slaughter me?
How their whoops and cries bode ill in my heart!
Their force makes me whimper as a bird shot with darts.
No, Hieran! You must stay, not depart!
Mother will come soon for me; I dare not flee.”
But she came not. Then suddenly, a crash dashed
nearby. Was it in his home? He hope not. He gnashed
his teeth in terror. He shivered in fear.
Unknown to the lad, a jeering hand had here
tossed a blazing torch through a window peir.
But a door and a wall blocked the sight so ghast.
He sat unmoved by the open window-hole
clutching the belt in the faithfulness of his soul.
“How hot it grows!” he muttered in the black.
Sweat dripped down his face; by new fever he was wracked.
Outside, a tree fell with a thudding crack.
Hieran quaked. He burned as a glowing coal.
Then the smell of smoke and ash filled his nostrils,
for hands unpitying, malicious, and hostile,
had with warring hate, lit his hut afire.
Hieran was frightened. He was in states most dire.
Smoke came squeezing neath the door and higher
it curled up into the room with a jostle.
Poor Hieran. He didn’t know what to do.
He was so scared. In horror, the scene he did view.
“Oh no! A fire!” he cried. “Mother, come soon!”
He looked out the window. Black smoke darkened the moon.
“I cannot leave!” he wailed. “Mother, come soon!”
He hoped hard. His mother would come. This he knew.
Still, she came not. He choked in the smokey fumes.
Out the window he stuck his head. Air! Air and gloom.
Then the room was lit in an eery glow.
The flames had burned through the wall and door. Curse the foe!
Escape was cut off save by the window.
Yet Hieran would not leave that fatal room.
He screeched out the window, “Mother! Where are you?”
But his cry drifted unanswered, like the lone mew
tossed on the grey waves. He was forgotten.
He did not know that midst the carrion rotten,
his mother lay dead next to son soughtten,
for a cruel axe in her cold head was now skewed.
The fire advanced. He started to feel burned.
Hieran wanted to flee. How his stomach churned!
“I will not leave! She may still come,” he cried.
He stood against the wall; his fearful heart he defied.
But then he turned and beat the wall beside.
Freedom from his nightmare was all that he yearned.
“Mother! Oh dear Mother! I’m afraid to die.
Swiftly give me your command so that I may fly.
Otherwise, here I’ll wait. When will you say,
‘Here I am, Son. Well done. You did not disobey.’?
I hope that you are safe amidst the fray.
Mother! Why do you not answer? Why, oh why?”
And when no answer came, the little boy stood
clutching the belt as brave as his little heart could.
Steadfast he stayed. Cruel blaze devoured him.
It feasted on his clothes, engulfed his white limbs.
It smouldered on the belt till it melted, gold-dim.
The hut caved in: Hieran’s pyer of wood.
Denumaet was conquered. The foe was now lord.
They had only won by the cruel, cold-edged sword.
The fires died. Chill smoulders the village.
A plunderer seeks through the black-charred pillage.
He finds melted gold mixed with ash-fillage.
He ravaged it, not knowing what it cost its young lord.

Author Notes:
1. Hieran is an anglo-saxon word for “obedience” and is pronounced “hee-eh-rahn”.
2. Cwen is pronouced as “Kwen”; same with Cempa (Kempa). Cwen means “lady” while Cempa means “soldier.”
3. Denumaet is pronounced “den-you-met”
4. “ceorl” is an anglo-saxon word for “servant” or “common man”
5. “mercerers” is an archaic word for “mercenaries”