Theoden, king of the golden hall
Meduseld, famed for its glory, but late
The lights are dimmed, as are your eyes
As though the sun were too bright to bear
You cower on your gold-laid throne
A shadow of your former self
Pale and cold.
Grima Wormtongue, ever by your side
Though his eyes wander to a maiden fair
While lies he hisses in your ear
He dreams of stroking snow white cheek
Do you even see her growing distress?
She shuns him, pushes him away, so he
Watches and waits.
Eomer, your protector, banished from sight
On a whim, based in fear, by a cowering shade
Still loyal, he rides to protect your lands
From plundering tribes and slavering beasts
How do you reward him? You do not.
Motionless, ravaged through and possessed
Shrunken and old.
And Theodred lays dying, steps from your seat
Mourned by one only, not even yourself
Drenching the bed and the covers with blood
Life seeping away
Your only son, sole heir to all you possess
And still you do not go to him.
Line is broken.
When will you wake, Theoden king?
Arise from your slumber, cast off the night
Take back what is yours, restore your crown
Throw out the soothsayer whispering false
Mourn your son in his hillside grave
Wield your sword in your unwithered hand
Once again strong.