Baronhawk's Nest

From crippled Minas Tirith,
a city gutted and torn,
though victorious in recent battle,
the war has yet to be won.

So rides the Lords of Gondor,
the guardians of the west,
descendents of the Westernesse,
and heirs to Arnor's Crown.

Under that fabled flowing banner,
the standard of the west,
a single tree wondrously white,
in Mithril on dappled velvet black,

Crowned upon silk,
by seven silver stars,
sacred shining jewels,
symbols of the Eldar.

Aragorn in their lead,
an exiled king returned,
Elfstone, Elessar,
wielding Elendil's blade.

Gandalf at his side,
counselor and dear dear friend,
The Wizard of The White,
with sword and staff in hand.

Eomer Theoden's heir,
and his riders on fast steeds,
the horse lords of Rohan,
the horde of the Rohirrim.

The Prince of Dol Amroth,
riding with his knights,
lords tall and fair,
descendents of the elves.

The Rangers of the north,
riding with Elrond's elven sons,
sworn brothers to Aragorn,
protectors of the land.

The knights of Minas Tirith,
guardsmen of the tower,
clad in shining mail,
topped by white-winged helms.

Out companies of Gondor,
men from far flung vales,
cunning hunters with their bows,
and hardy woodsmen with their axe.

Of the fellowship that remained,
rode the hobbit Peregrine,
or Pippin as he's known,
a Squire to Gondor sworn.

There is Legolas of the elves,
with his dagger and his bow,
accompanied by dwarven axe,
wielded by Gimli son of Gloin.

Onwards they rode,
to the black gate of Mordor,
a challenge to mighty Sauron,
in defiance of his power.

Though their numbers were few,
a token of their gesture,
less than even the vanguard,
of ancient Gondor at its height.

But their purpose all unified,
was not to win through force of arms,
but in subterfuge they hope to wrest,
distraction and time for Frodo and Sam.

Mighty rivers they forded,
hills and mountains they crossed,
at every crossroads they left,
men with trumpets as heralds.

"Make way for the Lords of Gondor,
the Captains of the west,
the rightful king has returned,
Isildur's heir with Elendil's bequest".

Through conquered lands,
once sovereign to Gondor,
crossing through borders,
straight into the heart of Mordor.

Upon blackened sand,
on the scorched surface of earth,
they advanced with caution,
crushing all that opposes.

Until at last they arrive,
upon the hills before the gate,
on three hilltops they braced,
unfurled their banner and planted their feet.

So stood Aragorn at the gate,
upon the dead land of Mordor,
with his companions at his side,
shouting a challenge to Mordor's might.

Upon the three hills they formed,
concentric circles of well armed men,
a redoubt and bulwark to contain,
the seas of Mordor's orcs and men.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
the king of men returned,
standing fell and just as fair,
in his mail of jet black hue.

In his hand with deadly grace,
the weapon of kings Elendil's blade,
renamed Anduril the Flame of The West,
the shards of Narsil broken but reforged.

Shouting out his challenge brisk,
to Sauron's emissary at the gates,
laying their gamble for even in defeat,
precious moments to the Ringbearers they give.

Stood Aragorn before the gate,
in just enactment of his powers,
for the crown that weighs upon his brows,
brings duties as well as honours.

Surrounded by willing soldiers,
lords and warriors prepared to die,
for despite their skill and untold valour,
by greater numbers they are outdone.

Standing in ranks upon three hills,
with weapons unsheathed and buckled shields,
awaiting the brunt of Mordor's charge,
embracing their cause and laying their lives.

Before their wake stood Mordor's might,
bloodthirsty orcs as numerous as ants,
trolls and giants lumbering along,
savage warriors with evil intent.

But still they stood firm and strong,
with Aragorn before the gate,
the last hopes of free folks all,
doomed guardians of Middle Earth's fate.