Stood I to greet the stars first light,
On the knife-edge at the eve of night,
When I did spy his solemn stride,
Toward the street where the dead abide.
His expression pensive, his head he bent,
But shoulders straight and tears unspent.
He spied me not in twilight's embrace,
While I admired his unwavering grace.
In him the blood of Numenor bold,
Runs true as in the times of old.
And I am proud to name him friend,
This gentle Prince of fair Ithilian.
He reached the Silent Street and passed,
To the ruined hall where his fathers rest.
Seldom yield I to inquisitive urge,
And yet I wondered at his purpose.
So followed I, noiseless, unheeded,
Into the Hallows as last light receded.
I found him there at the broken door,
To the crumbled hall of Steward lore.
He slowly lowered to bended knee,
Touching fist to heart in fealty.
And before my eyes the gray night lifted,
And with a vision I was gifted.
A spectrous light around him wreathed,
Then, "Hail my son," the vision breathed.
A ghostly hand laid on living brow,
And he, too seemed aware of it now,
For his breath rushed in, but did not expire,
And he shuddered at this brush of power.
Then with peaceful smile the dazzling shade,
Bowed to me, and began to fade.
I sensed some healing had been done,
For Ecthelion's noble son,
And for the prince there kneeling, too,
For his shoulders squared anew.
And rising from this death filled place,
He turned and met my awestruck face.
Without surprise he acknowledged my right,
Then spoke he softly into the night.
"That you are here my lord, tis fitting,
This moment witnessed by the King,
For the Steward's honor you preserved,
And my father's love you have observed,
His soul redeemed from its ignoble demise,
Thus freed is Denethor, valiant and wise."