Work Text:
When you were young,
You scrambled for any glimpse
Beyond the walls and hedges,
Beyond the gardens and brunches,
Beyond----
When you were young,
You thought adventure
Was windswept hair
And swords that never stained.
Now your hair is matted to your face
With sweat
And blood
And vomit
And dirt
And ash-----
Now your sword is slick with blood
And the grip is smooth with sweat.
Did you burn your tongue
On all those stories you devoured?
Did you lose your breath
In the heat?
Uncle,
Do you remember
The way the path stretched on and on?
Uncle,
Were the flames just as hot
From dragons as from volcanoes?
Uncle,
Did you ever wish your eyes
Would stop seeing?
I told you stories
Of impenetrable mountains
And dwarves with spines of steel.
I told you stories
Of dragons with gold-dipped scales
And trolls more comedic than dangerous.
But my heart aches in my chest
With trolls that almost spelled my end,
And dragons who forced the world
To its knees.
My hands shake
With dwarves laid in ice and blood,
And mountains that crumbled with greed.
My boy,
I did not tell you of the blood on my hands.
My boy,
I did not tell you of the places the Sun doesn’t reach.
My boy,
I’m sorry.
For blood streaked grass,
For burning hair,
For cold water,
For the dripping,
sticking,
aching world I left you.
Uncle,
Did you recognize the Shire
When your journey was over?
Uncle,
I can’t feel my feet
Against the Sun warmed dirt.
I can’t feel the way my parents laughed
In the spring air.
Uncle,
Did the Shire recognise you?
I don’t think I can find a home
In the grass that sways in the breeze
(Never the wind,
It’s never windy here.)
I don’t think I can sleep
In the too soft bed
In Bag End.
The air is sweet
And light with victory
(Heavy with grief)
But I can still feel the heat
I can still feel the cold.
Sometimes I wonder
If Sam,
With his astorias
And lilies
And peonies
(He’s always loved peonies)
Is the only place,
The only person
That is truly real.
Has this crumbed beneath me?
Did it ever truly end?
Uncle,
Can you taste ash with each breath?
Sometimes I wonder
If I ever truly left that mountain.
With gold puddling with every step
And tar burning against my face.
Was I buried in the stone?
Did I die kneeling in a pool of blood
That didn’t flow in my veins
But felt just like mine?
Dying doesn’t feel so daunting
When your sword glows blue
And it won’t feel like surrender.
But here?
With smooth wooden walls,
And a dirt up to my elbows?
It sits on my tongue
Like mithril
And ale
And the cresting sunrise
Over foreign treetops.
I want to tell you to hang on.
I want to tell you about the gardens I planted,
And the flowers that bloomed.
But I could never bring myself
To plant anything at all.