3
I had a dream.
I dreamt that the wind that now rakes swiftly through my hair never felt the breeze of a sword falling on its enemy. I am walking now, and I feel the breeze swim gentley through my gown. I dreamt that it was pure; clean.
I dreamt that the ground that bears my weight as I walk aimlessly over it was never pierced by enemy arrows. I dreamt that the dirt that climbs over my feet never bore the weight of a war bound army.
I dreamt, now remembering with tears burning my eyes, that the white moon I trust to shine in the blackest night never saw
bloodshed. And I dreamt, remembering with tears that have escaped my eyes, that the bright, hopeful sun that rose every morning no matter what the dark night held, never shone on an evil man's realm.
Isnt it ironic then, how I walk now- my feet dusted in the red dirt weaving between arrows that protrude from the earth, and my path lit by the moon that shines on a field shamed in war fare.
Why do I walk now in the wind that was butchered by flying arrows and falling swords? Why do my feet insist on bringing me me closer to what I fear? What am I doing?
Where am I doing.
Suddenly, I am burning inside. My heart beats faster as fear widens my eyes. Help me! Somebody! Panic grows as my cries go unheard, as my voice leaves me. Can nobody hear!? I fall to my knees, clutching the stitch in my chest. My heart burns and the fire spreads. White- blinding white. My ears ring- I cannot hear! I call out frantically- but my voice is lost.
Oh Valar! Hear my cries! Am I not alone? Have you left me!?
You are alone.
A nameless voice chimes in my head. Its words are spite- they cut deep.
My hands grope for something to grab, to tear. The pain eats me. The pain is the whole world. My hands stumble over something small, and the pain leaks away. The darkness shies and my senses return like someone turning on a light.
I look down, and my hand rests on a book with a leather cover. I see shaking hands open the book, are they my hands? No... don't open it. Stop- stop! But the shaking hands do not listen and they unbutton the binding and the book falls openly stiffly, old dry dirt sweeping off the pages in the breeze.
A small card falls out infront of my knees, face up. The shaking hands that opened the book pick up the card- a drawing- closer to my eyes to see.
A young lady stares back at me, drawn in charcoal that has managed not to smudge entirley. Fine long hair falls past her shoulders to wear the drawing is cut off. A smile (a what? who can smile?) brightens her face and her eyes are inquisitve. Her ears air tipped- she's an elf.
I know her. I've known her all my life. How could I have forgotten her?
I do not remember smiling, but as I brush my hair behind my pointed ears, I know I must have once. How could I have forgotten a smile? The drawing brings back years and years ago to my memories as I stare at myself drawn in charcoal.
Suddenly, I find myself wishing I was still dreaming.
I had a dream.
I dreamt that the wind that now rakes swiftly through my hair never felt the breeze of a sword falling on its enemy. I am walking now, and I feel the breeze swim gentley through my gown. I dreamt that it was pure; clean.
I dreamt that the ground that bears my weight as I walk aimlessly over it was never pierced by enemy arrows. I dreamt that the dirt that climbs over my feet never bore the weight of a war bound army.
I dreamt, now remembering with tears burning my eyes, that the white moon I trust to shine in the blackest night never saw
bloodshed. And I dreamt, remembering with tears that have escaped my eyes, that the bright, hopeful sun that rose every morning no matter what the dark night held, never shone on an evil man's realm.
Isnt it ironic then, how I walk now- my feet dusted in the red dirt weaving between arrows that protrude from the earth, and my path lit by the moon that shines on a field shamed in war fare.
Why do I walk now in the wind that was butchered by flying arrows and falling swords? Why do my feet insist on bringing me me closer to what I fear? What am I doing?
Where am I doing.
Suddenly, I am burning inside. My heart beats faster as fear widens my eyes. Help me! Somebody! Panic grows as my cries go unheard, as my voice leaves me. Can nobody hear!? I fall to my knees, clutching the stitch in my chest. My heart burns and the fire spreads. White- blinding white. My ears ring- I cannot hear! I call out frantically- but my voice is lost.
Oh Valar! Hear my cries! Am I not alone? Have you left me!?
You are alone.
A nameless voice chimes in my head. Its words are spite- they cut deep.
My hands grope for something to grab, to tear. The pain eats me. The pain is the whole world. My hands stumble over something small, and the pain leaks away. The darkness shies and my senses return like someone turning on a light.
I look down, and my hand rests on a book with a leather cover. I see shaking hands open the book, are they my hands? No... don't open it. Stop- stop! But the shaking hands do not listen and they unbutton the binding and the book falls openly stiffly, old dry dirt sweeping off the pages in the breeze.
A small card falls out infront of my knees, face up. The shaking hands that opened the book pick up the card- a drawing- closer to my eyes to see.
A young lady stares back at me, drawn in charcoal that has managed not to smudge entirley. Fine long hair falls past her shoulders to wear the drawing is cut off. A smile (a what? who can smile?) brightens her face and her eyes are inquisitve. Her ears air tipped- she's an elf.
I know her. I've known her all my life. How could I have forgotten her?
I do not remember smiling, but as I brush my hair behind my pointed ears, I know I must have once. How could I have forgotten a smile? The drawing brings back years and years ago to my memories as I stare at myself drawn in charcoal.
Suddenly, I find myself wishing I was still dreaming.