The battle had raged all night long, a small people under siege, their women and children hidden away under caves behind the fortification, their enemies vicious and overwhelming. The outer dike was breached early. The wall fell well into the night. Only the caves and the fortress tower remained defended. And Aragorn stood above the final gates, looking out over his swarming, untired enemies - and the dawn.
How many times that long night had he wondered where help was? How many times had he and others exchanged reassurances: It isn’t over yet; don’t judge whether the promise failed until we see how this ends. How many times did he lean on his sword and look up at the sky, wondering about Gandalf and eagles and horsemen and other wonders undreamt of that could come to their desperate aid?
There was more to do. Orcs still crawled up the walls and men still threw down their ladders and grappling hooks. A sortie was assembling inside. But hope spends some of its time looking for rescue. Fulfillment may come, and one can’t help looking up from the fray to check if it has arrived.
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