He sits, hunched low, `mid breath-stealing dark,
Sword sheathed, head bowed, despair in his heart.
Doors locked lead up; his Master is near.
One touch, one look- for that he’d die here.
He stirs not a breath as ev’ry light dies.
But from ashes of hope will songs of home rise.
He reels between dark dreams and red night,
Bereft of Ring, betrayed by his guide.
Claws rip; eyes pierce; threats thrive in his mind.
Hope fights `gainst fear, `gainst mem’ries that bind.
Shudders he and grows still; opens slow eyes.
There’s a voice and he strains…a lullaby?
From up above a voice so soft he doubts
Himself until there come steps loud about.
He waits and thinks he’s found the way-
Then the whip- the CRACK- and the rage.
The pain recedes and sifts his thoughts like sand.
It seems a dream- the Orc now turned to Sam.
The arms feel real; the voice is true.
It dawns at last, and brings peace anew.
It is Sam…
Red light casts glow on two still, small souls.
One sleeps, one weeps, and tightens his hold.
There’s dark without but joy deep within.
And life, thought lost, flows forth once again.