He always had this nightmare.
He was climbing through the snow, up in the Hithaeglir, and he turned to look back over the valley.
There was smoke, thick choking black smoke rising from it. From Rivendell. Rivendell was burning.
He could hear helicopter blades beating overhead. Then he was standing in the tree-lined avenue that led to the main square, the boughs' heavy blossoms bending them to the ground. Nellas was there. She smiled at him, but then began running along the avenue.
He followed her; he wanted to warn her, but he couldn't speak – his throat was stuck, and he could never run fast enough. As she ran, the blossoms began to fall from the trees; they turned into drops of blood, which fell like rain and stained her golden hair and her white dress. But she kept running, and he couldn't catch her. And then there were bodies hanging from the trees, their faces hideously contorted, lips blue. Rough rope around their necks. He stopped. He always stopped here.
She would cease running. There was a man; there was always a man, dressed in black. He was holding her in his arms as the blood-rain fell.
Then he looked at the bodies on the trees and realised that they were Lord Elrohir's councillors and friends, and the commanders of the guard: his father, his uncle.
He fell to his knees. His throat was stuck. He couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything as he saw the bodies, as he saw Nellas fall to the ground. The man's laughter was ringing in his ears…
"Galdor! Galdor, wake up!" His eyes flew open, the ghost of the laughter still ringing hollowly. Blurrily, a face formed above him. It was Eruanna, another habitual insomniac, who was looking down at him with a concerned expression on her face, her boy-cropped hair sticking up erratically.
"You were screaming in your sleep." She muttered quietly. Galdor rolled over to face the wall, staring on the long crack running through the plaster. It was bad to dream, but worse to wake up. At least in the dream, he didn't have to know what happened next. What happened to Nellas.
"Galdor…" she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. Angrily, he turned back to face her and pushed her hand away.
"Can't you just bloody well leave me alone?!" he shouted. But he looked vulnerable, sad. Eruanna tried not to react. She was used to this. It was a pattern, a ritual. She couldn't sleep and wandered the halls of the Valacirca, Galdor dreamt, Galdor screamed, and she woke him. There was a silent agreement that she would not ask him what he had dreamt about. But on this occasion, she had seen where his eyes had moved to when he had woken – the corkboard on the wall above his paper-piled desk, upon which were pinned pictures. Among them, military portraits of his father and uncle, standing to attention, uniformed and smiling calmly at the camera; and a softer, informal picture of a girl. She had long golden hair, and was wearing in a white summer dress, the style of which would not have been unusual a century ago. She stood on the edge of a river, by the short drop of a waterfall. The setting sun was caught in the droplets that rose from the falls, surrounding her with an ethereal rainbow. She was turning, as if surprised, to look at the camera. She knew it was this girl that he had dreamed about. Nellas.
"Galdor, it's been sixteen years…"
He looked up at her, a wild, almost guilty look in his eyes. He didn't ask how she knew.
"It wouldn't be so bad if I just dreamt about her." Galdor murmured quietly, "But he's there too…"
Eruanna didn't know what to say, although she had heard this so often. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by the first stupid thing Eruanna could think of to say:
"Nice at least that you have such a pretty picture of her – a good memory." Galdor laughed harshly, the wild look still in his eyes.
"Yeah" A faint, tremulous smirk crossed his face "it's better than the other one…head, (h-)head in one piece". He said it as if it were funny, but as he said it he looked slightly sick. Whenever he was trying not to think about something, he would joke about it. Try to evade what it meant to him. She knew the picture he was talking about – it had been taken by the forensic photographers on the night…She shuddered. The room felt terribly cold. She searched for a distraction:
"Tea? Coffee? Now that you're up, you might as well stay up – it's 5:30" Galdor grimaced faintly.
"I could kill for a coffee"
"You probably have" He glowered at her from behind his hair.
"That's not funny, Anna". And there was a tremor in his voice, like he had a lump in his throat.
They sat at the table in the cramped kitchen. The table, as always, was covered with papers, the gutted insides of computers, the components of weapons, and various plans, as well as several days' worth of leftover and forgotten mugs. Galdor pushed away a ground plan of the Great Temple, and sat down moodily over his mug, gazing down as if the steam rising from the surface of the coffee might provide some oracle with the answer to all his problems. Eruanna left the kitchen, and came back a few moments later brandishing the early edition of a morning paper, just delivered by a contact. She asked Galdor if he wanted it, and when he replied in the negative, she shrugged and sat down to read. Slowly, other dishevelled figures joined them, clutching cups of coffee or bits of toast.
"Morning!" Eruwaedhiel, effervescent as always, as only young teenagers can be (for she was only a mere 2165), came down the stairs two at a time, her short, bubble-gum pink hair bobbing with each step. She surveyed the sombre party.
"Bad night, Galdor?" she asked instinctively.
