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User:Narfil Palùrfalas/Poetry/Telcontar

Of Aragorn Elessar, in the style of the Heroic Epics of old, especially Idylls of the King.

[edit] Estel

Of old Elendil’s sons, in trappings bold
Their panoply caused against death to war
That death for life would be exchanged, aye,
Upon the bloodied fields stained by conflict;
Colder than Greylin lie the val’rous dead,
Dead, still dead, for the face that wert once turned
Against shade of Angmar, while in southland
They lie faces turned to black Mordor’s pits
Saying in voices fell and hollow “Hear,
Hear we that here lie, forever faithful
To the line that ruin brought forth to us—
O Isildur, why didst thou fail at last?
Thou hast paid, as have we, for doom’s delay.”
The Kingdom of the North is gone ever,
The Southland waits and lingers still in dread
Of shadow rising from the East.

Of old
Against Angmar was Arnor strongly set
The sons of Isildur it kept from night
That would o’er all lands fall, from north to south—
Angmar didst die, but Arnor with pale brow
Followed it unto the darkling barrow:
And there the white grass tall it groweth still
Above the bones of valiant men who died,
They who died nobly, they who passed in peace.
Then from he that was Angmar’s king there came
A haughty laugh, a stare as chilling stars,
And so the King of Gondor fell in ruin
While decay upon the Southlands fell deep,
And Stewards held the throne, until that time
When great Elendil’s heir should come, and thus
The King return. Arnor now was no more,
While Gondor sits and waits in fear her doom
That Sauron, King of Mordor’s Unlight dread,
Would raise his hand o’er dreary darkened realm,
That the Crown of Gondor blackened would sit
Upon the head of Blackness Incarnate
Or Blackness disembodied, it doth not
Matter to they that groan beneath his hand
Or serve their lord in fetters as his slaves
Ghostly, seeking that death they may not find:
Blessed were they that fell by sword in war,
That they might die as free as they had lived!
The Stewards hold Gondor, as the threat fades
In the minds of men as nine hundred year
Rolls over that kingdom, while in the East
He riseth, and the world doth know it not.

Hunted as outlaws, branded vile by men
The last of Arnor live in the wild wastes
Beneath the sons of Arnor’s Kings, the last
That wander on the fading world as seed
Of Elendil the King of Elder Day
When Arnor and Gondor both were but one.
Arathorn was heir of this line forgot
And strode he as their silent wand’ring prince;
Loved he of old a maiden young and fair
Named Gilraen by father Dírhael,
Too young he deemed she was, too young even
To wed one of Isildur’s noble line;
But for a wife had he wise Ivorwen
Who saw ahead in deep’ning foreboding,
For her husband spake thus, “My heart doth quake
For should she take Arathorn for a mate
Their bliss will last but little time, for death
Shall take him while yet young, so my heart says.”
“The greater need for haste,” spake she, knowing
That hope would die for men with that line’s end,
And Dírhael his daughter surrendered
To Arathorn, son of their chief, who looked
Away to the south and east, and spake so soft
That one day would his fateful son return;
So thus was Aragorn was born to them
As Arathorn became chief of rangers:
They who walk in the shadows of Arnor.
But when wed but just two year death did fall
Upon the master Arathorn

Writing in progress