By the silver’d beacons of the moon was your stone hewn,
the pearl lustre of Him
burnished fine-threaded mithril,
from bridge to tower.
Many are the years passed,
(lives lost or forgotten,
overwritten by time)
since these walls echoed with glad voices,
since Nimloth’s tender seedling
sang with the sundered light of Telperion,
since the Ithil-stone gladly spoke
(and heard answer)
from many-tiered Anor.
Ithilduin provison’d the meads,
and fair elanor grew,
golden star-eyes smiling ,
amongst the grasses.
I dare not name
what grows here now,
within these walls,
what wakes and walks
and sleeps not
within the bruised towers.
I have come to understand:
there is death.
And there is that which is worse.
The tormented land beneath my feet
The wind that carries Spring to other lands
(but dares not breathe within these dark confines)
Some there are,
upon these dread and be-fouled walls
who know it.
I know it.
It calls me –
they call me –
as if evil were a flower
of the most rare and
as if that which lies
the cloak of green-limned death
Almost I might believe,
upon the bridge of midnight,
fingers of ghost-fog
winding me about,
streaming against the dull’d light,
twisted figures of men and beasts
frozen upon razor’d battlements…..
a tainted blade seeking,
in the midst of this endless dark,
I might take it for truth.
There is something, else, yet, which I might also take.
Before It takes me.
There is no comfort in reaching for It,
no warmth or light,
nor any truth.
Departed from my own will,
my fingers rise.
My heart beats beneath them,
as if it were a drum worn near to breaking.
But not broken.
Alongside the slickened hollow where It lies,
something else calls me.
Through my fingers it runs,
through my mind.
my will is set.
It is yet dark when we take the upwards road.
I look down upon the ruin below.
As in a dreme, I see her as she once was.
Fair City of the Moon,
I shall see you restored.
I turn my back upon her and climb.
a/n: Frodo never saw Minas Ithil
restored. After the fall of Sauron and the coronation of
the King, Aragorn decreed that she be utterly destroyed, the lands
being made clean for seven years. By this time, of course, Frodo
had long since departed over-Sea. It seems unlikely, though, that
Minas Ithil, sister of Minas Anor (Minas Tirith) was ever rebuilt, as
the memory of the evil that had lived there remained in the hearts of