The fires of Eregion glowed even in the heart of noon, their molten light braiding between sunbeams and infusing the cobblestones with an almost otherworldly incandescence which spilled across the neighboring streets as though it were water. Celebrimbor's kingdom was renowned for its remarkable ability to alter individuals—the heat of the forge fires refining a soul as fluently as any ore. I remained uncertain. Elara always swore that moving from the forest floors of Doriath to remain behind Eregion's walls of stone had carved permanent changes in her psyche, and though I was convinced any shifts were due to her marriage to Thrandor, something about this place did seem to be affecting me after all.

I swallowed, slowing my pace as I approached the antechambers of Celebrimbor's proudest feat of architecture. My usual morning tasks had been difficult to attend to, knowing what creature prowled hungrily through the workshops of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain next door. Ilúvatar only knew what wicked feats Sauron might accomplish with that kind of access should his machinations remain unchecked. But despite my apprehension, I did not trust Celebrimbor with my knowledge of our divine guest, dare he dismiss my claim as paranoia, or worse, send me back to Lindon while he allowed himself to be beguiled by the fair form before him. I was not yet even certain that the enemy was aware how keenly I discerned his identity, rather than my suspicions alone guiding our exchanges together. No, this information had to remain with me, for the good of Eregion; it certainly had nothing to do with my complicated past personal relationship with Halbrand.

As I turned the corner, the rhythmic clang of hammers striking metal resounded through the air and pulled me from my reverie—a song of metal and flame that had long filled these ancient halls, now echoing through me. I stood at the edge of the courtyard, my gaze lost in the flames of the forge below as they consumed some unnameable metal in their heat. There was something remarkable about the melting and remaking of a mineral—an element broken down to its lowest point and refashioned into something greater—its strength already formed, though not yet envisioned by its maker.

I, too, felt his strength before I saw him.

A shift in the air, subtle yet unmistakable, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I remained with my back to him, my fingers instinctively tightening around the dagger at my waist. It was a pointless habit, one that should have slipped from me by now, but old wounds cling like shadows and the poison of his presence had tattooed a response even across my very nerves.

"Lady Galadriel." His baritone voice was soft, almost gentle, yet it wrapped around me like a chain. He always spoke in that contemptible manner, as if the tone carrying his song could deceive me into forgetting the identity of its singer.

I exhaled slowly, steadying my breath, and turned around to face him. I had known this was inevitable—that he would corner me somewhere alone to exact whatever vengeance he sought to mete, but those eyes—Valar above those eyes, somehow swirling with the same shades that once colored Halbrand's… My ring burned smartly. Balancing my gaze with his own, I found my voice, even and cool as I responded, "What brings you here?"

"Why, only concern, of course," he emphasized. "I knew at once I had to seek you out. How glad I am to have caught you alone, and so close to Celebrimbor's workshop," his voice dropped an octave, a theatrical whisper. "Lady Galadriel, I am not certain if you are aware of this, but it seems as though you are being watched."

"Watched?" I echoed.

He inclined his head, the words flowing smooth and sleek, "Indeed. Celebrimbor appears to have appointed a guard to act as your silent shadow, in addition to your more obvious attendants. How peculiar, is it not, for you of all people to be policed in this way?" He folded his arms, propping his hand thoughtfully against the sharp angle of his jaw—the pause poignant. I wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he expected me to respond as he stared pensively off into the distance, but as swiftly as he had glanced away, his eyes pierced me once more with their intense and scorching scrutiny. "I can hardly believe I am saying this," he went on, an undercurrent of amusement emblazoning his words, "but is there anything I need to be worried about? Any endeavor you might need my assistance with in some way?"

"No, my Lord Annatar," I returned, folding my arms over my chest, "nothing at all."

"Come now, you must know that you can trust me as well as any elf, free as I am from the eternity of dismay and dogmas which constrain you Noldor. I cannot imagine why your own people would dare surveil you, who walked beneath the two trees from birth in the Blessed Realm."

"And yet, I have no recollection of you from my time there," I countered.

He smiled at me, a gesture equal parts perfect and predatory as he offered his response, "Ah, but I am sure there are many Maiar you did not have the chance to meet, until you sailed eastward to Middle-Earth."

