The Last Stand

Dúnisthil reads an old poem he is particularly fond him.

It is said to be written after the second battle of Fornost when the witchking of Angmar was defeated. The poem was written by one of Dúnisthil’s forbears and recounts the deeds of a man whose reputed descendant is a good acquaintance of his.    

Glamdir now regards the looming city-walls, in the westering sun they flare. 
Of indomitable stone wrought are they, those lofty walls of Annúminas the fair. 
Yet the main gate, unhinged it is, burnt asunder,
And over the embattlements he looks yonder.
For fire rages unchecked behind, from whence now none may fly.
Dead men of Arnor, he sees so many haplessly lie,
And weeps for them as fits a gentle captain, 
Whom such grievous spectacle should find:
"Lords and soldiers, may The One to thee be kind!
And all thy souls redeem for Paradise!
And let thee there mid holy elanor*lie!
So thou may then rest in his guise.

Captain Glamdir now commands a dirnaith to be drawn up.
Then he hath bid his men sound their horns, the sound, the very air it renders as it rises up.
The Dúnedain prepare themselves for battle once more,
Hauberks and cuirasses on, helmets and silvered swords, to be imbued with gore;
Fine shields they have, and swords of length and force,
Lo! those swords of Westernesse, over their foes’ flesh they gloat.
Sable and silver with blooms white, their ensigns float.
Sixty men are all now in his train!

Never a Captain had better men, dour are they for they never plain!
And all pray The One that he will guard the King escaping like the waind.
Till one day together on the northern plain they may stand once more, 
When Gondor finally cometh, answers Arnor’s plaint ;
There side by side they'll face their foes, smite them awain! 
And laid desolate though it is, rebuild Douce Arnor again!
 

Then Glamdir regards his men;
“Better vassals than thee saw never I.
Ever thou have served me, and so long a time, in all Arnor’s times of need.
Wardens of Arnor, for me I've seen thou bleed,
And no support, no warrant could find I;
Rescued have thou, our king and put a thangail** about him.
Cut him a way out of the battle with great loss, ye did, for the Elendilmir* would not grow dim.
So he might escape where thou would not take flight.
The One be thine aid, Who never yet hath lied, who has ever been a guide!
I must not fail now, brother, by thy side;
Save I be slain, for sorrow shall I die, the mere thought of it I cannot abide.
When Arvedui our lord shall come into this field,
Such discipline of enemies he'll see.
For one of ours he'll find them dead fifteen and many more before us will flee. 
He will not fail, but bless us all in peace
 

Sirs, companions, for Douce land of Arnor,
let us again go strike!"
The Captain Glamdir , back into the fray then hoeing.
Spearheading the wedge-formation, he holds, his high limbs as in lethal dance flowing.
His sword Durendal, and like a vassal striking.
With five dozen of all they rated highest,;
Even as a stag before the hounds goes flying,
Before Glamdirz the oath-breakers, quislings and their hill men servants crying, 
Blench do they and scatter in dismay, 
Frightened the steel of Westernesse they behold, which is bright as a Noldo gem.
Bellows Glamdir "Strike on; no quarter give them!"
 

Upon these words the wardens of kings, are again beginning;
With a great cheer, their enemies, down they smite them, with fiery swords weaving. 
As they cleave through the enemy’s ranks, 
Their own formation firm it stands, the Dúnedain heavily breathing.
Great men are they, tall and grim as they tower above the hill men by nearly a head, 
For by virtue of the Valar they are grand. 
The tallest though Glamdir their captain is, for he is the mightiest of their band. 
The Angmarim onslaught, falter, break and give way in fear, it did.
Little harmed, unshaken behind piles of fallen hill men it left the Dúnedain, whole and fit.

But lo! The hill men and orcs too, come swarming forth ever more with arrogance and heat,
Then they cry out the pagans' rallying-cheer, revelling in the promise of Atani meat;
Great loss they suffer then, the Dúnedain.
And Glamdir whispers: "Martyrdom receive will we.
Not long to live, I know it well, have we.

When Glamdir sees those misbegotten and uncouth men,
Who are fouler than ink is on the quill, no better than Uruk-Hai, not worthy the name of men.

Out he cries; Felon he's named that sells his body cheap and clean!
Strike on, my lords, with burnished swords and keen;
Contest each inch thy life and death between,
That us Douce Arnor not in shame be steeped.
Then says that captain: "I know now very well
That here to die we're bound, as I can tell.
Strike on, Men of Westernesse! For so I recommend."
Says Hirgon his lieutenant: "Who holds back, is condemned!"
Upon those words, invigorated by their cordial, the Dúnedain to strike again.
As they sing staves of lays of old.
For the captain and his men still hold themselves like lords in whom the race of Númenor runs true and whole.
 

Arnorians are but few; which, then the hill men know,
Among themselves comfort and pride they show;
Says each to each: "Wrong was that king."

