The Torch
Disclaimer:
Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. The lines of poetry belong to John McCrae and come from 'In Flanders Fields'. I own nothing, intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.Rating:
PG.Summary:
Take up our quarrel with the foe…Feedback
… *looks hopeful* My muse eats reviews.Thanks to Nemis for betaing this.
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Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high
.John McCrae.
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I die.
Will this be the last time that the hosts of Middle-earth ride out to do battle with Morgoth Bauglir?
I pray that it will not, that my people will arise from the blackness which threatens to swallow them.
They may yet strike out again in might and majesty, defying the darkness, brilliant with the light of their triumph…
But, O Elbereth, it hurts so much. My blood … my blood is all around me and I can scarce think…
Have we failed? My banner is red … shall you, my precious son, raise it once again unsullied, a streak of blue against the cloudless sky?
I held you when you were scarce half an hour old, yet now I pass to Mandos, and this standard, these burdens, are yours to bear. What strange times we live in that such things come to pass!
May you do more honour than all your ancestors to this standard, and may your star burn forever brightly in the firmament…
My life gutters and fades now, but I pass the torch on…
May the light never perish.
Fare ye well.
FINIS
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