Baronhawk's Nest

Behold! a mighty host,
high upon the circling crests.
Upon the hills that ringed,
where Pelennor Field does rest.
Upon a cock's crow,
the errant break of dawn.
The winds that blew,
the darkness Mordor spawned.

Then time reins in,
gently, as if to still.
As a single trumpet blows,
enveloping soo shrill.
The call of Rohan's brave,
in aid to Gondor's plight.
A sea of valiant horsemen,
that rode in through the night.

Behold upon his noble steed,
mighty Snowmane.
Rides Theoden,
Rohan's liege and rightful thain.
With his golden shield,
his banner wildly flying.
Like Eorl of old,
in the battles that legend sings.

The white horse,
upon an emerald field.
Flying upon spears,
that noble warriors wield.
Rows upon rows of riders,
a sight that never fails.
To raise the spirits of friends,
and make their enemies quail.

The faithful sons of Eorl,
what a sight to see.
Warriors both fair and tall,
and as fell in battle's lee.
With sword and shield,
spear and battle trained mount.
Their visage grim,
but their battle cries are sung.

Then noble Theoden,
did roused up the ranks.
With his speech of battles,
glories and honours hence.
To remember their pledge,
to Gondor as is their wont.
To fullfil their oath,
and duty to friendship sworn.

And in the end he did stand up,
in the stirrups of his steed.
"Ride!" he cries,
so mighty and clear indeed.
And as he the first to ride,
in the forefront and vanguard.
Trumpet calls rang out,
to signal this mighty charge.

As one the riders rode,
as thunder their battle rage.
As a mighty wave they roll,
in a crash to consume and engage.
The very ground doth shake,
shiver, tremble and eviscerate.
The fury of their charge,
is terrible to create.

And yet what awe, what majesty,
upon this glorious deed.
As the riders rode with fury,
upon their mighty steeds.
Their courage, their grandeur,
doth fills the heart ablaze.
With the voice of valour,
and a touch of gallant grace.

It is a tale of painful heartbreaks
of an unrequited lover and a disconsolate son
but in the ends a joyous tale awaits
for when these two souls are united as one

the first is the lady most beautiful and fair
the Lady Eowyn the fairest of the Rohirrim
lost for the love of Aragorn and torn by despair
in this world of the living nothing holds her to dream

wounded in battle by blows from Nazgul mace
wounded in heart by a love that was not hers to receive
left behind to heal and to recuperate her grace
but perchance a soul can't be mended as the body is

days she spent under the matron's worried eyes
in the healing house confined her pacings devoid of joys
to the east her eyes would wander, her heart likewise
where Aragorn, her brother Eomer and brave soldiers faced Mordor's ploys

a wish in her wounded heart, a dream perchance
to ride with those heroes to death and into glory
for as this world no longer holds a chance
than her only hope is to die at least with majesty

the second the Lord Faramir the most beloved of Gondor's captains
brother to Boromir the firstborn of Denethor slain by Orcish arrows
blamed for a crime he was never responsible nor by actions
the loss of a son by a father who mourns in sorrow

accused of consorting with Gandalf by his own sire
the prey of Denethor's disturbed mind, a sacrifice for sorrows
wounded by Nazgul dart as he vainly fought a losing venture
singed by fires as mad Denethor sought to have him burnt in the barrows

but returned he was to the world of the living
called forth by the touch of a king and the aroma of Athelas
mourning the loss of a brother to enemies and temptations of the ring
grieving for a father whose love he lost to madness and a Palantir's mental grasp

as he sat on rooftop gardens his eyes are also to the east
in his mind the hopes of a subject received of his rightful king
his dreams are of peace and the foretelling of lasting bliss
for his eyes have seen the cold beauty of a maiden of the Rohirrim

to the matron of the healing house under whose charge they both lay
a request was asked by Lord Faramir for Eowyn to join him on the rooftops
in the gardens they both would spent their hours of each day
both looking to the east as a succour for their tears and sobs

how cold at first their touches were just looks and helpful nudge
for the cold wild maiden from the plains is truly distraught
in Eowyn's soul an empty place where none dare trudge
in Faramir's heart the hopeful blossoms of a romance that he sought

hours they would spent on the rooftop gardens above
often in silence just the company of one and the other
then one day he held out his hand to assist her to strove
walking by and by a hand in each others would they wander

then the silence he did break asking of her affections to Aragorn
he questioned her of her hopes of battle and glorious valour
for the love that she mistook may not be romance but a soldier's bond
it is often that a soldier would deign to feel for a king's noble demeanour

the love of a subject to a king is not romantic in nature
but a recognition of noble threads upon the mantle of kings
such love was her affection lost as she was in her dreams of valour
that she mistook upon a whim of Aragorn as more than her king

until at last she did agree her love for Aragorn was perhaps a whim
but now she reveals that her soul was indeed now empty
for without that love there is nothing left for her to dream
he held out his arm to her again but this time not as a helpful deed

but as a man for a lady who holds his heart as hostage
"I might not be a king" said Faramir "but will you Eowyn be my queen?"
"only a captain am I but for your love a kingdom I will create"
"I pledge my love to thee my lady O! beatiful Eowyn"

his hand did she took with a tear in her eye
for indeed in attendance each day on the rooftop gardens
a feeling did creep into her soul and her love did fly
for the man she has grown to love in the silence they both warrants

"What would you want my lord, with a wild maiden without guile?"
asked Eowyn amidst tears of joy as she melt into his embrace
"What more could I ask for but of your beauty and sweet smile"
said Faramir as he gently kissed her slightly upturned face

so united into one their souls entwined at last
the Steward of Gondor and the cold maiden from the plains
by love's gentle grace they emerge from their pasts
as lovers often do as they are healed by love's refrain

In Ithillien did they dwell, Minas Ithil rebuild
as Prince and Princess to serve the grace of Gondor's King
such sweet bliss they have wed by Aragorn's will
to their dying days in love and hand in hand they cling

A lady tall and fair
pale of skin but with fiery fiery hair
a maiden of the Rohirrim
a daughter sired of kings
a lady high-bred, noble-born
but weaned on battle cries and warrior's songs

wielding sword as well as knitting stave
caged by form as well as duty's sake
a spirit that longs for battlefields
and a heart looking for love's gentle release
a prisoner caged in golden halls
by gilded chains of fate enthralled

a delicate beautiful lass
of fine silk and fragile glass
but a spirit of hardened steel
tempered with courage and strength of will
upon dreams her hopes are set
to redeem the tally of a life in regret

for the unrequited love of an exiled king
and the glories that battle does sing
rode Eowyn in disguised plaid
with the riders of Rohan to Gondor's aid
for death for valour and into glory
a spurned heart looks not for any victory.

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.