Fire in Four Quarters by sallysavestheday

Who knew fire

could run like water,

slinking and slithering its way

across the plains,

lapping up every

nest and

wallow and

sliding into every den,

scalding

with its wet,

red,

tongue?

Ah,

how the pines of

Dorthonion

kindled,

the sweet pitch of

their hearts

blown

up and

out,

crisping and

drifting

on the burning air,

ash falling like confetti

at the end of some grim,

incendiary

ball.

But

voices

yet sing in the scorched woods,

on the burnt plains.

Ghostly minstrels

still spit defiance,

weaving

a bitter harmony

with the gritty wind,

cursing Morgoth,

refusing Mandos,

howling and mourning

through the memory of

their cracked and

blistered

lips.

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The first Men

to cross the mountains

murmur tales of

drought,

of hills bleached to sand,

meadows dried and

dulled until they

flare like tinder to a

thoughtless spark.

Their hollow eyes

remember the pale

bones of herds

and flocks too great

to water, fields

left fallow,

abandoned hearths.

Finrod listens.

In his mind’s eye

sweet Cuiviénen’s hollow

lies sere and dry,

the pale earth

cracking,

revealing bones

where once were

stars.

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The Men of Umbar haul

in others’ traces.

Named lesser and

lower,

passed from

fist to fist,

from one armed lord

to another, like working

beasts:

so many hands,

so many backs,

so many ships.

To raise a proud head

risks losing it;

to speak in their own

language

ends with tongues clipped.

But -- even from the

droning depths

of misery --

all hearts yearn.

Is it truly

any wonder

that,

whispering on their

secret altars,

dark flames burn?

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The sinking sun

kindles the gate-stream,

sets alight the hauberks

of the doorwardens

dicing and laughing under the hollies.

Light spreads its gilded fingers

over the threshold

where the doors

stand

ever open,

welcoming.

The guards’ abandoned halberds

flash and flare –

their shadows

thrown across the gate,

lengthening

as the sky burns

and spills scarlet

across the white stones

of the road

to Ost-in-Edhil:

that city of friends

from which nothing

evil

ever comes.

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