Serenity and magnificence, an Orb of softest glow
hung aloft in the sky above
and the twilit world below
basked in the colors of white and silver.

The Sage of earth, nature, splendor,
and the wilds complete kept it safe
from the claws of malicious contenders
that wished to snatch its beauty for greed.
Ancient was the Sage and withered was his skin;
he grew older with the wax and wane
of the moon, twice a grin
by the silver and white of his curling beard.
Decades, centuries, millennia, and beyond, no villain
dared to touch the sky with such ill intent
for fear of being torn asunder by the Sage for their sin.
Those days had long since passed;
the Sage was no longer as strong as he had once been.

The great winged Behemoth from a grassy knoll
of Vak saw this wilting man, a fraction of former glory,
and swept up with teeth bared sharp and fur like coal
into the dark midnight expanse.
A triumphant howl rang out—the illustrious Moon he stole!—
and he soared high and long with the glowing Orb in tow.

A Youth of eight-and-ten, blond-haired and eyes of blue,
glimpsed the Behemoth as it flew, clutching tightly its revered prize.
To the Sage he ran to bring the terrible news
of the beast’s daring larceny that had been seen by his eyes.
Deeper the frown upon the Sage’s face grew;
his eyes took to the dark night sky
and he whispered, “Yes, it’s gone. I knew
of its loss the moment it went, but I am weak and cannot recover the Moon
from this powerful beast. But while I cannot, with your youth, could you?”

“Good Sage,” said the lad, “I will do my very best,
but I cannot promise
time nor rest
the retrieval of the Moon.”

Smiling, the old man pulled close his emerald cloak
and began to tell his tale:
“Lad, the nature of this beast is ill and smoke
does curl from its mighty maw.
Many bones and bodies and spirits it once broke
with its claws and breath, but to you that won’t come so easily.

“Behemoth of Vak, terror of hills and skies!
Boy, don’t you fear such an entity,
for a beast that now lives surely dies,
and with your vivacity and strength, I guarantee
that victory shall be yours. In your eyes
I see much promise and only truth;
through the skies you will rise
and you will reclaim the Moon.”

“But good Sage,” the boy did protest,
“I cannot fly! My back is bare,
my arms are thin, and I have no crest
upon which to call a hallowed name.
There are mages that lie to the West,
but I have no horse to ride
and it would be no mere humble request
to summon wings for a boy of no coin.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken,” said the Sage.
“Do I not still have power?
The body might grow weaker with age,
but the mind grows forever stronger.”

The Sage then waved the boy close,
and soft blue light bloomed from his fingertips.
It illuminated bright the thick copse
of trees, the Sage’s home, that encircled them both.

“Now, stand still. Keep your feet here.”
The blue fled from the Sage’s hands
to the boy, and quickly, wings of feathers so clear
sprouted from the pale skin of his back.

Surprise did cross the Youth’s face;
a boy of simple values and ways he was,
and no greater shock befell him than the grace
of soft wings spreading from his shoulder blades,
wider than arms’ length and willing to chase
the Behemoth of Vak.

“Go,” willed the Sage with a smile.
“Fly you can, fly you must, and be it swift!
The beast climbs high and far while
you wait to take to the winds.”

The lad’s wings stretched and he took off from the grove,
skies welcoming him as one of their own.
He flew high above treetops and mountains, he dove
into valleys and ravines and along ocean bays,
all in search of the Moon’s brilliant glow of
silver-white light that beckoned.

At last, the radiant Orb he did see,
hung dangling in the starry darkness
in the topmost branches of a tall and ancient tree.
The great Behemoth he had not quite forgot,
but the sight of the Moon alone and free
lifted the hopes of the lad beyond the reach of his wings.
Hovering just above, he wondered, What could be
the beast’s intent to steal such a thing?
Extending his hand, he brought in his knees
and took the Moon into his gentle hands,
blond hair stirred by the passing breeze.

As he was about to take flight once more,
a rumbling growl thundered from beneath his feet
and the Behemoth of Vak, terrible beast of lore,
shot past him with such force that the Moon
fell from his hands and plummeted to the earth before
he could reach out to catch the beloved Orb.
“Foolish human,” the mighty Behemoth did roar,
“Do you really think you can stand a chance?”

The Youth saw the horns of bulls,
he saw the head of a wolf, the tail of reptiles,
and the large, skeletal wings of bats spread out full.
A beast of fear it was, a beast of terror and havoc and chaos,
and it was right: what stunt could he manage to pull?

Glancing to the falling Moon below,
courage began to flow through the network of his veins.
The faint and vanishing glow
gave him his lost hope; it helped him believe.

The thin Youth of eight-and-ten floated unfazed and proudly
in mid-air, his translucent wings catching light from the stars.
“Fearsome Behemoth,” he cried aloud,
“The Moon is not yours to steal or possess!”
He stooped forward, mockingly bowed,
only to swoop down and pursue the plunging Moon
into the dark forest below that could shroud
and blot even the brightest of suns.