"Perhaps," I said. "Nevertheless, I wouldn't want you to burden yourself with the lesser concerns of we elves. What is it to you what occurs between me and my people—whether they watch me or not? You say you are here to bring gifts, then fine, grant them. I will gladly deliberate the finer details of my imperfect relationships with my kin, once you share what exactly it is you hoped to accomplish by coming here."

"My!" He exclaimed, his laughter echoing through his defined chest as he braced his hand against it. "Such a prickly demeanor for a highborn elfmaid." He leaned conspiratorially towards me, "you do know, your people whisper such dreadful things. They say that you could not stomach Glorfindel's presence when the Valar returned him to you in Lindon, and now you seem keen to resist any concern expressed by me. I wonder, why are you so quick to distrust a humble messenger of the Valar, my lady?"

The hollowness so long yawning inside of me seared my very being with its edges, the vacuum replaced with burning. Rage, I realized. Months of numb reflection—now swiftly replaced with the same anger that had brought me to this place before. But I was hard-headed like my brothers, and much longer-lived. No amount of heartache could teach me the lesson of my former follies, if I had closed myself off to it.

I clenched my fists.

"Every god I have ever known has doubted me," I said, the words spilling forth before I could temper their edge. "They have dissuaded me from following dreams sewn from birth into the sinews of my heart—or worse, wielded those very dreams as a weapon against me."

The words stung as they erupted from my traitorous lips, the salacious, heretical nature of my claims borne from months of bitter reckoning. I knew who stood before me now, but I grappled with a sudden, overwhelming anger. How could my people be so quick to believe the Valar had sent us a helper, when I had spent a thousand years of searching and so many months of pain without relief?

Why had the Valar—a host I had known from my very beginning—allowed me to search for and then suffer at the hands of Sauron, unless it was as punishment? Retribution for sins yet unthought or unwoken? And now, after all I had endured, they had sent Glorfindel to Lindon—Glorfindel, with his calm promises of hope and casual claim that Celeborn had remained behind on those far western shores. Despite it all—despite everything—I had slaughtered our enemy and remained blameless, and for what! My reputation salvaged in exchange for a soul forever sullied.

I shook my head and pressed forward, my heart throbbing, "You must excuse me, my Lord Annatar, for my dubiousness. For, if I am to trust who you claim to be and the messages you bear from Valinor, then either the gods are cruel—for waiting so long to send a helper—or they are cowards—for waiting for their lesser scions to slay the remnants of their enemies before they deign to dabble in the affairs of Middle Earth again."

"Not every god," He rumbled.

"What?"

"Not every god you've known has doubted you." He continued, harking back to the first charge I hefted against his kind, fallen as he was from them. "There was one—a Maia—who cared for you, who believed in the light inside of you, was there not? Lifted you to heights and nurtured in you a power you had until that point never known."

My lip curled in disgust. "Debased me to a version of myself I can barely recognize, you mean," I snarled.

"I speak of Melian," he said, his brows lifted. "Surely your relationship with her did not end on such a sour note? Or is there something else troubling you?"

I turned from him, cursing myself for my words. Even after becoming familiar with his tricks, his silver tongue could cut me as easily as ever. Fine then. I would be silent.

"Look at me, Galadriel."

Such a simple command, and still I failed to resist. Looking back at him was like breathing—so natural was the act to me. His eyes devoured me, dark and unreadable, the way I remembered them from those precious few nights of uncomplicated companionship we shared as we roamed the streets of Númenor together—searching, seeking something I could never quite understand. I glanced away, looking back at the flames beneath us to escape the heat that consumed me.

He seemed to notice this concession, his tone contemplative as he addressed me, "It is said the fires of Eregion forge the finest blades in all the realms. It seems fitting, considering the one you wield."

My fingers twitched against the hilt of the dagger, the same one I had driven into his chest not long ago. The same one I had carried since. Though not Finrod's, it had been a suitable replacement for the habit I had developed from centuries of cradling my brother's. "I have not used it in battle for quite a time now."

"How long has it been?"

I pressed my lips together, my eyes glinting as I felt my patience for his games and double meanings wearing thin. "Well," I began, "certainly no fifteen-hundred years, as I thought it might have bought me. Perhaps you should do a bit of self-reflecting; I'm sure you can piece together how many days have passed since last it struck, if you think about it hard enough."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're talking about," he said—his best attempt at aloofness.

