Reluctant Courage

When kings debate the end of things

and warriors speak in steel;

When maps are marked with certain doom

and every fate feels sealed

There, from the edge of assembled might,

a small voice rose through the gathering night,

breaking the silence that held its sway:

“I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.”

It needs no strength nor iron will

to boast before the start,

reluctant courage makes its home

inside an ordinary heart.

And in a room of humming light,

where truth was bent by code,

a man who doubted destiny

refused the chosen road.

He did not glow with prophecy,

nor hunger for a throne.

When asked if he believed the tale,

he said, “I’m not the One.”

Yet when the air began to tear

and bullets split the skin,

he died—and love called back to him

what he could not believe within.

Those who yearn to matter most

are rarely those who rise.

The hunt for fame and louder praise

clouds once-clear, untroubled eyes.

But those at ease with being small,

unknown, unseen, uncelebrated—

are often the reluctant hands

by which the world is fated.

Despite their fear and clinging doubts,

they step when others stall;

not for glory, not for name,

but because the moment calls.

For courage is not forged in fire

nor born of certainty.

It grows in those who doubt themselves

and act reluctantly.