Fields of gold

Nightmares

Cold, so cold.

Elanor's body was but an icicle, exposed to harsh winds and ashen air. Distant warmth spewed from gashes in the earth, unnatural pits of fire filled with burnt rocks and exuding foul vapours. But it never reached up there, her own prison of despair.

And, even though her body was but a giant bruise, unfeeling, uncaring, her right arm burnt like the seventh pits of hell. Pulled up above her head, her entire weight rested upon the wrist shackled to the cliff side. Not a second passed without its agony frying her nerves, metal slicing into her skin, the only warmth that of her blood running down her arm.

Her shoulder had long since dislocated, nerves and ligaments torn by her massive weight. A never-ending agony, where her soul begged to die, but HE wouldn't allow it. That despicable Vala ! Grey mountains, upturned plains, without light, devoid of life stretched before her very eyes. A landscape as devastated as her scarred soul. As for her flesh ... How much pain could a body sustain before it crumbled ?

"Kill me !" she screamed to the heavens, eyes too dry to tear up, despair thrown to the wind.

But no one heard her. No one except the Black Foe, who chuckled at her agony, and whispered in his ear how her wife and child were now in his power, slowly decaying in a corrupted world, away from the pulse of Arda.

His brothers would cave in, one by one, his cousins fail, and his only secret – his family - wither and die. Nothing would remain of him, of his father's inheritance, except the soil upon their name, and the hate of all the Calaquendi. Atrocities done in the name of a demented Sire, a price paid by his descendants.

Anguish engulfed her and she screamed, and screamed, her voice lost in the ashen winds.

But no one was there to save her.

Except that gentle hand that caressed her hair. And this sliver of light, carrying a voice in the air, a soothing lullaby to send her into restful slumber. Elanor jolted awake, gaping. Tears streamed down her face as warm arms circled her, pulling her into a solid chest.

"Mára ná, Elanor," a soothing voice breathed in her ear. "Mára ná, meldonya."

Shaking, Elanor tried to gather her wits, but the deep-rooted despair wouldn't relent. Sobs erupted from her throat, grief pouring out of her like a dam too long restrained. Someone was rocking her body, trying to anchor her to reality, but her soul felt splintered, frayed, her chest speared through. Residual pain throbbed at her shoulder, the phantom agony causing her to convulse.

The voice rose, stronger, calling light into her nightmare, soothing its aches. Its power enveloped her like a warm, fluffy blanket, displacing memories and traumas, retrieving joy within the confines of her heart. It pulled and prodded, swirling within her soul, until hope unfurled and the light repelled the dark stain.

Elanor emerged from her nightmare, hands fisted around Laurë's night tunic. He held fast, rocking her soothingly, his voice a balm to her wounded soul. For a long time, she remained thus, half sprawled upon his lap as he sang the beauty of the trees – her light in the darkness.

And when the shaking subsided, Elanor sighed, boneless in his embrace.

"Better ?" he asked, eyes grey in the darkness of her room.

Shamefully, she removed herself from his person. To find him in her bed rattled her senses, but her mind was too shaken to register its significance.

"I dreamt of cold, dark mountains," she stuttered. "And someone shackled by his right arm."

Laurëfindelë froze, his shoulders tensing.

"I wanted to die so badly, but the.... Thing, the enemy, it wouldn't let me."