Hammer-song

by solideogirl

My people talk by smithcraft,
not with wordcraft.
Our sorrow we trap in works of gold
and frame in settings of gems.
We reforge our strength on the anvil.
We do not deal in idle grief over-long.

Our songs are not of one soul’s journey in loss,
but of many: the wrongs and griefs of our house,
and not our hearts.
But the road I take now is long and lonely,
and there is no anvil for me.

My people are born to suffer.
I do not seek nor shun it:
would I be a daughter of Durin if I did?
Yet I would shun it if I could. For though I am a child of kings in exile
I have a heart beating in my breast.

When my father’s father was young,
he saw his father slain before his doors.
A cold-drake from the north slaughtered him,
and his second son died in his defense.
His elder son did not die.
He carried the shame of it with him through the wilds,
over rivers,
under mountains,
across the valleys of the east,
till he came at last to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain
and settled there, a lonely king
returned at last to the halls his fathers delved.
From desolation unto greatness
he led our folk
but was cast into darkness by a drake, his father’s doom.

We were driven from the north, from Gundabad,
our high and hallowed home.
We fled from Khazad-dûm, from Durin’s bane,
we, fighters and not fleers.
We left the Ered Mithrim
where the Dragons slew our folk.
And from the Kingdom Under the Mountain
we departed deep in ruin.
How could we expect a different tale?

My father saw his father leave
in shame and in despair.
Tired of poverty and the scorn of men,
he could no longer bear the burden.
He went to the waters of Kheled-zâram,
to the blessed Vale of Azanulbizar,
to the very Gates of Khazad-dûm,
and there was slain.
In the halls where he might have reigned as king
he was mocked, tormented, killed.
And my father sat for seven days, unresting, unspeaking, hungering.
At last he said, ‘This shall not be borne!’ And he led the Dwarves to war.

My brother watched his brother die
before the Gates of Khazad-dûm.
I loved that one. He was young,
hardly old enough to warrant bearing arms.
But he marched away, the second son,
and came not back again.
And the elder son was left alone,
for my father could no longer bear the burden:
he went over the Misty Mountains, into Mirkwood
and was lost.
None know where
but he never came again.

My Dwarf too was slain: my own, my ring-wearer,
he father of my two sons.
He was no son of kings,
but he was my own.
My people take pride in our fathers and in our sons:
we do not take pride in ourselves.
No pride should have been lost when I lost him,
yet something I lost with my Dwarf
that was not pride.
It was nearer.

Many days at the anvil did not suffice
and I think never will.

My brother went eastward
after our father’s steps.
He took with him my sons,
all I had.
He went to reclaim
the ancient home of our people
but without hope.
I know.
He went to perish as our father did
as our brother and our kinsmen
and as our father’s father:
fighting for a place that once was ours
against odds unassailable.
A better death than many.

When my father went he left his heir behind unknowing,
ignorant of where he went and why.
My brother would not do that to his heirs,
the sons of my heart,
so he took them.
He took them and they will not come again.

My road is long, the road back to our homeland
where my brother sleeps now in high honor.
Bold he was, and dared the deed: his doom was great.
There was no hope, and yet it came to pass.
But I will see him no more. He died as a warrior should,
as father of the folk who swore the oath:
‘We have bled for you, and will again.’
He bled in the end for them, and died
wounded with many wounds,
axe notched,
armor rent.
It was a good death.
But in the stone of Dwarvish breasts
a heart yet beats.
And I cannot sing of the King Under the Mountain.

So long is this road
that I cannot see its end:
I am not old
but I am no longer young.
Can one be young whom Death has made
a constant comrade?

They died a good death too.
Defending him with shield and body,
the last heirs of the line
slain for their king.
Now they lie with him,
where they wished to lie.
I could not tell them I wished otherwise.

My sons, my sons, my sons!

I should rejoice, not weep
at this return.
All we slaved and sorrowed for is accomplished.
Our fathers are avenged, and the kingdom is restored.
Our people walk unfearing to their home.
The deaths were brave, the honor kept,
the tributes carved in stone.
What more can one ask?

An anvil, on which to beat out tales and songs.
Gold for golden deeds and noble hearts,
silver for the moon upon the mountain;
diamond for the brightness of our sons,
ruby for the blood upon the ground;
iron for the courage of our race,
steel for the weapons triple-forged.
And mithril for the glory, for the beauty,
for the honor of our house,
and the love of kin for kin;
for the Arkenstone of Thráin now brought to rest
in the heart of the mountain whose heart it was,
on the heart of the last lord whose heart it was.
But where shall I find a resting place?

Many days at the anvil will not suffice.
Dís the daughter of Durin, sister of kings,
mother of heroes.
Envy not my honor.

This is my hammer-song.

~~ * ~~

Night in Rivendell

by Mrs. Adam C

It was the night in Rivendell;
and stars shone down on misty dell.
The earth was deep in silent sleep,
and it was night in Rivendell.

It was the night in Rivendell.
While river softly glim’ring fell
to shining mist: a silver pool’
For it was night in Rivendell.

It was the night in Rivendell;
a lone voice sang, clear as a bell
Of stars, bright in the velvet night,
while it was night in Rivendell.

~~ * ~~

Sleep Now, My Children (Dis’ Lament)

By Michele S.

Sleep now, my children, softly sleep
Your journey is at its end.
No longer can you cry or weep
Those things are left to me.

The cruelty of being the last alive
Is slow and festering pain.
Earth passes through seasons and thrives—
But new joys are not for me.

Once, twice, and now again, I see
The work of war and strife–
Death separating you from me.
My tears alone are left.

Through the toils of passing years
I endure the endless nights
Awaiting the return of all I hold dear—
But it is not meant to be.

Sleep now, my children, softly sleep
Your journey is at its end.
My eyes are dry and no longer weep
But my heart is torn to shreds.

~~ * ~~

 Click here to read the complete collection in The Great Hall of Poets.