[Intro]
[Shield rims strike a slow marching pattern beneath muted tagelharpa.]

[Verse 1]
My father painted gold on pine,
A little sun, a steady sign.
He bore it south through sleet and rain,
Then brought it north through blood and pain.
The rim is split, the leather torn,
The painted rays are scraped and worn.
Yet in the shed beside the grain,
It waited for my hand again.

[Chorus]
I bear the shield with the faded sun,
Not to be saved when the wolves have won.
Not for a crown, not for a name,
But for the hearth that remembers my flame.
Let iron be broken and daylight be done;
I still bear the shield with the faded sun.

[Verse 2]
My brother said, “The southern road
May carry half the village load.
The hills are clear, the horses fed;
We need not join the gods who bled.”
I tied my boots and checked the seam,
Then watched frost gather on the stream.
“A man may run from spear and knife,
But not from what has marked his life.”

[Pre-Chorus]
I fear the field. I fear the gate.
I fear the teeth that feed on fate.
But fear is not the hand that leads;
The hand obeys its chosen deeds.

[Chorus]
I bear the shield with the faded sun,
Not to be saved when the wolves have won.
Not for a crown, not for a name,
But for the hearth that remembers my flame.
Let iron be broken and daylight be done;
I still bear the shield with the faded sun.

[Percussion Break]
[Warriors strike damaged shields in alternating patterns while a horn states the three-note motif.]

[Verse 3]
I walked the lane past every door,
Past salted fish and threshing floor.
Old Ragna pressed bread in my hand;
A child gave me a strip of band.
No cheering rose, no banners flew,
For every watching face now knew:
We marched because the oath was made,
Not for the hope that death might fade.

[Bridge]
When sunlight leaves the painted grain,
Will any trace of gold remain?
When wolves have swallowed sky and star,
Will memory know whose hands we are?
I cannot choose the ending’s weight;
I choose the road that meets my fate.

[Final Chorus]
I bear the shield with the faded sun,
Though every thread of the Norns is spun.
Not for Valhalla’s promised name,
But for those who warmed their hands at my flame.
Let iron be broken and daylight be done;
I walk beneath the darkening sun.
No shield can halt what fate has begun—
Still I bear the shield with the faded sun.

[Outro]
At the ridge I turned toward home.
The roofs were small, the fields were stone.
I raised the shield. No answer came.
Its faded sun still held one flame.