Cold, so cold.
Elanor's body was but an icicle, exposed to harsh winds and ashen air. Distant warmth spewed from gashes in the earth, unnatural pits of fire filled with burnt rocks and exuding foul vapours. But it never reached up there, her own prison of despair.
And, even though her body was but a giant bruise, unfeeling, uncaring, her right arm burnt like the seventh pits of hell. Pulled up above her head, her entire weight rested upon the wrist shackled to the cliff side. Not a second passed without its agony frying her nerves, metal slicing into her skin, the only warmth that of her blood running down her arm.
Her shoulder had long since dislocated, nerves and ligaments torn by her massive weight. A never-ending agony, where her soul begged to die, but HE wouldn't allow it. That despicable Vala ! Grey mountains, upturned plains, without light, devoid of life stretched before her very eyes. A landscape as devastated as her scarred soul. As for her flesh … How much pain could a body sustain before it crumbled ?
"Kill me !" she screamed to the heavens, eyes too dry to tear up, despair thrown to the wind.
But no one heard her. No one except the Black Foe, who chuckled at her agony, and whispered in his ear how her wife and child were now in his power, slowly decaying in a corrupted world, away from the pulse of Arda.
His brothers would cave in, one by one, his cousins fail, and his only secret – his family - wither and die. Nothing would remain of him, of his father's inheritance, except the soil upon their name, and the hate of all the Calaquendi. Atrocities done in the name of a demented Sire, a price paid by his descendants.
Anguish engulfed her and she screamed, and screamed, her voice lost in the ashen winds.
But no one was there to save her.
Except that gentle hand that caressed her hair. And this sliver of light, carrying a voice in the air, a soothing lullaby to send her into restful slumber. Elanor jolted awake, gaping. Tears streamed down her face as warm arms circled her, pulling her into a solid chest.
"Mára ná, Elanor," a soothing voice breathed in her ear. "Mára ná, meldonya."
Shaking, Elanor tried to gather her wits, but the deep-rooted despair wouldn't relent. Sobs erupted from her throat, grief pouring out of her like a dam too long restrained. Someone was rocking her body, trying to anchor her to reality, but her soul felt splintered, frayed, her chest speared through. Residual pain throbbed at her shoulder, the phantom agony causing her to convulse.
The voice rose, stronger, calling light into her nightmare, soothing its aches. Its power enveloped her like a warm, fluffy blanket, displacing memories and traumas, retrieving joy within the confines of her heart. It pulled and prodded, swirling within her soul, until hope unfurled and the light repelled the dark stain.
Elanor emerged from her nightmare, hands fisted around Laurë's night tunic. He held fast, rocking her soothingly, his voice a balm to her wounded soul. For a long time, she remained thus, half sprawled upon his lap as he sang the beauty of the trees – her light in the darkness.
And when the shaking subsided, Elanor sighed, boneless in his embrace.
"Better ?" he asked, eyes grey in the darkness of her room.
Shamefully, she removed herself from his person. To find him in her bed rattled her senses, but her mind was too shaken to register its significance.
"I dreamt of cold, dark mountains," she stuttered. "And someone shackled by his right arm."
Laurëfindelë froze, his shoulders tensing.
"I wanted to die so badly, but the…. Thing, the enemy, it wouldn't let me."
The elf nodded, eyes blazing in the night.
"It was horrible," she whimpered, hiding her face in her hands. "And terrifying. That entity, it was…"
"Morgoth," his grim voice cut in the darkness. "Named by Fëanor himself, the Dark Foe. The bane of middle earth. You dreamt of him, and what he did to Fëanor's first son."
There was a strange aloofness to Laurë as he spilled that information, the contrast so stark with his earlier self that she regretted acting like an adult. If tears and whimpers were all it took to have him hug her, she would summon them back at once… But in her distress, Elanor couldn't help but be curious; something was pulling at her soul. Some curiosity of who the man, er, elf was.
"What happened to him ?"
She remembered his plea for death to take him, and started shaking anew. Never before had she felt such despair… poor elf.
"I will recount his tale, Elanor, but I have not the heart to speak of torture at the hands of the enemy in the dark… the shadows are heavy, let us wait for dawn."
