Like Autumn Leaves We Fall (Closed)

[Lucien]

(Madison, you will rape me in all the bad ways.)

The dining room stood appeased in gold trim;
Its echoing halls fit for a king.
The oaken table set proper and prim;
Silverware gleaming, not needing a thing.

And there stood Lucien with his golden curls.
A boy brimming with the essence of life.
His feminine Figure envied by girls;
Swaying slightly, his mind set all astrife.

The windows were darkened by nights' shadow pass.
A chandelier overhead gleamed with passion.
The boy strode with worry that he lacked class,
To be prompted on this stage in such fashion.

With a sigh he resigned this gilded hell,
To another trick of the Citadel.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((I don't do my sonnets split into stanzas, but it's not improper, so don't feel any need to mimic the style.))

The rowan portal opened with a boom
that shook the very rafters to the height;
from tendriled mists he stepped into the room
to seek a warmer bed, a sweeter night.
He shook the snow and damp off of his cloak
and hung it carefully upon the wall,
he closed the door, which shuddered with a croak,
then turned to view the awe-inspiring hall.
His gaze took in the candies and the crepes,
the royal cuts of beef and loafs of bread,
but when he saw a lad beside the drapes
he felt remorse resound within his head.
The bard regretted having come so far
to simply teach the young the art of war.

[Lucien]

An opponent approached with golden hair
His body gleamed with a blinding gold light.
He shook of his sullied cloak to beware
The harsh storm that controlled the lonely night.

With a glint from his eye and wonderment
He set his gaze on the fantastic feast.
Though one look at Lucien caused him lament
An angel come, it seemed, to slay the beast.

Stoic never, a coward forever
The boy's mantra was a simple display;
Half-hearted was he every endeavor,
A fight to his death was met with dismay.

Lucien found himself a knife dug in meat,
Perhaps with swift footing, a breast it'd meet.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"The Citadel brings visions from afar
yet who am I to doubt what's in my eyes?
You're but a boy, I cannot kill your star."
He dropped his head and gave a lonely sigh,
his fingers gripping Ainalindil's hilt
so tightly that they were all-turned to white:
his blade was mythril, runic-carved and gilt
with gold in various forms, it was a sight;
a sword superior to any knife
held by the youth, who grasped the cutlery
as if he thought it could protect his life
against this greater elvish weaponry.
And so to give the boy a fighting chance,
he turned to hang his sword at door-of-manse.