Another short one. Like them all.
Disclaimer: It's Tolkien's, except when it's mine. *hee hee*
Chapter 5
The heavy, wet splashes of rain rouse me from my rest that is not sleep, as I sit under a tree whose once-calm branches now thrash in the storm. I stand, unafraid of the wind, and throw my head back to catch the cool drops on the bare skin of my face and neck. I toss my arms toward the sky and bask in the tempest. It is in this pose that I dream of being closer to nature, a part of it.
Suddenly, though, it is no longer enough to want to be a part of the wrath of the sky. I want to become the wrath. I imagine each bolt of lightning and subsequent crash of thunder as my angry outbursts against my solitude. The rain becomes salt tears that pour from me, bemoaning my emptiness. The stormy grey of the clouds is the wrathful color of my eyes as I turn an angered stare on all my dominion. The winds are my heavy breaths, bowing the trees into submission and forcing the wanderer into hiding. Each part of the storm becomes a part of me, draining me of my hatred and loss.
But, as the wind subsides, I again stand alone, an empty traveler dreaming of peace. Dreams are all I have, now, and each one leaves me feeling emptier than the last.
I drop my arms, the thin fabric covering them completely soaked, and peer at the ground. What was once perfectly comfortable for sitting is now oozing mud. But, who am I to think I am better than such filth? With a heavy squish, I sit down, pushing my arms into the dirt until they are covered in the mud.
Instead of being disgusted, I am even more forlorn. This mud, this dirt which would disgust to many, is more tangible than any of my dreams. I imagine peace and happiness but such things are phantoms in the night, untouchable. My dreams of beauty are empty and totally unfulfillable while this filth is perfectly real.
I am less real than the mud, I realize as I lean back against the harsh bark of a tree. I am like a nightmare, totally forgotten, not more than a bad memory.
Elven hosts may have passed this way, stepping through the mud without a care. But me, they would never touch. I am like a plague, an illness to be avoided at all costs. To touch me would be abhorrent.
Strands of long, black hair whip into my eyes, which I hurriedly swipe away, leaving trails of mud across my face. For some reason, this inspires an epiphany, a sudden realization. I am no plague. In the eyes of those who cast me out, I do not exist.
I give myself honor in pretending that I am something to be avoided. None of the Erusen even know of my existence, do not care to know. I could scream to the skies until my throat burned, but no one would answer.
Knowing that no one will sympathize, I allow the tears to pour down my cheeks and lay down into the mud. My tears mix into the filth and disappear, another symbol of my insignificance. I sob into the ground and wish to die.
Too much? Too dramatic? Tell me.