So close now to the abyss, walking blindly. Can’t claw my way out of
this shroud of darkness, can’t escape. Dragged, being dragged along and
dragged down. Let me fall into the dreams of death, I cannot escape
this doom. Tired, so tired and ready to fall. Scorched by the fire of
His eye, screaming in the agony of thought, breathing hard. Cracks…
cracks in the ground, cracks in my spirit. A wind of burning sighs in
hatred, get me out of this dead land. Ashes, dust, unto dust we
return…ashes, fire, the stench of sulpher, of death… Of my death…
- Gimli's Goat
Travelers in the March
Cold wind blows across a marsh bedecked in ragged black dress. Skies
darkened by clouds that are not formed by rain. A pool of magical faces
eek out a bare existence; to move is death, to stay the same. The
features meet our eyes no matter the direction. Imperfections mar the
hopeless landscape of death. Minutes become hours and pass into
eternity. The living is not welcome here and we know it.
Things that are not alive follow behind waiting for a slip into the
And one of the living in these forsaken lands waits for the same.
Heart in the Shire
Green hills. Quiet countryside. Friendly smiles. Welcoming faces. A
half-pint of bitter at the Green Dragon. Friends. Everything I’ve ever
Evil. Malice. Cruelty. Surrounding me on every side. Well…
… almost every side. But here, here with my friends – with Sam and
Merry and Pip – here I can almost feel the warmth of the sun shining on
the fields. Almost taste the mushrooms and ale.
Back in the Shire, life was simple. Sam and Rosie… and the Gaffer down
the lane. Fish and chips. Seed cakes and tea with Uncle Bilbo. My heart
is in the Shire.
Hiding in Mordor
Stretching out in the dark, searching for the other; sharing our words
through the fingertips; for the silence rules our hearts and cannot be
broken. The dark fear of voices which flow over the ground and brush
against our souls. Gasping for air and water which is poisonous,
yearning for an end; or at the least, a new beginning. We follow paths
that are marked only by our questing feet, silent trails of loss and
forgetfulness. Terrors which creep across a dark landscape, weave black
shapes of evil. Chasing us until the skies lighten and we must wait
Waves glimmer in the moonlight, catching the sparkle of the full moon
and reflect it back. Dancing, colors of silver and black stretching
across the horizon, as far as the eyes can see. The steady rock of our
small ship as we ride upon the breezes, adds flavor to the moment.
Finding peace among the lack of colors for they are unnecessary and
unwanted. The snap of ropes and the quiet noises of metal upon metal
match the beat of my internal drum. Clouds above match our pace; as we
ride upon the waves; toward the end of the world.