Æthelflæd, your breasts are mountains! The spirit of resistance in you, how it may never rest, or withdraw, or cease to hope the good hope; hurry, you matrix of resilience, the patroness of the already dead - take up your sword, that which kills the norsemen... Hungry storms yawn on the horizon; the ocean has teeth of steel and vengeance... Æthelflæd: kiss our swords, for we are weary; the waves are short and vomitous this dusk, how they wage a war on the mudrock and the moonstone of our shores; you, saint, foresee the dark night: shall the dragons of the north arrive from the heathenlands, or may we sleep a single hour? Tell us to prepare and we shall die for you, between the half-ruinous towers and the old stone chimneys...
O Warrioress Queen Æthelflæd, you are all that you never wanted to be, yet you are all that you ever could be... Come, you: feel beneath your skin the uprush of wilder, jubilant energies; shoot the religious phenethylline into your veins; burst out with war, lead the way, tonight they come: we can see it in your eyes. Tonight, war. And love. For you,
. . . Æthelflæd
870 - 917 A n n o D o m i n i .
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