Wendy Zinger - In the last light of the waning year

In the last light ....
by Wendy Zinger

In the last light of the waning year,
Over frost-bitten fields, mere counted days
>From our fair dell, array the dark
Enemies, that mar and mark the cold ground
With their foul steps.

The moors ring foul with their mordant cries,
As, one by one, hunted, never wise to our abode,
They tell no new tales, showed only swift
Revenge, these hated hordes, rift, harried
Yet remain.

And weeks remain of war, with no surcease,
The enemy fares closer, releases darts and din,
The poison blades of that petty kin, pressing the guard
Of Rivendell, that ride the frozen hard marches
Ringing the valley.

Valiant ones are wounded, though the yrch fall,
Arantaur, Dunadan dour, Caradhril, shining
Horseman, and fair Arquen, finding his kin,
Feel the sting of steel, the thin trickle
Of their own blood.

The moon wanes, then blooms full-flowered from its bud.

Out in the bare winter, wielding his blue-gleaming blade,
Rides Arantaur, and against the wicked raid he wrecks
Havoc and woe, Maegurth slaking, flecks of wolf blood
Dull against the moonglow that floods the open moor,
His comrades near.

These valiant comrades, vigilant and quick
Serving their Caun, prick the perimeter
Of the yrch surrounds. The scimitars of the host
prove too many. Ever foremost, Celebbilin
Calls now a retreat.

Retreat is but a respite from these milling ranks.
This the Noldo lord knows, yet his phalanx of soldiers
Are few, and their hopes smolder when the cold
Chill of winter bears down, and old blades, kept in hoard
Find too few wielders.

Few, yet doughty. Daerandil, horseman and knight,
Secret sorrow hidden by honor bright and keen,
His comrade Caradhril, with silver-sheen blade
Dazzling, on tall Duraglaron, bade the foe
Take warning.

Winter overtakes and still the black hordes mock the quiet morning.

At the mountains feet, forth fare the bold
Cadre of elf-lords, with a cold-plotted guise,
A ploy to prove the foe's demise, they ride
Few, far from safe haven, and bide, awaiting, nay,
Inviting their strike.

Their gallant, cunning captains, Elladan
And Elrohir, soothing the maddened steeds,
That fret beside the thronging breeds of raucous foe,
With war-horns at their sides, low-slung silver
And gold-bound trumpets.

Glorfindel, Prince of the Golden Flower
Who vanquished the Balrog in that dire hour of defeat,
When Gondolin fell, ah, desire and deceit, but now,
Shining anew, he fits upon his bow a feathered shaft,
And draws his arm back

And their companions, armed with slender bows,
Send their shafts in the thick of that foe's force,
But those are multitudes, and mounted horse and elf
Clamber up onto the craggy shelf above the drifts,
With empty quivers.

And over the peaks Tilion rises, a white chill sliver.

Elbereth Everwhite guards these gallant lords
And with grace and favor wards them well
For as the clamoring ranks swell and surround,
They raise their horns and wind them, sound ringing
In the hollow hills.

The sweet chime resounds in those wintry hills,
And seems to rise, reverberate, shrill and loud,
As each prince winds his horn, proud and ringing,
The sound breaks, but how could singing draw
Down the drifted snow?

But, the roaring echoes do bring down a cold curtain
As the mountain trembles, to the certain doom
Of the enemy host. Engulfed, entombed in white.
Slowly, the roaring subsides, and the bright glare,
Shines on the now-quiet vale.

And as if they never were, no trace remains.
Through the winter wolves, wargs, and black yrch,
May seek their buried kin, but the futile search will yield
No trace till summer, when sword, shield, and bleaching bones
Will glint under the sun.

The elflords ride the icy path towards home, their errand done.

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