Far beyond the trees I can see only wretched fools destiny.
The elder ways are gone from their blood, forgotten.
And in my dreams I die with my weapon drawn,
To slay beside my brothers where I belong.
As our weapons splatter worthless blood.
In bitterness alone, I grow old atop this hill of stone.
The triumphs of my kind will live on when I'm gone.
In my dreams, I die with my weapons drawn.
To leave this world by the ways that I uphold,
And ascend to halls of pure gold.
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords,
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure.
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords,
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure.
Warriors!
With my bloody wounds and foolish heart
By slaughter-wolves, they're torn apart.
The butchering, unworthy kind.
Peace to the storm in my mind.
From the hill, beyond the trees, came a man of victory.
His eyes were old, he raised his sword.
Bravery in eyes of the bold.
And on this day, he dies with his weapons drawn,
Granting glory to his old hero's heart!
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords,
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure.
Bravest of slaves and the great Pagan lords,
I will raise my sword to the proud and pure.
