Wildest Dreams
Chapter One
Word Count: 3,155
Rating: T/PG-13, with discussions of/implied torture and some... death
Disclaimer: Normally I'm wittier, but... I got nothing. I would say I own nothing, but that's not true. I created the original characters that are driving the plot, so... I guess I own something.
Summary: Third following Storms in Middle Earth and Forever Afternoon. Unsettling dreams and unknown threats disturb the peace of Ithilien, forcing Firyavaryar from the place he tried to call home and drawing others into danger once again.
Author's Note: Again, I told myself I wouldn't go right into another story. Not after the trouble I had with Forever Afternoon. I wasn't going to do another. I tried not to. I did. It's all Varyar's fault. He would not let it rest, and it wasn't like I had tied up every single loose end and subplot, so as much as I thought I could leave it there, I couldn't.
I'm taking the title from another Moody Blues song, this time "Your Wildest Dreams," which seemed fitting after I came up with the part that was No Peace in Ithilien, and when I rethought the first chapter into this part, it was even more fitting.
It remains to be seen if it stays that way, but I think with Varyar's tendency toward waking dreams and nightmares, it just might.
Some of the first nightmare may be familiar as it was originally a part of Storms, but the rest is all new.
No Rest for the Wicked or Weary
He had missed the sound of the rain, the sight of the water, and the smell of the air.
Most of all, though, he missed the way it cleansed. When the storm was gone, there was a peace and a renewal, and he would like to feel that way again—fresh and absolved, but he knew that it was not to be. He would never know that again.
Ogol's hand tangled in his hair, and Varyar grimaced, trying not to shudder, though he knew it did not matter if he did or not. None of his protests—no words, no useless struggles—could free him from this. He had to endure it, though he did not know how much longer he could. He was so tired already, so ready to fade...
"How beautiful you are, my pet," Ogol said, twisting his hand through the tangles of Firyavaryar's hair. "It is not right that you were born so fair. Elves are far and beyond the realm of natural beauty. All other races cannot hope to reach the state you were born into. I had always expected your parents to create something fine, but I had not thought perfection was possible. That is what you are. Perfect in form—a terrible shame you are not as perfect in function."
Varyar tried to yank free from his hold, but Ogol yanked him back using his hair this time. Firyavaryar bit back the cry, grateful to be able to breathe even if he did not care for the way he was being held.
"Where are they?"
"Do you truly not know?" Varyar asked, wondering how that was possible. How had Ogol captured him and yet not been able to find his brother and sister? He did not want to say anything, not when he might say too much and lead Ogol to them. "You are not so great a sorcerer, are you? You cannot conjure the location you need."
"Do you think I need them alone for my army? That I have no alternatives?" Ogol asked, moving the hand from Varyar's hair to his cheek. "I know of at least one, and while I dislike your choice in elleths, I can find you another. It is time you created your own part of this army."
"No." Firyavaryar shuddered, trying to pull away. "I will not do that. I will not—"
"I will have my army," Ogol insisted. He pushed up Varyar's sleeve, smiling at the marks there. "You are mine. I know you have not forgotten that."
"I am not yours. I never have been, and I never will be," Varyar said. He pushed against the robes Ogol wore, and this time the sorcerer pulled on the chain, laughing as he did. Firyavaryar choked, unable to do anything but watch as Ogol retraced the marks on his arm.
"Does it burn, pet?" Ogol asked. "It should. It should always remind you of what you are and who you belong to. Those things are inescapable. You will always be mine. Those marks will never go away. You cannot wash them, and you cannot deny them. Accept it—you belong to me."
Ogol let him go, dropping him to the ground, and Firyavaryar drew in air. He glared at the robes as they disappeared, but he knew that at least part of what the monster said was true. The marks did not go away. They did not wash off, and even when he thought they had faded forever, he saw them again. He could not be rid of them, could not get clean, not after what Ogol had done.
He leaned back against the wall, wishing that the rough stone was of some comfort. He wanted to be outside, to breathe free hair and see the sky. He knew what he missed most of all, though. His family.
They were safe. He would have to be content with that. He would keep them that way.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Firyavaryar tried not to let the shudders control him. He was dirty from the orcs and Ogol and guilt, so dirty... He would love to feel the rain again, a good cleansing rain, the kind that started life again in the forest, that brought hope with each drop. Rain could be destructive, too, but even that would be a relief after the pain and darkness. He would just like the rain to be clean, but if he felt rain, then he would know he was free, and freedom was that dream that he kept holding onto, a faint hope when he told himself that hope was gone.
He did not want to fall asleep here, as tired as he was, as sore and battered as his body was. He knew that he would dream of home—he did not understand how he dared call Greenwood home; it had never been theirs—of green trees and soothing rains, of warm sunlight and laughter. When he woke, he would find hard stone, dirt that irritated his wounds, cold darkness, and silence. He knew that dreaming meant more pain, but he did not know how to make himself stop.
