Disclaimer : it's Galadriel's turn to tell her tale. A bit of Scandinavian mythology? Please R&R : )

The Lay of the Wicked Wild Walkyrie

After the departure of the green bat,

Only one person reacted to that:

Galadriel, her golden hair flowing 'round her,

Said softly: "To those words I cannot find any lure.

Can't people simply tell a story?

Is it so much of a misery?

Why so much complications?

Is it just a problem of notions?

Let me entertain you with a wonder of words,

That is more efficient than swords.

With infinite grace, the lady climbed on the table,

And with a peaceful smile began her fable.

"Fellows of Middle-Earth, here is my contribution

To that brilliant but messy competition.

I would like to introduce that audience jolly

To the Lay of the Wicked Wild Walkyrie...:

With hair like gold she had been blessed,

Streaming buttercups her head dressed.

Great and widespread was her fame,

Gudrun Odinstochter her name.

Pale as a swan's downy plumage,

That mortal men's brain would damage,

For her skin was so pure and soft,

It seemed as pleasing as a croft.

Her lips were two salmon slices,

That were worth all sweet devices.

Generously was her body shaped,

With a bulging chest and thin hips,

That would Venus's lure eclipse.

In caribou's skin was she wrapped,

For imprudent men to be trapped.

Her sweet smile she used as honey,

To ensnare men as would money.

Fragile she looked like but good God!

No worst Walkyrie could be found

On Yggdrasil tree or around.

In dragon's blood was she baptised,

So that warriors be terrorised.

Picking up warriors who did fall

On wet battlefields was her role.

One day Gudrun and her sisters

Were called to clean great disasters.

A terrible fight it had been,

Where blood in pond was drippin'

Greedy ravens grew up on corpses,

Growling dogs dug storing graves,

While the whining worm would wander

Among the lethal wounds that swarmed

With foul-smelling pus that warmed.

At their father Odin's loud call,

The Walkyries did cry and fall.

They ran to the trespassed fighters,

Proud virgins who feared not writers

With their sharp quills and dry parchments,

Stiff air and sad accoutrements,

Looking for some creepy story

Suitable for the kind gentry.

But Gudrun came upon a man,

Who laid dying among his clan.

Great was his fame, big his muscles,

His life died after his tussles.

Gudrun and the warrior's eyes met,

And nothing would be a diet

Better than that pure lively ode,

Better than that of love that flowed

From the virgin's obedient heart.

She refused to see him depart

For the Walhalla and its joys,

Using swords like children with toys.

Odin her divine father frowned,

At that rebellion he turned brown.

To his daring daughter he thus said:

"My blood has never been so red

Since that Loki stole my rollers

While I was asleep in flowers,

That morning when I met Freya.

To my heart she was my fella'

It was a shock to see such beauty

In such a place of vanity,

Full of mollusc-brained goddesses,

Nasty elves in proud odysseys

Of hypothetical wonders

Hidden in the mind of hunters."

Gudrun, who was deeply bored, yawned.

"Enough mass children you have spawned,

Please, Dad, spare me your debauched youth."

Odin looked vexed, and spoke the truth:

"Err, well, I just wanted to say

That a Walkyrie's life is no a play.

You're no simple human on stage,

Foolish seduction's not your age,

Nor is it your rank, proud virgin.

Don't mingle with men!" said Odin.

Then Gudrun burst into laughter.

Her sisters had a brisk shiver.

"Father, can't you leave me alone?

Days of submission're dead and gone.

Women are no more men's servants,

We won't be subjected as ants

To boring work and limp routine.

To male authority we sin,

But to modern world we're just free.

In free will and choice we find glee,

For from hardy wood we are made,

So to late strength adieu we bade.

I am no battlefield vulture,

Who slain bodies holds in culture.

I am no doll dressed in leather,

Who must run hither and thither,

With but little self-reflection.

I don't live in your detention,

I don't want to see daily dead,

Nor weak thieves stealing some cut head.

That dying man that I have met,

No such wonder exist I bet

Either in Midgard or Asgard,

Hel or any realm that you guard.

So don't bother me with rubbish,

And accept my life not greyish.

My sisters who are prisoners

Can't you break free from your maker's

Divine authority? Oh damn it!"

Said Gudrun with a brisk shrugging.

"I'm not going to convince you,

Knowing your wooden-heads and so.

For me no need to go so low.

I'd better try to teach knittin'

To a too well-to-do goblin."

Thus saying, Gudrun departed.

In her back her father shouted:

"If you leave with that mortal man,

From my sacred realm you I ban."

With a grin, her daughter answered:

"Well, dear father, upon my word

I'll say you're very generous."

And, bending to carry her love,

The sly Walkyrie as a dove,

Melted into the sleeping skies.

Odin the Great God not-so-wise,

Bit his lip and started to whine.

"Worshippers, I want a new shrine

To be built in my sweet glory,

Or I'll soon be in a fury."

Galadriel shook her fair head.

"Why have you to the tavern fled?

Don't you agree the female cause?

My existence has been a pause,

With a few breaks to distract me

From the elvish monotony.

I have a mule of a husband,

Who spends his time writing poetry,

Licking dew from leaves and pottery.

Oh I love him fondly but, well,

His heart within the stars does dwell.

Our son Elrond's of the same stuff,

Tender his mind, his body tough.

But his hobby lies in nature.

For him life is the best culture:

Take a worm, a bough or a trout,

He will deal with them without doubt.

Yet he gave birth to a real goose.

My grand-daughter Arwen is loose

Like her dark hair, windy her mind.

Eternal life she left behind:

I must admit she surprised me,

And my Gudrun is based on her.

Her fond lover is a great sir,

And I'd be glad to marry them,

Although his life's as brief as fame.

For mortal he is, and fragile.

I will respect him for a while."

Seeing that none listened to her,

That even Arwen's look was blur,

Galadriel spat on the floor.

So she scowled and became sullen.