It isn't until much later that she realizes she isn't, hasn't been dreaming.
When she was a young child and read about Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Elenore soaked up the story and wanted more. So she quietly took to reading the Ring Trilogy, and though at about eight years old is was not the easiest story to read, she did understand, mostly. But even that was not enough, she wanted to learn more about Arda, about the Elves and Dwarves, about the phrases of language which seemed to sing off the pages they were on. So the appendices were next, and trying to learn as much of each language inside. She managed; Sindarin and Quenya both seeming to speak to her heart and mind. But still, she knew there was more, and so at nine years old she picked up a weathered copy of the Silmarillion and was lost to a world of myth and of the mythology.
It was a very good thing her parents were not overly religious.
That Arda was Sung into creation made sense at a soul deep level for Elenore. Even her world was full of song if one bothered to listen hard enough. The song of the wind in the trees, the sparkling stars in the night sky, the strength of a mountain standing tall. She liked the theology of Arda much better than anything she had learned before, even if it was supposed to be fiction. It stuck with her, even as Elenore grew into adulthood.
So dreaming of places described in books, dreaming of sailing on a white swan ship, it does not seem odd to Elenore.
What does, is that she is alone, and the scent of the sea is sharp, too salty, too much brine. The wind on her face is too real as she stands at the bow of the ship when land just comes into eyesight.
But there is a faint voice on the wind, one of assured authority and gentle kindness. It is telling her that she has a task, will know when the time comes to complete it, but for now she should simply live.
Elenore does not understand the dream-voice, does not understand how she could have a task to complete, but does not worry overmuch. She is simply dreaming, after all.
The jolt of the small ship hitting a sandy beach launches her forward and she knocks her head against carved statue at its front. Before losing consciousness, all she can think is that she shouldn't be able to feel such pain in a dream.
She wakes in a comfortable bed, but immediately knows it is not the one she laid down to sleep in the night before. The scent of salt and sea is in the air, though not as sharply as it had been in her dream. Her head is aching, almost as if the knock she received when landing in her dream was real.
She groans, rolls over, opens her eyes, and immediately jumps up.
The room she is in is not her own. It is fashioned of a white stone, and is unusually bare, but for the bed and bedding. A large window, large enough to jump out of comfortingly, if it weren't so high above the ground, is the only focal point in the room. Through it, she can see the ocean, the beach, and what looks to be a small town with the sun rising at dawn.
The view is fantastic, and also fantastical. It is not the type of sea-side town or village she is used to seeing. There are no cars, though her ears pick up sounds of life and a musical language being spoken, faint as it is. Her eyes widen when she recognizes the language, and widen further when she understands the few words she hears clearly.
It is too much, too real, and she collapses to sit back on the bed, breathing heavily to stave off the panic. She knows, though she is trying to deny it, that she is no longer dreaming. That she probably wasn't dreaming the night before, though there is no reason she can discern why she would have been sailing and ended up crashing said ship when there is a perfectly good dock not far from where she so horribly made contact with land. Where she ruined the most beautiful sailing vessel she had ever seen.
The door at the other end of the room opens, someone walks in, but Elenore does not stir from her structured breathing, does not lift her head from her hands, or open her eyes.
"Ah, so you are awake, good," a male voice intones in the same singing language she had heard bits of before. The voice is calm and steady, but that does not help Elenore, it only makes her breathing hitch harshly. She should not understand, not so easily at least.