“I do look like my mother,
But I have my father’s hands.
Sword hands, he called them,
He looked at them every chance he got.
He was a fighter, was Da,
Even when he was
Nowhere near tidy.
A weapon is a grand thing, he’d say,
And Mother she’d smile at him,
But ne’er did she agree.
You have to face it though,
We’re naught but dust compared to you,
Smaller, weaker, much less wise,
But we have to grow faster,
He thinks about his father’s sword,
And how it used to hang,
A mirror to the left, another to the right,
And ill-pleased his mother,
Who, for all her courageous ways,
Would rather she were left
Alone, and in peace.
“Whenever she could,
Ma filled a bowl with apples,
And let it stand by the side of a shelf.
I’m crazy about apples,
And next to it she had a jar of wildflowers,
Thin, delicate, quick-dieing,
Ma was crazy about them.”
“I wasn’t too old when she left,
All skinny, awkward, ‘bout to cry,
She pulled me close, said:
Stand hard, stout-hearted son,
Your father will need you.
We discovered a lot
Of things, just by living hard.
Clothes burn really well, and so do
When you can’t go out to chop firewood ‘cause
There’s an Orc horde in the way.
I wasn’t around when Da died,
But I got back soon enough
To get the Orcs that did it.
Maybe we’re just mortal,
Maybe we’re different-weaker-smaller,
But we protect your borders for you.
Don’t we deserve a little respect?”
And what he likes best
Is that she nods,
And he knows she’s understood everything he’s said,
And some things he didn’t say too.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.