I actually laughed aloud at this, and shook my head in my response, "You think I would not recognize you, clown, when you come crawling unbidden before me like some miserable wretch? I thought you had come to slay me—to take my life as punishment for what I did to you—but instead you come to tease and to question? Enough!" I seethed, "Kill me already, or leave at once from this place."

Nenya burned against me, and my companion began to circle me with a slow and savage swagger.

"My word, how full you are of darkness, Lilómëa." He said, and I flinched at Sauron's use of a Quenyan epithet. "It is not the name I would choose for you, but it is the one you have been brought to. I thought you would have burned out of your anger by now, but it seems it has sparked back to life as ferociously as ever in my presence."

"Don't flatter yourself," I sneered, emboldened to be free from any pretense of civility. "It is not you who I rage against, but rather my own past failure. Please, share how it is you stand before me now, so I can be sure to do a more thorough job the next time I take your life, Morlócëon."

"A name for a name then!" He purred as he came to a halt before me, and I cringed at his response. "I am flattered you have feelings enough for me to grant me with a new title, uncreative and droll though it may be. As for me standing here, you must know, being stabbed to death by a dainty little elven dagger is much less challenging to remedy than a bludgeoning to pieces by Morgoth's crown, especially with the safeguards I had in place this time around. However," he added, his grin briefly dropping as he cut his eyes dangerously to me, "it was still… unpleasant. I expect your self-control to have improved this time around."

"You cannot be here," I hissed, "I cannot stand it!"

He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a tone only I could hear and vibrating with dark laughter. "Whyever not?" he asked, his head cocking in provocation—a curious wolf cornering its prey. "Enduring things is what you do best, Galadriel. So stand, grit your teeth, and bear this too."

A shiver ran through me—not of fear, but of something far more dangerous. It would seem his plan was not to kill me, after all. His presence struck such a chord within me, unsettling me in ways I could not fully explain. I hated him for it. Hated him for every foul way his life had ever touched mine and changed me.

I straightened my spine, forcing my breath to steady. "You wear a different face now," I said, cold and deliberate. "But it doesn't change what you are."

He hummed softly, as if considering my words. "And what is it that you think I am?"

"A deceiver." The word tasted bitter on my tongue, sharp and pointed, but not enough to pierce through the layers of pretense he wrapped himself in.

His gaze didn't waver. "And yet you remain silent. I wonder why that is."

I clenched my jaw, my hand moving once more to my dagger's hilt. What a fool he had made of me. I should have told Celebrimbor everything from the moment my ring burned against me and woke me overnight. I should have exposed this monster for what he was, cut his disguise into pieces and revealed the truth to the world. And yet here I stood, watching him, saying nothing. Why? The question gnawed at me—a festering wound I couldn't ignore. One he so swiftly spotted and rubbed salt into.

Before I could answer, Sauron stepped closer, so close I could feel the warmth of him, like a flicker of fire brushing against my skin. His smile—the one that others found charming, admirable, god-like—twisted something deep inside me.

"Perhaps you did succeed in killing me," he said, his voice soft and with a rawness beneath it. "But you failed miserably at understanding what we are."

We. The word struck me like a blow. He said it as if we were bound by something more than hatred, as if there was some twisted thread connecting us that I hadn't yet seen. My grip tightened on the dagger, my pulse quickening in my veins.

"I am nothing like you," I spat, though the words tasted hollow even as I said them.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he moved closer, his hand hovering just beside my face, so close it was as if the air between us was drawn taut. I could feel the pull of him, a deep, unsettling force tugging at the corners of my soul, and I hated it. Hated him for making me feel this way.

"No," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. "You are exactly like me."

My heart stilled for a moment, caught between rage and something else, something darker and more insidious. I should have stepped back, should have struck him down right then. But I didn't. I couldn't. Not again. There was something alive between us—something I refused to acknowledge, but couldn't deny any longer.

Finally, he stepped back, his eyes lingering with something almost mournful. "The fires of Eregion can shape the strongest steel," he mused. "But even they cannot reshape what is already forged in the heart."

I grit my teeth. "I am not yours to forge."

He met my gaze, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in his expression—a wavering that I might have almost mistaken for pain. But then it was gone, masked beneath false calm and an eternity of carefully curated poise. "No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have already proven you are far too powerful for that."

