I chopped off my hair after the last prince. He only wanted what all princes want. The good talk ended right after his climb. I pushed him out the window while he gazed at what he could no longer reach. He only broke a few bones. Healing imperfection will humble him. I’ll weave a blonde rope and climb down.

Would you measure a warrior’s worth
by the rewards they’d earned
or the trophies they’d spurned,
by the number they’d slain
or the many they’d spared;
praps you’re persuaded by the songs
of their kin who survived them.
Or you’d celebrate their renown
and vaunted prowess in battle
when it is really those without
such advantage who show more
courage in not fleeing the field
when outmatched by every other foe.
See – it is those of whom you’ve not heard
that might more truly deserve
your prayerful thoughts and earnest hymns
your hushed tales, be they ever
so tall, by the warming hearth
of our time-wearied feasting hall.
Would you have me tell you their names
though your lips are unworthy
to speak them, your ears deaf
and your mind too dull to grasp
what it genuinely is
to have known Thorin Oakenshield,
last of his ancient and noble line.