Author's Notes: Okay, so I guess my muses aren't done with me and there is gonna be more of this. I still don't know where it's going and it's unlikely to be sequential chapters. Fair warning.

Also the muse being the muse, halfway through the scene after she wakes up, it switches from Moira's thoughts to Fili's, if that isn't clear. I hope it is, but I've never written something like this so I'm a little nervous about it!

Bonus nerd points if you can tell which language is being spoken in the dream, from which franchise!

Chapter 2:

Dreams

Several weeks before …

Sometimes the dreams were specific. One time, one place, one person. No matter how bad the memory (and some of them were very bad indeed) those dreams were nowhere near as bad as the kind where it all came together. Like tonight. When the walls separating her many, many lives in her increasingly fragile mind came down and the monsters inside could truly stretch their limbs and dance, crushing what little semblance of sanity she had left beneath their heavy feet. When she dreamt of dark hair and blonde hair and blood-matted hair, blue eyes and brown eyes and green eyes and orange eyes and dead eyes, soft smiles and piercing screams all rumbling together, mingling delight with suffering, of men and women and children and families, and were these all hers? Swords piercing flesh, magic being woven into powerful spells, Empires being built and worlds dying, starlight glimmering and fire from inside a mountain, steeds that nickered and needed to be fed because they were living creatures, and empty metal monsters that roared across the stars and went to other worlds – she had a name for those, once, was she so far gone now? Her many lives now were too different, too far apart from each other, that sometimes her brain fractured and rebelled, unable to contain the knowledge and memory of too many realities within its small, fleshy confines.

A blaster shot smoking in a chest, a knife twisting in her kidney, a bullet in the brain, and so, so, so much blood. Was this all her blood? The chaos of armies clashing on a battlefield, the ground slick with gore – holding the body of a young girl as she choked out her last breath, her throat savaged in wild strips of bloody flesh – a sword made of fire springs to life in the darkness – the poisoned fangs of some monstrous bug-like creature sinking into her leg – her heart thumping wildly in her chest as she runs through woods, branches hitting her face, the sound of armored soldiers hot on her tail – pain shooting through her as the car (that was one of the words for the metal monsters, car)she sat in crashed into the other – a sense of incomprehensible, suffocating evil invading her soul as a cloud of nasty black smoke rammed itself down her throat – the sensation of her hands being tied above her and being suspended from the ceiling. So much pain. Would she never find a land of peace?

Languages, too, swirled and ebbed in these dreams, words in lilting tones half-remembered, "Myeme tsa." A wriggling, bloody newborn is placed is her arms, her eyes as golden-orange as her father's. "Noraka do deta, rutsayo." So the blood of death is mixed with the blood of life. And oh, Gods, her children. How many did she even have now? She prayed that her curse was not heredity. That when her children died they would stay dead. Her mind couldn't help the humorless chuckle. How many mothers wished for that?

"Moira?" Was that voice real, or a memory, like the others? "Love? Are you alright?" The language, the pet names being spoken, were in a different language, harsher-sounding at first, but no less beautiful in their way. Her brain struggled to put the overload of information back into their appropriately-labeled boxes and file away the unneeded ones. Khuzdul. The language was Khuzdul. Eyes are focusing now, and a blonde mane of braided hair framing a masculine face becomes clear. A face with two mustache braids, the bright blue eyes shining with worry.

She bolted upright in the bed, her forehead almost colliding with Fili's nose. Only his cat-like reflexes prevented that. She's panting, right hand fluttering to her pounding heart, to her neck, to check her left wrist. Checking for half-remembered wounds. The sheets in their shared bed are tangled in her legs, soaking with sweat. This had been a bad one. Fili hovers as close as he dares, wanting to touch her in reassurance. But instead he stays a respectful distance from her, knowing from experience by now that if he doesn't give her time to come down from the confusion he'll get a strong punch to the temple for his trouble. Her eyes are still unfocused, unseeing.

"Are you alright, love?" Fili's voice was low, comforting, his hands hovering near her shoulders, ready to enfold her in his embrace, but waiting for her acknowledgement.

Stilling her breathing, forcing them to slow, she finally looked at him, sidelong. "I was … having a nightmare."

"Really?" He cocked one eyebrow at her, a gesture he had picked up from his uncle. A small thing, that didn't have the right to be so sexy, especially in this situation. "I wouldn't have guessed."

She smiled thinly. She didn't have the energy for their usual repartee, the back and forth of wits they usually enjoyed. Fili reached out slowly, cautiously, and stroked her cheek. She leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed, a soft keening sound unconsciously ripped from her throat. That was all Fili needed. His strong arms enfolded around her, and she crumpled into it, burying her face in his bare chest. One arm was wrapped around her waist, the other hand stroking her hair, while he murmured to her in Khuzdul. She didn't know how long they stayed like that, crouched in the middle of the bed, soft sobs coming from her as Fili rocked her. Eventually her crying stilled, and for a few moments they sat in companionable silence.

Fili easily swept her legs to the side of his hip and gently laid the both of them down in the bed. Fili was laying on his back, his golden lion's mane spread on the satin sheets. Her head was nestled in the crook of his right arm, his left hand still stroking her hair. She had stopped cutting it short, letting it grow. No words were ever spoken between them about it, but he liked to think she did it for him. After all, at the beginning of the quest she had complained loudly about her long, thick hair getting in the way, and frequently cut it, much to the horror of her Dwarven companions. An easy silence settled between them. Once she had overcome her initial nervousness and reluctance in their relationship, they had always been comfortable with silence, not needing to fill the emptiness with idle chatter as many would have done.

"Are you ever going to tell me what haunts your dreams so?"

She stiffened in his arms. And just like that, the walls were back up. "It doesn't matter."

He carefully kept his voice gentle. He knew losing his temper would get him nowhere. "It does."

She lifted her head to look at him, appraising him with her dark eyes. She wasn't beautiful by Dwarven standards – she had far too little hair, for one thing – but she was alluring nonetheless, in her own fragile, human way. And she had proven herself to be brave and selfless and true. Fili loved her, but he knew in his heart that he didn't truly know her. She didn't allow anyone to know her.

"No one can change anything." Fili heard the bitter edge in her voice and wished to Mahal, not for the first time, that he could understand where it came from and remove whatever pain she carried from her.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say a word, she had captured his mouth in hers. Her lips were soft, moving gently but insistently. Her tongue was running along his lips, lightly probing his mouth. He hesitated for a moment, not sure if he should let her attempt at distracting him pass without comment, before he surrendered and returned the kiss. His hand came to up to cup her face, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with hers. Her small hands were on his broad chest, stroking softly, her skin cooler than a Dwarf's, who usually burned quite hot. He had always found the difference in body temperature erotic, although he knew some Dwarves found the human trait uncomfortable. He could already feel his body responding to her touch, and as his kisses and caresses became more desperate and frenzied, so did hers. He easily flipped her onto her back in one smooth move, settling his bulkier weight on top of her slight frame. There were no clothes between them; they had already made love earlier that night. She moaned his name wantonly into his mouth, her hands tugging at his braids roughly, the slight spark of pain sending pleasurable fire to his groin.

If she wouldn't tell him what troubled her so, by Mahal, he would make her forget, at least for a while.