He no longer wanted to dream, though he would give anything for a bit of rain.
The sea was endless. The sea was eternal.
He could hear it calling to him even in his sleep, giving him no peace from the pull. He kept himself busy during the day, seeing to the needs of Ithilien, but when his eyes closed, his mind wandered to the distant shores. He felt certain that he could reach out and have his hand touch the water, and he could hear the waves breaking against the rocks, singing its own song to lure him into the appealing waters.
To sail, to sail, if only he had a boat fair enough...
Sometimes Legolas saw it in those same dreams. He would stand at its center, gazing upon a lovely little ship, with sails of the finest elven cloth, shimmering in the sunlight as they danced in the breeze. He would smile into the sun, enjoying the heat of it as it warmed his face, a counter to the wind that brought with it the chill and spray of the water.
The trees who gave their wood for this fine vessel had done so willingly, wishing the prince of Greenwood well on his journey into the distant lands. The water held no fear now, just a call that promised everything he could ever want or need. Legolas longed to rush to it, to be welcomed into the world that pulled at him.
He would stop then, looking back at the shore, and when he did, he saw those he would leave behind. His father. Estel. Arwen. Their son. Gimli. Firyavaryar. Sérëdhiel. Idhrenion. Many others, all friends as dear as family, and yet he would leave them in an instant for the sea. What kind of loyalty did he have? Once, he knew, it was praised, valued above all else, but now he knew that he lacked it. He should be able to stay.
What was water compared to family? What was some unknown land in the place of those he loved? Why did he not long to stay? He should. He knew that. That was his life, that had always been his life, so why did the sea try to tell him otherwise? He did not want the sea. It was a lie, a terrible trick. He wanted the trees and the birds and the animals of Greenwood. He wanted the sunlight and the songs of the forest.
Most of all, though, he wanted the ones he loved.
Why did he not stay?
He would jump from the boat then, intent on swimming to shore, but he had underestimated the sea. He had not realized that it was doing more than calling him. It was a jealous, bitter thing, corrupted by salt and hidden dangers, pulling him under the surface, unwilling to let him return. He would go to the sea or he would not survive. He belonged to the sea, not to anything or anyone else. It would not let him go.
"Legolas!"
He heard someone calling his name, but he wanted to order them back. No, no, it is not safe. He knew it was not. Anyone who came after him, anyone who tried to help him, they would be caught in the water and pulled down with him. They would all drown.
He could not let the water take them all. He had to stop this.
"Take my hand, mellon-nín. Let me help you," Estel said, and Legolas wanted to reach for his hand. He did not dare.
"Do not be so stubborn, ion-nín," his father said. "Let your ada help you."
"No. I cannot. You will sink with me."
"Don't be daft, you pointy-eared fool," Gimli said. "You're drowning for no reason. Bah! Idiotic elves that want to sail, they should be allowed to drown for their foolishness."
"No, Gimli," Estel insisted. "We will not abandon our friend now. Legolas, take my hand. I will bring you back to the shore. You are safe here."
Legolas reached for Estel's hand, but the sea's pull was greater, and he was ripped away from his friends and carried out to deep waters, never to see them again.
The land burned.
Everywhere Aragorn looked was engulfed in flames. They burned hot as the eye of Sauron had, as though his malice had returned to claim the land and lay waste to it despite the destruction of his ring of power. He did not know how to stop it.
Below him, he could hear the screams of his people, of the women and children but also the trained armies of Gondor, all panicked, crying out for help, for aid, for something, anything. Aragorn could hear them, but he knew of nothing to do for them. He had failed. He did not know how the enemy had gotten close, did not know how they had caused so much destruction in so little time. This was not the same siege as had come against Minas Tirith before, not an enemy that they recognized and understood.
They had repelled the enemy before, and he wanted to tell them that they would again, but he could not see how that would be possible. They were surrounded. The land burned. Everything was death and destruction, and they could not flee. There was nowhere for them to run, nowhere to hide. They could not go.
They would all die, here and now, consumed by flame and shadow, devoured by the unseen enemy.
"Where is your king now? Where is the one that would lead you from here and give you deliverance? Where is the one who would give you hope? You do not have any, do you? All that hope was a lie. The new age of men is a farce. You are all to die."
"No," Aragorn heard himself say, but he knew that his voice was too quiet to be heard by anyone else. He did not know who had asked the questions, that awful voice of doubt and worse. He could not combat what he could not see. "I am here. Peace, my brothers. Men of Gondor, I am here. I will—"
"You will fight me? You will save them? How? You are nothing, insignificant king. You do not know how to lead anyone. You cannot protect them. You cannot save these peasants. They are unworthy, and they will perish. Only my creation will be allowed to exist. The time of men? No, this is my time, and I will see to it that you all die."
