They were running.
The Orc was right behind them now.
Their only hope was the tall man running towards them.
He ran.
Behind him, though, he heard no more of her footsteps.
He turned his head. "Mummy!"
"Don't stop!" she screamed. "Keep running! Run to Tuor!"
She drew her dagger and pointed it at the Orc.
He ran.
The tall man lifted him up into his arms. He turned his head to look for her. "Mummy!" he cried again.
The sword.
The sword of the Orc, cutting her down.
Cutting again and again, in frustration over the child who got away, cutting again and again, until ...
Tuor turned him away and carried him into the tunnel.
He woke up, soaked in sweat.
Rameldir had the same nightmare every time he had to draw his dagger during a battle. The bow was his chosen weapon, he knew it so intimately that it felt like an extension of his body. They said he was one of the best archers among the Noldor. Well - he had met some other pretty good ones, too. When times were peaceful enough for friendly tournaments.
Swords were something he could never touch, though. He had only been ten at the time, when Gondolin fell, and his mother had bought him that extra minute - the minute that saved his life. The minute that flashed back into his mind as soon as he tried to touch the hilt of a sword. It even came back - though a lot weaker and less vividly - when he only used a dagger. And he couldn't do without some kind of hand weapon. Even an archer got into close combat at times. But the price to pay would always be a restless night afterwards.
Yesterday they had been fighting Orcs. Gil-galad had sent them on a hunt a few days ago, because he had been told of an Orc-raid at a village some distance away from Lindon. And sure enough, Rameldir's small band of archers had finally come upon the Orcs about to raid another village. He had had to use the dagger in the end. But they had managed to get rid of the Orcs.