Enraged, the Behemoth took chase.
It would not relent and it would not give mercy;
the fate of the boy relied all on his haste.
A downward spiral the two did weave,
dropping fast into an erratic race
of swiftness and speed.
Outstretched were the lad’s hands and pink was his face;
he soared as fast he could to snatch the falling Orb,
determined to carry it away at a faster pace.

Fires of resolve burned fiercely within the Youth’s chest.
The Moon was within arm’s reach, falling still,
and the lad was further pressed
to reclaim it for the old and withered Sage.
Deafening howls of anger and protest
followed his trail; the Behemoth was at his back,
voicing primal and thundering behests
to cease the Moon’s pursuit.
The Behemoth’s wolfen visage expressed
loathing for the Youth and his courage,
and it stormed on with alacrity and detestation coalesced.

With a triumphant shout, the Youth reached his goal:
the glowing sphere was in his hands at last.
The Behemoth burst forward, its maw an open, gaping hole
that spat black, curling smoke.
Holding tightly onto the Orb, the lad launched into a spinning roll,
evading the beast’s noxious breath
and sending himself fighting for control
as his pellucid wings brought him upward in a sudden rush.

“Give me Lunav,” commanded the great beast,
soaring behind the disoriented Youth without delay.
“She is nothing to you mortals. If she is not released,
then your death will exceed all that is known as ‘pain.’”

“Lunav?” questioned the lad,
his arms securely around the lustrous sphere.
“Oh, it’s the Moon that you imply. I had
never heard it called such a name.”

The Behemoth of Vak slowed
and simply hung suspended in the cold night air.
“That is because her true form she has not showed,”
it rasped, its eyes a chilling red,
“and to no mortal has her presence and grace been bestowed.
Release her now, boy, and perhaps I’ll let you live.”

“I promised the Sage that with the Moon I would return,”
replied the Youth, blue eyes defiant and cool.
“Is that so? Well, then of pain you shall learn!”
roared the Behemoth of Vak, and it charged
forward to meet the Youth, who floated quiet and stern,
in a clash of beast and man.

The Moon pulsed in the lad’s hands,
flickering brighter with the Behemoth’s approach.
Before the beast could reach its mark, the Orb’s light spanned
and enveloped them entirely.

“Halt!” cried a young woman’s firm voice,
and both beast and man froze in place.
“Gyr, you seem to leave me with no choice,”
said the Moon. “End this now or face me with him.”

The Behemoth snarled furiously. “I refuse!
At last that Sage has grown too old to properly defend,
but now that my chance has come, I must lose
you once again? Zora, you foolish girl!
Time after time, millennia spent, and still this abuse
continues without end. When will you return?”

A woman of two-and-twenty emerged from the light,
her hair silvern and silken-spun; the purest of white gold.
Thin lips, painted blue and purple (as her face resembled the night),
and cool satin robes covered her slim body, wrapped securely and neat.
“I belong elsewhere,” said she, dark azure eyes bright
with ethereal serenity and elegance,
“and to you I’ll not return.” She sounded contrite
in those words, her tone soft and sweet as a lover’s,
but her meaning concealed a slight
that was not quite unseen.

“Traitorous harlot!” bellowed the Behemoth, Gyr.
“How dare you choose another over me!
No other god is as great; no other instills such fear!
I am the reaper souls and the keeper of life.
To me, the god of death, all mortals adhere.”

Zora shook her head and deeply sighed.
“Neither power nor fright sit well with me,
and all of those that have died
by your hand are condemned.
Gyr, your power and your pride
cloud your sight. Leave this world now, and this very night.”

The Youth witnessed yet another great flash;
Zora, Lunav—the Moon—had disappeared without warning!
A sword was in his hand, blade of silver, and he dashed
toward the Behemoth of Vak with the voice of the lady at his ear.
“His belly is his weakness,” she said, “so take the blade and slash
until the chance to plunge it deep arrives!”
Wings spread wide, blue eyes focused true, the lad lashed
out at the howling beast, countless thrusts aimed for the belly
while the Behemoth raged and roared and thrashed.

The fall of Gyr was certainly a fall indeed:
deep in the beast’s stomach was the blade of Zora,
buried in fur so black, and though the wound did bleed,
no blood could be seen amidst the darkness
and a twisting fall of such speed.
The Moon’s last words echoed into the night,
and those words the Youth did heed:
“A god suffers from one of a two-sided blight:
hunger for knowledge or hunger for might.
Gyr is the latter, and he wished me harm out of spite,
for my loyalty lies with Hashim, the Sage whose beard is white.”

Back to the grove the Youth silently flew,
alone and empty-handed since the battle of the Moon
and the Behemoth was finally through;
the sky was lit once more by its peaceful glow.
When the lad touched ground, he knew
that the old and withered Sage was no more.
His wings had vanished into sparkles of white and blue,
and in the Sage’s grove by the man’s favorite tree
was a silvern sword with stains of sanguine and black thoroughly imbued.
Beside it lay a cloak of emerald hue, folded and neat and cold and damp with dew.