A shiver ran down her spine; what could have been worse than staying up there, indefinitely? How could she feel so strongly for an elf she had never met ? And Morgoth's words… they were muddled in her mind, she couldn't make sense of it.
"But rest assured, his cousin Fingon saved him."
The knowledge that someone, at last, heard the poor elf's plight did little to assuage the unease that nightmare shed in her heart. But Elanor had no choice but relent; Laurëfindelë was the one with PTSD, and she should not pry further.
"You should sleep," he murmured, his weight shifting and rustling the sheets.
Alarm bells blared in her mind, and her hand shot out to grab his.
"Stay ? Listo… Just for a while ?" (please)
The elf seemed to ponder until he nodded in the night. Elanor laid down anew, heart beating a staccato, while he settled against the head board and allowed her to hold his hand. She thought she heard him sigh before exhaustion dragged her under claimed her anew.
But Laurëfindelë did not. His mind simply refused to relent that night, knowing that someone, or something, had sent that dream to Elanor.
And, worst of all, she was on the verge of discovering her ancestry. A part of him felt relieved that, in the morning, all that secrecy would shatter to reveal what he'd known for months. But his Feä trembled.
He still felt so fractured, his soul shattered; if this breach of trust alienated Elanor, what would become of him ? He could not imagine living without her now, his heart wouldn't survive losing her. Her little hand, nestled against his bigger palm, had not relaxed. Was it wrong to enjoy how she clung to him in her crisis ? How she smiled, like sunshine, when something pleased her ? How she came to him, talking of her day, or her students, of a recent discovery in a dusty old book, eyes alight with curiosity and delight ? How, last time, she had carded her fingers through his hair with the familiarity of a soul bond ?
Laurëfindelë sighed again, and slid those beloved fingers under the covers to return to his room. Féline was there, settled under his comforter, purring her life away. He did not find the strength to smirk, grabbing his notebook and shuffling through dozens of sketches.
The first pages displayed sighs of his beloved city – ondolinë - and its people. Of the rings of mountains sparkling under the morning light, and the tower of the King's square. Or the arches of the steel gates built by Maeglin. Of Echtelion playing the flute, Egalmoth tending to his bow, Duilin laughing by his side. Of his King, watching the market with little Eärendil tugging upon his hand, a rare smile illuminating the sovereign's face.
New pictures started to appear as time flowed. Their quaint little cottage upon the hill, trees in the forest, and Elanor tending to her herb garden during summer break. Animals, squirrels and bucks, Féline, very often, in ridiculous poses. Elanor, again, pensively looking out the window, her fiery hair catching fire as the sun set.
Another page. Another sketch of Elanor, munching on a cookie. An old well, a church, Elanor taking a nap on the sofa, a river sparkling under dappled sunlight, Elanor bathing her feet in said river, her teeth clenched from the cold… Elanor again, with that special smile she reserved just for him.
Elanor everywhere, in his mind, his heart… and his soul. Elanor, whose mane of fire descended from the one they called Maitimo – well shaped one – until he was disfigured and tortured by Melkor, suspended by his wrist to watch the destruction only a Vala would wreak upon fair Arda.
How did that dream come to her ?
The elf frowned, unconsciously caressing Elanor's cheek on the paper as he reflected upon the possibility of a breach between worlds. Or perhaps, the Valar ? Could they send her images in her sleep ? Why would they send her such a gruesome nightmare ? Or worse, as the lady Elya revealed, could it be Morgoth himself ?
In that case, Elanor was not safe.
Alarmed at the very idea, Laurëfindelë felt his hackles rise. He pulled the cover from Féline to call for the cat's attention.
"You shall tell me of any disturbance," he ordered.
The cat opened a lazy eye, watching him curiously. The elf kept the animal trapped in his gaze until he was sure the message was clear.
Then, he grabbed his brand-new coat and left the cottage, intend on checking the perimeter. The moon was halfway through its descendant phase, bright enough for any respectful elf to see clearly. Good. He felt, once more, like the Lord of the Golden Flower about to do his rounds on the high peaks of Gondolin.
Determined, Laurëfindelë disappeared in the night with great strides.