"Yeah, I…" he waved his hand slowly in the air, as if trying to gather up pieces of thought "I had a nightmare. The usual." Eruwaedhiel sat down at the table, grabbed a piece of toast, and then strained to look over her sister's shoulder at the paper. Eruanna made a noise of annoyance.
"You can read the paper when I'm done!" Waedh looked peeved.
"Just wanted to know if there was anything interesting going on." Eruanna scanned the page she was reading, trying to find something to shut her up.
"Not much. Uh…Inzilaphel is back at the palace for the summer. Apparently that's news." Galdor looked up and grinned. Not a proper smile. Just a pretence.
"How much do you want to bet that Pharazôn's famous paranoia is kicking in?" Everyone laughed, except Eruwaedhiel.
"I don't think it's funny. I feel kinda sorry for her" she mumbled.
"Sorry?" said auburn-haired Heriadlas, whose head was wrapped in a wet towel. "Whatever for?"
"Well, she's stuck. Like me. Can't go anywhere, can't do anything, and has no one to talk to" this was a familiar complaint of Eruwaedhiel's; at 15, she was deemed too young to have any active involvement in their actions, and consequently, due to the security risk, too young to be allowed out. She spent a good deal of her time doing what she was best at – cannibalizing gadgets and hacking. She was merely a support. She doubted Inzilaphel had any such outlet. Predictably, those around the table used to her whining sighed.
"I'm sure Inzilaphel doesn't complain anything like you do" muttered Heriadlas.
"Wanna bet?"
-----------------------
Mithmorn was looking for Inzilaphel - hardly a difficult task, considering the loud music that could be heard thumping from her room from several corridors away. Angsty teen-metal: I can't believe you lied to me/it's like I'm dying inside/now everything you said to me, I can't believe/I've gotta leave you now/I won't remain, knowing what you've done… He didn't bother knocking – she wouldn't have heard him if he had, and besides, she would know he was coming anyways – a fringe benefit of being half Elven. She may have been descended from an illegitimate line of the house of Finwë, but some of their powers still remained. He entered the room, and picked his way through Inzilaphel's unique teenage detritus – along with the expected girly magazines and clothes were several large and battered tomes on political theory, as well as a few paper target cards – all peppered with near-perfect bull's eyes. Inzilaphel was sitting on the window seat, her feet put up on the back of a chair. She looked up at Mith in annoyance over the top of her book, and turned down the music with a black-nailed hand. This is it, I'm changing my allegiance/how can you expect me to stay?/ This is it, my finger's on the trigger, the bullet's in you're head/this is my thanks for lying…
"What is it now?" she moaned. A caring look didn't sit well on Mith's face – this was a man who took pleasure in the feeling of steel-toed boot connecting soundly with a face – but he affected one all the same – Zil was one of the few people that Mith felt warranted any affection.
"I just wanted to inform you about your father's request yesterday – I have," he sighed resignedly "agreed to increase the security detail in the residential area. The changes will be in place as of tomorrow" Inzilaphel responded by throwing her book across the room. It hit the wall, and slid down it slowly. Mith didn't bat an eyelid.
"And that will aid the situation, how, princess?" he asked archly. Inzilaphel rolled her eyes.
"Can't you just tell him 'no' for once!?"
"I doubt that would be wise. Childhood friend or no, positions are fragile. It's better to cater to small whims" Inzilaphel gritted her teeth.
"'Small whims'? 'Small whims'! Well excuse me, but that small whim kinda has bigger effects on me!" Mith sighed.
"And your response is precisely why I am here; just because you find the situation displeasing does not mean you should react adversely to it" Inzilaphel raised an eyebrow.
"Meaning?"
"You know perfectly well what I mean – you are to stay in the citadel. Do you understand me?" Inzilaphel rolled her eyes again, but looked resigned. Mith nodded.
"Good. I'll try to fit in some extra training sessions for you". He turned and headed out the door.
"I don't need compensation, Mith!" she called after his retreating back. When he had closed the door she made an annoyed noise. "And I don't need protection either". She scanned the room, and then went to pick up the book she had thrown. She went back and sat at the window. She turned the music back up. This is your end and my beginning/ now I understand, that I've been trapped/God, how I hate you, you and your lies…, sighed and looked out the window, down the layers of concentric circles of the city, just visible over the parapet wall. Her eyes stormed darkly.
"Attû" she murmured angrily. Then quickly, without even bothering to turn the music off, she stormed off down the hall to her father's study.