"Show yourself," Aragorn demanded, wondering if he would feel better if the reforged sword was in his hands. "Show yourself and face the truth: you are a coward striking from the shadows. You cannot have this land or her people. You will not destroy us."
"Look around you. Osgiliath burns. Minas Tirith burns. Ithilien burns."
"No," Aragorn said, refusing to believe that. Legolas and his colony were alive. They were fighters. They would not have let their home fall. Osgiliath was rebuilt. It was not burning. This was only a nightmare, and he was not a child to be scared of them any longer. He was a king, and as a king, he could not allow himself to be afraid. He was not afraid—he would wake and this would all fade away into the nothing that it was.
"Aragorn!"
The cry came from one whose voice was familiar to him, dearer to him than any other, and he tried to find the Evenstar's brightness in the growing smoke and darkness, but he could not see her. "Where are you?"
"Our son," she said, and Aragorn felt a sick coldness in his stomach. His son. The boy. He did not see him, but he did not need to see him to know that he was gone. Dead. The darkness had taken the child, and as he looked back at the flames, he knew himself tempted. He could let them go, let them overtake everything, to claim him and all the people, kill them as something had done his son, and he did not know how he could think that way, but how was he to fight knowing that he had lost the one he was supposed to protect? That child was the future of Gondor, his future, his son, and he had loved his child more than he would have believed possible until that he held his son in his arms for the first time.
He was a father. A father was supposed to protect his children. He was a husband, but he could not protect his wife. He was a king, but he could not protect his kingdom.
He had lost it all, and he did not even know how it had happened. He just knew that it was gone. All gone.
Firyavaryar's eyes opened, and he winced, his stomach twisting with the last of the dream—the memory—or was it only a dream? He no longer knew. He did not know what was real and what was not. He had not known that in so long, unable to trust himself or anything he might see in his tortured, fractured mind.
His body might have healed. His mind never would. He knew that. He knew the peace that Ithilien gave the others was not his to have. He could take no comfort here, no refuge. He had thought that giving his family this place, this home, would be enough, that it would give them what they had lacked for so long, but he should have known that he still had no place among the peaceful.
He had not redeemed himself at all. He had been denied death again, and for what? For endless nightmares that plagued him day and night? Would Ogol laugh at that if he were here? Would he have delighted to know that even now Varyar had not managed to break those shackles, the ones binding him so tightly to the past?
He could hear the gentle sounds of the night around him, the creatures of the forest going about their nocturne activities, and he wished that they were more soothing a sound. He had spent many centuries listening to Idhrenion's snoring, but even if he tried sleeping near his brother, he did not find himself able to rest. It had once been that Idhrenion's snores could lull him, could help him believe that they were all safe since they were together, but he did not believe that now.
Varyar knew the truth: there was no safety. Not here. Not in Greenwood or Imladris, not anywhere in Middle Earth, not even with Sauron defeated. He knew that it did not exist.
He started to rise, grateful to have avoided sleeping on Lothanlass this night. The onod was not as much of a nuisance now as he had been when Firyavaryar first woke him, but he did not want the ent following him. He did not need to wake the entire camp because he could not sleep. This was no rare occurrence—he did not know when the last time he had slept was—and why should his disturbance mean that of everyone?
It did not have to, and he would not let it.
He pulled his cloak close around him as he made his way through the woods, passing trees that stirred some at his presence and shrank away from him. He had thought that reaction would end after the poison was gone from his body, but he was wrong. The trees still understood him to be a monster, and he did not know that he could disagree with them.
He did not touch any of them as he moved around them. He did not know where he intended to go, and he did not know that it mattered where it was.
He did not know that anything mattered now.
The moon came in through the gap in the tree cover, and he looked up, startled by its brightness. He could not remember ever seeing a moon so bright before, and he had known many nights under the stars, in so many places and lands, more than he could name. He was not the oldest of elves—had no desire to have that distinction—but he knew that the moon was not like that normally.
He shivered, his sense of unease growing. He did not know why the moon was altered, but he did not think it could be a sign of anything good—he did not know that it was anything more than his mind, but even if it were not, he did not care for it. He thought he felt a chill, and he did not get chilled. He was an elf. He was not cold.
He rubbed his arms, trying to tell himself to stop being foolish, but he stopped when he saw what moving his sleeve had uncovered. He stared, shaking his head in disbelief. That was not possible. It was the moon. The dream. His mind.
He was insane. He knew that, and he did not trust himself. He did not. He could ignore what he had just seen. It was the light. The moon. The lack of sleep. Any of those things and not what it seemed to be at all.
He closed his eyes, but when he opened them, he saw the same thing as he had before, and he heard familiar laughter in his head. He covered his ears, but he was unable to shut out the voice he hated most. You are mine. You will always belong to me.