The Sound of Drums

Drums at dawn, like thunder, hastening the sun. Drums, at dusk, like thunder, hastening the moon.

Only at dawn do I rejoice, for is dawn not ever the hope of Men? To the east, past the Sea of Rhûn, to the Gates of Morning, therein lies our light. Here, safe from the sprites of the West, of those who walk in starlight, and lead Men away from the sun. We, here, are safe from the Enemy.

Yet war is coming.

The ten gates of the city, ever open. The ten gates, ever wide, to the march of foot and sound of horn. Ten gates and Cheng'ru, hosting Haradrim, Variag, and even orc. All answer Mordor's call. All are summoned to the Great Lord's side, so that the sun may shine over the four corners of the world. Our enemies slaughtered, our people free. Truly a time for celebration.

And yet I remember.

I remember the smell of the lilies by the pools, before there was only ash, and the smell of orc. I remember holding a brush in hand, rather than a sword. To write with the flow of water and grace of air, rather than standing with the strength of earth, and breathing fire in preparation for battle. The fire that is never quenched once one has tasted blood. The fire that ever bellows from the tip of the Spear of Heaven, the mountain that watches over the land of our benefactor. The mountain that watches over us all.

So once more the drums. Dusk has come, and therefore curfew – security now, so our safety may be guaranteed. A reminder to us all, so as to live to see the day when we may all walk under the sound. The sound of drums, so that we shall always be ready to march to war. The sound of drums, to mark time's passage, as surely as the Doom of Men comes for us all, lest our saviour deliver us from such evil.

And yet, I remember it all. From days of old, to the words of the Blue Wanderer. The one whose words now seem like warning. Words eating away at my being. Words I only remember as "war will make corpses of us all."

Yet I cannot write them down.

My hands can now only wield the sword.