She had always thought that 'study' was something of a strange term for it. Admittedly, the designation dated back to the time of the Return of the King and to Tar Elessar – who one could imagine sitting in a book-lined room and reading scholarly texts, or something like that. Now the shelves were filled only partially with books, but also with various objects that her father could find no other home for. The desk was littered with a few official papers, and some framed photographs – Zil as a small child, and an old one of Pharazôn and Mith as teenagers. There was also one of her mother, Nellas, who stood with long golden hair, half concealing her ears, and an unreadable smile. She knew very little about her mother. Save that she had been a princess, and had been murdered by Galdor Seregon, angry that she had chosen to ally herself with humans, when Inzilaphel was only one. Murdered. She hated the word. But that photo especially gave the room a lived-in, rather than just studied-in feel. Although to her knowledge, Pharazôn never really studied in there. He just used it as an extension of his rooms, normally when he wanted some privacy to read the paper, or, more often, to get high, or plan death lists. Sometimes he watched porn, but Zil wasn't meant to know about that. But it was understandable that she often approached her father's study with some trepidation and a loud knock on the door. When she did this, there was silence for a moment, and then a rather boyish giggle. Zil frowned, then slowly pushed open the door. A sticky-sweet smell greeted her, borne on a faint smoke. She made a noise of derision in her throat – Manôzil. So there would be no sense to be got out of her father for some time. So much for begging him to change his mind about the security update. She was about to shut the door and hope he didn't notice her, when he spoke. Or rather he gasped, and then muttered fearfully.
"A-artamir?" Zil frowned in annoyance. He really was out of it. Artamir was her father's older brother – her uncle – who had been killed some years before her birth in a hunting accident.
"Come back to haunt me, Artamir?" he asked, almost brash and defiant. "You think you can make me sorry for what I did?" Zil froze. What I did? And he laughed. Or rather giggled. Or perhaps both. A sort of half-way laugh.
"I can't believe you fell for that! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…" he kept muttering it. And then he laughed again, and spoke in a high, mocking voice. "I'm sorry, Artamir, I won't be able to come along. But you go, yes, you go. I wouldn't want you to miss such a nice trip. Not after we'd planned it so." And he looked straight at her. An electric jolt ran through her. But he didn't register her presence. Well, not her. He spoke to her:
"And then, you know what they told me, Artamir? Your brother's dead, your highness." He laughed again. "Of course he's fucking dead! Oh, I made sure you were, Artamir. I couldn't let you be king and not me. Oh no…" Zil realized that she was trembling, her fingers holding the edge of the door so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. I made sure you were. Her mind was racing. Pharazôn was never meant to come to the throne; Artamir had been older – the heir. It was only by his death that her father…She didn't want to think the next part, but she had to. Her father laughed again.
"Mithmorn said he made it quick, Artamir. So you'll excuse me if I don't take pity on your ghost." And he giggled, as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard. His head drooped sleepily for a moment, and then he raised it again, and looked straight at her again.
"Oh, it was worth it…worth it, worth it, worth it…because now I'm king…king…king…" he mumbled the word into nothingness. The drug was taking further effect. As he slid into a deeper dream, he mumbled inaudible. Zil shut the door, and stood with her back against it. She slid down and knelt on the floor. Mithmorn said he made it quick…it was worth it… The words kept echoing. Stupid, stupid, stupid… She was trembling, the thought she couldn't think was clawing its way to the surface. Of course he's fucking dead! Her father had…she bit her lip. She was no stranger to death, nor to murder, as the papers of the resistance forces so often described the sacrifices of the temples. She had seen Mith shoot an Elven prisoner in the face; she herself was trained to fight and to kill, even if she never had. But killing, murdering, however you wanted to employ the language…murdering Elves and traitors was one thing. One's own brother was another entirely. She got up and stumbled back to her room. The changes in security had sunk to insignificance now, except perhaps for the fact that she would have to face him. He would be impossible to avoid, at such close quarters in the palace. She felt sick. Him and Mith. She couldn't face them, she couldn't. She closed the door of her room, and sank down onto the chair by the window. The music she had left on in her hurry was still playing – the song had been on repeat, and now the familiar lyrics came again, their meaning suddenly horrifically changed for her. I can't believe you lied to me/it's like I'm dying inside/now everything you said to me, I can't believe/I've gotta leave you now/I won't remain, knowing what you've done…
"I won't remain, knowing what you've done" she whispered. The new security measures wouldn't be in place until tomorrow. There was still time, she thought. She didn't care that it would be foolish and dangerous. She had to breathe. She had to get out.
Notes:
Hithaeglir – the misty mountains
Attû – Adunaîc for 'father'
Manôzil – (this is totally made up by me, sorry) a flower similar to an opium poppy. IE.
Pharazôn is out of his head on this…
Valacirca – the name of the Elven terrorist/freedom fighter organization run by Galdor.
It means "sickle of the Valar" – the name of a constellation said to symbolise
the doom of Melkor.
Finwë – high king of the Noldorin Elves in Valinor.
On Eruwaedhiel's age: I've seen a variety of aging systems used for Elves in fanfics. Tolkien said that the Elves' own system of measuring time was a yén – 144 solar years. I would guess that if this is how they calculate time, it says something about their aging. So I'm calculating ages like that. So when I say Waedh is 2165 years old, that's 15 yén. I'll probably stick to giving Elven ages in yén from now on, just so that you're aware.