Sunrise

by

Quill-and-Parchment

They called me insane. They always did. Some, like the nice lady who lived next door, told me that I wasn't always like this. That I was nice and gentle once, and beautiful too. Not so washed-out. Not so mad.

But I am not mad. I know this for a fact. I never was, am not and never would be. Why else had I not go throw myself into the village well and drown already? Because that would be mad, that's why. To wish to die is madness. I merely have some…flashbacks now and again. And I choose solitude. It was not a curse. It was a blessing, to be isolated from the busy, wild noises of the world.

Yes, my past is mostly forgotten already. I could no longer recall why or how I always find myself in front of the weaving frame every morning, stopping only to take a drink from the kitchen or have a small meal. I could no longer recall why I weaved the tapestries or how the threads got renewed, day to day. I no longer recalled why I weaved the scenes on the tapestries so.

There was one day, when I stopped shortly in my work and turned to my creations instead. I shifted through the stack in wonder; although many have been made throughout the years – was it years, or months, or centuries? – I have never truly looked at them before.

Most of them depicted men in armors, fighting dragons and orcs and other men. A few were of strange creatures that resembled beast-men, and others of large, yellow and ugly wolves. I remembered these animals! Orcs and Wargs, they called them. And the nice lady next door told me of terrible stories of the Uruk-Hai, servants of the Enemy. They killed many, she told me, so many. And people are marching to war so as to prevent them from killing more.

I turned to her. "My brother went to fight them, too," I'd asked. "So why are they still around?"

She did not answer that question. I, complying the unvoiced request, asked no more.

But here we are. My brother is still lost. I remembered something about him. I no longer knew his face or his name. 'Tis how it is these days. Everything…so blurry. Maybe years back, I would have remembered. I would have known! All of these. Names. Faces. Locations. People. And now everything I knew is that I have lost something in the past, I am not insane, and my name…

Wait. What is my name?

I could not remember. I was lost. So lost.

But I am still not insane. I am merely…forgetful, as one might say.

I am not insane.

There is a commotion today. I hear it now. Something is approaching. And judging from the excited and worried and hateful voices beneath, I can tell it was not something everyone sees everyday. You see, humans often have the same opinion about everything, varying in words and phrases or not. Such irony!

And then there are the bells. I hear them now. Drawing near. Just down the street. So sweet. They are silver, I suppose. So clear. Not like my memories. No, not like my memories at all. I find myself hoping that this sound would return to me what I have lost. But such foolishness. No, I know that my memories would not return, and I have no energy to try and regain them myself either.

You see, I have grown weary these past few days. Or were they months? I remember not. But I am tired. Now, weaving, although it took little effort before, drained me. I know this means something. Something is coming. For me. Good or bad, I know not either. But it is coming. And I have faith it shall be a release.

But the bells. Ah, the bells! They bring me back to here and now, even though momentarily only. And in that short time, I have stood from the loom – my beloved loom, a gift from someone I dearly adored – and came to the balcony. I pause at the door, but only for a moment. Time is short. I will soon return to my obliviousness. And that is bad. I just want to see the origins of the bell. Perhaps – and my heart beats wildly with hope – perhaps it will bring back what I have lost to time and to forgetfulness.

I step onto the balcony, then glance down at the street. It is crowded, I note. So very crowded. And yet, at the center, the people part so as to form an isle. Now, traveling down that isle, I see a lady in white. But she is no lady. Oh no – she is no mere lady!

She is a queen. The fairest and the wisest. I know that if I know nothing else. Dressed in a simple white dress, riding a pearly stallion, she moves idly down the street, her eyes straight ahead and yet noticing every and all faces in the crowd. It did not make sense. I did not know how I acquired this knowledge either, but it is true. I take comfort in that.

Her skin was glowing. Not the brightness of flame or lantern, but a gentle glow that looks like the light of full moon. Her hair – spun gold. Beautiful threads. I wonder if I could get that kind of thread. Then my tapestries shall be all the more stunning.

The queen passes me by. When she is directly below me, she suddenly looks up. Our eyes met, and a small conversation was held. Very small, mind. And very short, too.

