Horn of the White Tower

White City on my shoulders, ash winds from the East— I am the steward’s eldest, born to hold the breach. Years of watch on broken walls taught hunger, taught me pride; Hope is scarce in Gondor’s halls when dawn forgets to rise. In Rivendell the ring lay small, yet thundered like a siege; A circle forged to rule us all, a promise wrapped in need. Blow the horn—let mountains answer, Steel and sorrow, oath and sin. For Gondor I would wager Blood and breath—and lose to win. If the golden circle owns me, Let my final deed begin: Guard the small, redeem the larger— Break, then rise, and stand again. Snow on cruel Caradhras, black in Moria’s deeps; We counted friends by falling stones and names we could not keep. In golden wood I rested, yet the whisper grew like flame— “Take the ring and save your people; win the war and end the pain.” I reached for fire to stop the night, And burned my better name. Blow the horn—let mountains answer, Steel and sorrow, oath and sin. For Gondor I would wager Blood and breath—and lose to win. If the golden circle owns me, Let my final deed begin: Guard the small, redeem the larger— Break, then rise, and stand again. Amon Hen—arrows like winter, drums like iron rain; I stood before the halflings, traded heartbeat after pain. Not for crowns of ash or glory—only for a chance to mend: If I failed the ring-bearer once, let my body make amends. Knees in earth, the sky turned scarlet, rivers in my side; I saw a king in wandering clothes and chose how I would die. “Lead them on,” my silence thundered, “I would have marched your road.” Let my father hear the echo: I did not bend to shadow. Blow the horn—let mountains answer, Let the White Tree breathe again. For the Shire and for my city, For the company and friend. If my story ends in arrows, Let the meaning not be spent: Guard the small, redeem the larger— Break, then rise, and stand again. Carry me by river current; sing me home in western light. Where the White Tree keeps its vigil, I was broken—made aright.