The Exile

Author: Baillie from Bree

Nominator: Eowyn Hobbitsister

2011 Award Category: Poetry: Drama

Story Type: Poetry  ✧  Length: N/A (Non-Fiction or Poetry)

Rating: General  ✧  Reason for Rating: N/A

Summary: Eomer, banished by a traitor, and vehement and grim, gives Aragorn horses to seek his friends, but tells him not to trust to hope. "It has forsaken these lands." He does not know that he speaks to Hope personified, "Estel" of Rivendell, whose mother had so called him and of whom she prophesied: "I gave Hope to the Dúnedain..."

Read the Story

Reviewed by: Ragnelle  ✧  Score: 7

A well-written and evocative poem written in three stanzas with a strict rhyming-scheme: ABAAB The rhyme-scheme and the structure works well, and the repetition of [Forsaken] as the first word in every stanza also crates an effect that I like very much. It creates, together with the rhymes, a very nice rhythm to the poem, and hammers home the theme of despair that lies in Éomer's cry: [Forsaken all these lands]. This despair is not portrayed as giving up, though. The images are full off action and anger: [white-hot wrath], [burning will] and the evocative image in the second stanza: [To pund a thunder-music unto the quiet day/ That naught could tame.] But even with this protest against the feeling of being forsaken, it is clearly a despair that Éomer is voicing. Then the turn in the last two verses: [But Hope stood portent, heart and sword and hands, / Sprung from the grass.] This mixes nicely book- and movieverse, and relies heavy on the reader's knowledge of Aragorn's story and the meaning of one of his names. A very nice touch that gives more depth to the poem, and turns the theme around: the Mark is not as forsaken as Éomer thinks.

Reviewed by: Linda Hoyland  ✧  Score: 3

I just loved this poem, which brilliantly conveys Eomer's feelings when banished by his uncle under Wormtongue's influence. The language is powerful and has a vivid epic feel to it. The play on one of Aragorn's names at the end is delicious.A must read poem