The Hobbit and the King

- jan-u-wine

The King

It was
I.....

I who
swore
to protect
him,

I who
covered
evil
with
that small
innocence...

I who sent him,
alone,
upon his way.

What chance
has he....

what chance
have
we?

I
am not
a mighty King.

I am but
a man.

And weary.

Weary
of this
and
every other Road
I have walked...

weary
of swords
which are
and yet
are not....

weary of blood
spilling
without heed,
and
lives
turned to dust.

The memr'y of
all the long ages
weighs me,

darkens around me,

sickens me...

even as
this swift blade
catches fire-stirred
light,
sings death
upon the heated hill.

Anger.

Determination.


Fear
rise

within me.

Uncertainty.....

it has ever been
my foe.

Best for him....

best
for us

that I should
let
this sword,
driven
by unwilling arm
do
what it
knows
best
how to do.

In the midst
of Death,
wrapping its cold arm
about many
this day....

in the midst of Life,
fleeing swift
like a bird before the WInd...

comes remembrance....

remembrance.....

perchance comfort.....

to my mind,
unbidden
the ancient words
like soft rain fall:

Isildur's Bane…


and

The Halfling

who shall
stand
against it.

In the midst of all
this Death
and
Life,

Between

Sun
and
Shadow,

there is hope –

small
hope,
rising
to best despair.

It said he stood.

It ne’er bespoke
his
fall.