Why do you weep, child? the queen asks me. Her voice was gentle, as were her eyes.

I look at her, confused. I do not weep, I told her. Because the truth is, I do not.

Tears come not from the eyes alone, she replies. Your heart bleeds dry.

My heart is long forgotten, my lady. Or perhaps it is my heart that forgot.

It is neither that forgot, she said in answer, smiling. It is you who chose to forget. Dawn shall come. Your time had yet to end. Treasure it.

And that is all. She breaks eye contact. As I watch, she disappears down the street, out of sight, and the people close in right behind her, making a long, long thong toward the castle. In the end, only I and a few people stay behind.

I stand still upon that balcony, looking at the street where the queen has vanished to. Her words echoed in my mind. Even if I try to ignore it – which, mind you, I do not – I would not be able to. Truth is often very hard to ignore. Lies are sometimes more believable, and sometimes it is easiest to disregard things, but this…

Dawn. She speaks of dawn that shall always come. I look up. The sky was blue. The sun has been hidden by thick clouds, but as I watch, they drift away. The sun stares down at me, making me squint. But truly, I do not mind. The light, although not as soft and as pleasant as the queen's own light, is reassuring. It sparks something.

For a long time, I merely stand there, watching cloud and sky, thinking, remembering. I smile then, and turn to return to my room. I let the door to the balcony open so the light could come in freely. They take my invitation with grace, flooding the room – the familiar room, my room! – with their warm light.

Still smiling, I sit once more before my loom. I glance at the basket of threads next to me. Gray, red, deep yellow, deep blue, black…so gloomy! No, I decide. I shall not weave depression today. I glance at the loom. About five inches of already-woven threads hung down. Black. With little yellow dots. Star.

Ai! I forgot what I am trying to weave now. But it does not matter. It has only been several inches, after all. And I need not tear it down either. I can add something new to it! Dark it may be, but darkness does not always remain.

Once again smiling, I reach for the basket on my right. Gold, bright blue, silver, pink, and bright red. Not of blood, but of ripe fruits. And vibrant green. Yes, let me make something new. New and free of yesterday.

The nice lady next door likes it very much. She says it is very beautiful, and that it would sell for a very great price at the market. She says that I can capture details very well with only a brief glimpse of the subject. "Good job, darling," she said, putting a warm, reassuring arm around my shoulder. "You are so talented!"

I look at her. "Thank you," I respond. It is the appropriate one after all. "But I had rather you call me Arnores."

She looks so surprise she might have fall over, but I merely smile. I love that expression as much as I love the praise. I get to my feet and walk toward my wardrobe, throwing its door open. The dresses are quite old and worn, but I search in the back of the closet and manage to find the one that I desire: a simple violet dress with wide sleeves, the low neckline lined with silver thread.

"I am going out to buy my brother's grave some flowers," I said. "Are you coming?"

Once again, that shocked expression. But this time, the lady smiled and nodded. There are tears in her eyes. "Yes, my dear," she said. "Let us go."

When she left and wait for me to change, I glance outside the door to the balcony. I have left it open all night. No thief has come in yet, which is a relief. It must be near dawn now.

Changing quickly, I brush my hair, slip on a pair of boots and walk to the balcony. I step outside, taking in a deep breath before looking to the east. Sunrise is at the east.

It is coming. Sunrise. It is coming.

A strange sound comes from my throat. It is something I have long ago forgotten, but I remember it now. Laughter. Laughter because I am free at last. The sun rises further, leisure in her pace, but eventually she comes. And I hope.

My release. This is my release.

The queen was right. Hope is aplenty. And the sun always rises. I have merely been ignoring it and its light.

But the day is new now. So is my life.

I believe we can all guess who this "queen" the narrator is referring to is.

This is inspired by a memory of a one-shot I read from before, detailing the elves' coming to Minas Tirith. What it's called, though, I can't remember. But let it be known that this is sort of a glean-off on that fanfic. I would've asked the author for permission to base my story on his/her, but since I have no idea who she is, I can't do that.

Reviews are appreciate.