Attention: this is not a chapter, more like an introduction. It is my first time uploading something in English so all reviews are welcome and encouraged. It is up to you whether I should continue or not.
You are not meant to know who the narrator is yet, that's part of the mystery ;) but it is OC. Their story will be revealed throughout the narrative, and it won't be a chronological order, I will introduce both the future and the past as the plot unfolds. I hope you enjoy!
There was a time when it meant something to be together. The days were lonely and the nights were cold, but it meant something. I developed the habit of running my hand along the marble columns of the throne room when I was free from every chore. There, where the walls were tall and the roof was glass, the village noises echoed from afar. And so I could sense – and I swear I could – the soft and distant rumble of the ponies approaching the gates. I never imagined it, at first I thought I was dreaming. But then I realized that every time the light trembling kissed the tip of my fingers, he was coming home.
And so, everyday, for months at a time, I would touch the columns. Once Gandalf noticed, and for the rest of the week I could feel his eyes on me whenever I did it, even when he was not in the room.
"Fine weather we are having." He said one sunny afternoon, I don't recall the day. It was after one with rain and before another marked by fog.
"In two days or so it will hail." I answered. He smiled and we spoke no more. He always told me that when one has nothing good to say, one should stick to two subjects, the weather and our health. And so we did.
Late at night I would float away from my bed and into my whole reason for existing. A silent deep breath and a quick touch. Nothing yet. The room gained a new feeling to it at those hours; the green all around would fall into a sleeping depth that seemed to eat the life out of every object. I picture it, a big dark mouth on the ceiling spitting it all back out at the first ray of sunlight: and so the furniture would retrieve its shape and color would replace its shadow, small blankets of warmth would slowly cover the surface and, like the last crumbs of bread, small invisible flakes of dust playfully dancing around in the air would bow at the end of the song when settling down wherever they landed. But not at night, no. There it was cold and the only organic thing around was a ghost, holding me close to him, feeding on my longing.
I liked to whisper his name into the emerald stones. I felt they would carry it to him, the same way they carried the news of his return to my fingers. It travelled for many miles or maybe just for some, he could hear it in battle or maybe while he slept. But he listened, I'm sure, for I whispered it so many times it had nowhere to go but to him.
And then the hour would finally come where I could sense a tingling in my fingertips, quickly running down my spine. My body would shake seconds before the first hornet sounded. Some supernatural force took over and my nearly catatonic being ran through doors and saloons, until I reached the front balcony. There, from a crack on the mountain, much like the smiling corner of my mouth, they would emerge. So many of them, looking victorious like they do every day, as if a conquest was nothing more than a perfectly ironed linen sheet.
No one would say dwarfs were smaller than most species. With their puffed out chests of pride and loud laughs you would say they were giants, shaking the earth beneath their feet with every stomp of their horses. But those are details to which I paid no attention to at the time – he was coming, in the front row, center place. Could he see me as well as I could see him? Could I see him that well at all or was I so madden by his absence I created his image the moment I knew him near?
Dresses were a bother to run, but he always liked them on me, so I made sure I'd wear one whenever he was to be back. I'd grab the tail of whichever long silky piece of clothing I had on with one hand and I'd reach out for him with the other, even when he was still a mere addition to the landscape. We usually met in the middle, because I wouldn't stop running until his fingers intertwined mine. His lips were the second thing to greet me, almost instantly. His kisses tasted like dirt and raw meat, but neither of us cared. What usually happened from there until we were alone was always a mystery to me; I was always too busy with him to pay attention.
It was only later on, in the brightness of the white tiled bathroom that I could get out of my daze and go back to our moment. He'd always let me undress him. Layer upon layer of leather coats, fur vests, sword belts and cotton shirts I could see more of him that no one else saw; like digging a big hole from his skin into his soul to hide my treasure in. There was a time when it meant something to be together.