Hirgon feels that death is drawing nigh;
To avenge himself he hath no longer time;
For the last gallantly he strikes,
He hews their axes, their buckled shields doth slice,
Aloud and clear "Elendil!" again he cries.
To Glamdir, his friend and peer, he tries:
"My companion, come hither to my side.
With bitter grief we must us now divide."
Then Glamdir looked upon Hirgon's face, his raven hair fluttering in a sudden gale;
Whose face was all wan and colourless and pale,
"Ai Elbereth!" said that captain, "What shall I do or say?
Neer shall man be, against thee could prevail.
Ah! Arnor the Douce, henceforth art thee made waste
Of vassals brave, confounded and disgraced!
And with these words upon his shield Hirgon faints.

Hirgon feels death's anguish on him now;
And in his head his sea grey eyes swimming round;
Nothing he sees; he hears not any sound;
Swooning, he kneels upon the ground,
Proclaims his sins both firmly and aloud,
Clasps his two hands, westwards holds them out,
Prays The One himself in Paradise to allow;
Blessings on Arvedui, and on Douce Arnor he vows,
And his comrade, Glamdirz, to whom he's bound.
Then his heart fails; his helmet nods and bows;
Upon the earth he lays his whole length out:
And he is dead, may say no more, that Dúnedan
 

Glamdir the brave mourns him with grief profound;
Nowhere on Arda so sad a man you'd found..
Then Glamdirz feels that he himself has lost his vigour,
Climbs to his feet, uses what strength he might;
In all his face the colour is grown white.

In front of him a great grey boulder lies;
Whereon ten blows with grief and rage he strikes;
The steel cries out, but does not break outright;
And the captain says: "Ai Elbereth!, be my guide for all thy might.
Good Durendal, unlucky is thy plight!
I've need of you no more; spent is my pride!
We in the field have safeguarded so much,
Combating through so many regions wide.
That Arvedui held, whose beard is hoary white!
Be you not his that turns from any in flight!
A good vassal has held you this long time;
Never shall Arnor the Free behold his like."

Glamdir hath struck the sardonyx terrace;
The steel cries out, but broken is no ways.
So when he sees he never can it break in twain,
Within himself begins he to complain:
"Ah! Durendal, white art thou, clear of stain!
Beneath the sun reflecting back his rays!
In Nenuial was Arvedui, in the vale,
When from the Veiled West The One by his messenger bade
Him give thee to a warden and captain;
Girt thee on me that noble King and great.
I kept from harm many a soul for him with thee.
And won for him his safety.
For this sword's sake sorrow upon me weighs,
Rather I’d die, than it mid pagan traitors stay.

Oh Illúvatar, Lord Father, never let Arnor be shamed!"
Glamdir his stroke on a dark stone repeats,
And more of it breaks off than I can speak.
The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least,
Back from the blow into the air it leaps.
Destroy it can he not; which when he sees,
Within himself he makes a plaint most sweet.

"Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed!
Relics enough thy golden hilt conceals.
It is not right that pagan traitors should thee seize,
Nor any man's that worketh cowardice and perjury, never thee shall have he!
For true Númenorian men thine use shall ever be.
Many broad lands with thee have I defended
Which Arvedui held, who hath the great white beard;
Wherefore that King so proud and rich is he."

But Glamdir felt that death had made a way
Down from his head till on his heart it lay;
Beneath a copper beech stumbling forth in haste he comes,
On the green grass he lay there on his face;
His horn and Durendal beneath him placed,
 

Turning his head towards the foul eastern race,
Now this he did, in truth, that Arvedui might say
(As he desired) and all the Dúnedain his race;
'Ah, gentle captain; fighting intrepidly to the last he did!'

He owned his faults often and every way,
And for his sins his gauntlets to The One upraised.

But Glamdir feels he's no more time to seek;
Die in harness is now his fate, his wounds, too deep.
Looking dazed, huddled against a copper beech, at naught he gropes
Then with one hand upon his breast he beats and hopes:
"Mea Culpa! King of Eä, by Thy Virtues clean
Me from my sins, the mortal and the mean,
Which from the hour that I was born have been
Until this day, when life is ended here!"

Holds out his left-hand gauntlet towards The One as he speaks,
Messengers of Him descend from the firmaments on that scene.
The captain Glamdir, beneath a copper beech he sits;
Turning his eyes to the West, towards the sea, he begins
Remembering so many diverse things:
So many places where he fought,
And Arnor the Douce, the heroes of his kin,
And Arvedui, his lord who nourished him.
Nor can he help but weep and sigh at this.
But his own self, he's not forgotten him,
 

He owns his faults, and The One’s forgiveness he bids:
"Very Father, in Whom no falsehood is,
Beren from death Thee didst remit,
My soul in me preserve from all perils
And from the sins I did in life commit!"
His right-hand gauntlet, to The One he offers it
Elbereth Gilthoniel from's hand hath taken it.
Over his arm his head bows down and slips,
He joins his hands: and so relinquished his Hroä is.
The One summons from beyond the circles of Arda, the captain’s soul to him it is. 
Thus the captain's Feä is born back to from whence it came.