Shards of Stone
By SarahFish
Prologue: Dreaming of Beginning
What is waking, and what is dream? She knew once. Yet as she walks the streets of a deserted city, her footfalls the only noise breaking profound silence, she cannot be sure. She passes elaborate fountains which must have flown with glittering water once, but now stand silent and crumbling. As she walks past, she glances into the basin, catches a glimpse of dried water-plants, of dusty fish bones long ago picked clean by scavengers.
Out of the corner of her eye she senses movement. She turns, sees a shadowy figure materialize and dart around a corner. She picks up her pace, following.
What is truth, and what is illusion? On the wind she thinks she hears laughter. A child's laugh. A strange thing in this solemn, abandoned place. Yet, again, there is a glimpse of someone far ahead, running through the empty streets. But they turn, disappearing into an alleyway. The road stretches out before her, the alley an impossible distance, fading away even as she watches.
Melia.
The word comes from the stones themselves. Breathed by the very city.
She is running now, but her feet slip, unable to gain traction. When she glances down, the streets are red with blood. It flows over her feet, a sluggish river staining the hem of her robe. The sky overhead turns black, and lightning splits the sky in two.
Fire - surrounding her, consuming her, unimaginable pain permeating every fiber of her being. She is burning, burning! And she cannot escape. She cries out into the darkness, and suddenly is falling, plummeting an impossible distance.
She lands, not in blood and flame she expects, but upon a soft, damp surface. Grass. A meadow. It soothes her wounds and smells of life.
The night sky spins above her, the course of a thousand stars blended together into an infinitely repeating spiral. The moon streaks across the sky, waxing, waning...the path of a thousand years traced in a few seconds. Fact? Delusion?
Melia.
Again, not spoken, but breathed by the trees, the grass, the very earth.
Dizzy, she stands, and the spinning heavens slow, finally ceasing to spin. The moon hovers impossibly close, shining with a brilliant light. It casts a silver glow upon her, and whispers secrets to her.
She is not alone.
He stands a short distance away. Dark hair obscures his face, and as she reaches to him, he turns, his hair caught in a sudden gust of wind. As the wind dies, his hair turns to silver…gold…some strange shade that is both and neither. As their eyes lock, he begins to weep. His tears are of blood.
She feels dampness upon her cheeks, and her fingers come away stained red. Deception? Illusion?
He reaches for her, stretching fingers across an endless void, groping, blinded by blood. His eyes burn red, lit by some unholy inner fire, and she is suddenly afraid.
Melia. It seems she should know the word, yet thoughts slip her mind like sand through her fingers. Darkness, spiraling around her. Here, no line between dream and reality. They are all in one, and they are all contained in her.
"Melia…Melia…"
She stirs, moving from one darkness into another, briefly aware of cold stone beneath her chest, of soothing hands upon torn and blistered flesh. There is a name that belongs to the hands….if only she could remember….if only….
She manages to open her eyes to soft orange candle light. A shadowy figure hovering far too near.
Terrified, she lashes out and shrieks in pain. Her body is aflame, she thinks, and she cannot extinguish it.
"Sh..sh..sh." A voice in the darkness, cutting through her agony. "Melia, Melia. You're badly hurt. You have to let me help you."
A pair of hands are upon her own; small, soft hands that soothe her blistered skin with salve and cool water. In the candle light, she cannot quite distinguish the speaker, and knows her best by her comforting touch. The woman's fingers catch scorched flesh, and she screams, her vision going white.
And then comes the light. Golden light spilling over her hands. Her skin is almost translucent, glowing from within. His hands are gentle as he takes the ring, wrapping the band in silk thread to keep it from slipping off her newly bony fingers. He'd had it crafted before their Tribulation, not thinking, not realizing... It had been a secret ring. A special ring. He slips it back on her tiny finger, and it is still too loose. A laugh. A kiss. A reminder that it matters little, for in a few months time it will fit properly. A cloud passes over the sun, and it is dark…dark…
"…You remember the stories you used to tell me, Melia? Do you remember the Houses? The Sparrow and the Heavenly Arch. The Fountain and the Golden Flower. The Hammer of Wrath and the Pillar…"
She opens her eyes again, and the words continue. But they make no sense to her. She cannot piece them together. There is someone beside her, that much she knows. She is still in agony.
"…And the City? Do you remember the City, and the passwords for the seven gates? And which lord wrought which gate? Or if not that, remember the high meadow where you used to train…" a pause. "Or do you even remember yourself any more? I wonder…"
Someone touches her shoulder, and she tries to get away. Pain cuts through her body as she moves, crawling hand over hand to escape. She is not fast enough, though, and is caught. She screams, in fear and agony. The answering voice is calm, quiet.
"Melia! Shh. Do you not know me? It is Kamalla. It is only me. I am the only one here. And I am only here to help you."
The hands on her body are gentle but firm and she finds herself laid out on a clean pallet. A cup held to her lips. It reminds her of something…something she should remember…a feeling of fiery warmth in her body which does not burn, but envelops…
"Drink, Melia. It is to ease the pain. To help you sleep."
The liquid is cool on her parched throat. And within moments she is spiraling down into darkness once more. A darkness that is blessedly without dream.
Kamalla weeps softly as the broken figure goes limp in her arms, slipping into a deep, drugged sleep. Melia is little more than a skeleton any more, her bones so fragile feeling beneath her skin – skin which is more often than not torn, blistered, and bruised. Kamalla remembers when the woman's hair was long and golden. Now it is so matted and caked with filth that there is no discernable colour. She can call to mind far too many nights, like this one, when Melia had been tortured, brought to the brink of death. A death that would, perhaps, be a blessing. But Lord Annatar will never permit it. Someday he may grow weary of his favorite plaything. But until then, her life is his.
Gently, Kamalla lays her down on the pallet, and gathers her things. She spares once backward glance before closing the iron door to her cell and locking it. Exhausted…frightened of being caught tending to Melia again, she hurries upstairs to her chamber.
Duties keep her from checking in on Melia until the next evening. When she enters the cell, she does not see her at first. She is momentarily frightened – had she died? Had Annatar found out about her ministrations and moved Melia to another cell? Then…a sound. And suddenly, she sees her.
Kamalla finds her curled in the corner, skeletal arms wrapped around her emaciated body. At first she thinks she is weeping, and it is only as the kneels beside the pitiful figure that she can distinguish her words.
"My name is Melia…My name is Melia….My name is Melia…"
Kamalla reaches out…touches her on the shoulder. The woman jumps, startled. She looks up, and for the first time in….too long….Kamalla sees recognition filling those sky blue eyes.
And then…she speaks.
"Kamalla…I remember."
Author's note: All places and non-original characters are property of the estate of J.R.R Tolkien. I am not profiting in any way from the printing of this story.