Theodred's Last Stand
About the mist enshrouded flood,
Dark trees stand sentinel,
Black silhouetes against the newborn sun,
Each leaf transformed into a keen edged blade,
That glimmers with the mithril touch of frost,
And ice is kindled, sparkling, into flame.
The river rushes heedlessly
Past this place of fear and dreadful slaughter
Where sacrificial blood dyes crystal stream
To a crimson torrent
No sound save for the ever changing stream,
And blood pools soft about the stony eyot.
Ripples moving ever outwards
That flash like ruby in the early dawn.
The misted drops fall away
Beneath the sun's first kiss
To reveal the broken body of a warrior,
And it seems that he sleeps.
The sunrise lights him with a shroud of flame,
Whose eyes no more unveil the dark from light.
Blood at the fords in the sunrise
Young tree hewn down beneath the savage axe,
Whose sap lies heavy in the flowing stream,
And still he lies,
Beautiful in death.
Brave fallen, cradled in the river's arms,
No crown he wears,
But dewdrops lie like beads of glass,
And glistening, enshrined thus by the golden dawn,
He lies still, a silent guardian.
To keep the Fords until Eomer comes.