My jaws ground so tightly together that I thought my skull would crack apart from their force. Enough of this wistful, misty-eyed nonsense. I would not let him again fool me with these tender, wheeling platitudes. My years of hunting had worn me ragged, and my grief had left me raw; I was sharp edges and steel and blood. My softness had left me an age ago, and I had known no such flattery or cherishment since.

"Do not waste your words," I spat. "I know what I see before me. A liar wrapped in infinite skins, all of them hiding the same rotting core. Imagine whatever similarities and hidden meanings you wish, but I have neither the time nor the weakness to entertain your fictions. You believe the years I spent fighting and bleeding were for you? That I somehow ache for the warmth of hands that betrayed me? You do not belong here, in Eregion, or among any of my people. Get thee gone, and take thy due place—far, far away from here!" I unsheathed my dagger in a flash swift as flame, leveling it deliberately against him.

His hand wrapped around the knife edge, and though small flecks of blood began to prick from his skin, he did not relent, his gaze sharper than any blade as it tore through me. "You have fallen far to wield Fëanor's words against me now. No, Galadriel. I could change my face a thousand times and still always choose the form that catches your eye. Just try looking at me and telling me that doesn't mean something."

"Meaning?" I exclaimed, hotly blinking tears away. "What meaning could there be in a shadow's longing? You take and twist and pretend it's feeling. You demand loyalty while offering nothing but chains. Do you even know what it is to care for something without wanting to own it?"

His expression hardened, his tone colder and haughtier than the Northern Wastes as he ripped my dagger from me, the weapon joining his blood on the stones beneath us with a clatter, "You must think very highly of yourself, to assume that I have come to Eregion because of your presence here. Whether you desire me or not matters little. There is work to be done. You can either stand at my side or shun me, but you will not stand in my way."

I scoffed, "Do you really think saying that will convince me that you care nothing for my presence here? As though your arrival in Eregion had nothing to do with your pathetic craving to ingratiate yourself to me? Certainly our acquaintanceship has been fraught with contempt, but we have known each other now through death itself. That at least demands some honesty."

"Honesty?" He bellowed a laugh, "You, of all people, are asking for truth? No, Galadriel, I am not the one incapable of verbalizing what I've always felt. I have made myself very clear."

"Clear is certainly one way of putting it," I snarked.

"You know my every intention," he argued, "though I know little of what drives you other than bloodthirst and your own deranged confusion."

"Don't forget an eternal hatred of you for oh, I don't know, vowing to watch the light drain from the eyes of every last elf living in Middle-Earth!"

He growled roughly under his breath, dragging his hands through his hair and tugging at the deep red strands as if trying to pull the frustration out of his skull. I found my lips lifting in a twisted smirk at his sudden crack in composure. My companion seemed to sense my amusement, and he inhaled deeply, leveling his gaze once more at me.

"You know," he drawled, "it would be easier for me to tear down mountains than to win even a glimmer of your affection. Lucky for us both, I have a penchant for impossible tasks and happen to have a vested interest in accomplishing both of those things." He stepped forward, his presence looming over me, "I may have overreacted, at our last meeting—said things I did not fully intend in the heat of the moment after you tried to curse me with an eternity of torment at the hands of Morgoth and then succeeded in slaughtering me despite everything else."

"If you're looking for an 'I forgive you,' then you can save your foul breath." I shook my head and swore, scowling at him. "By the One, you really are the most confusing bastard I have ever met."

"My apologies, Lady Galadriel. Let me offer you some clarity, then," He moved in a flash, steps swift as lightning as they thundered across the cobblestones. Before I could spin away, he used one arm to seize my hip roughly, rooting me in place. Sauron towered behind me, mouth by my ear and opposite hand at my throat. "You want to know my intentions?" I remained fixed in place as he began to speak, his voice rough and stalwart as it steamrolled through me, "if it were up to me, you would already be lying beneath me on very the ground on which we stand. I would have you in every form and every fashion, in ways your finite mind can barely even being to comprehend. Any desire you name would be my utmost pleasure to grant without question. You would be stripped of this ridiculous prudishness that seems to linger around every elf entrapped in Middle-Earth, free to explore yourself and the world around you in ways you have yet to fathom."

His hands moved to my shoulders and curled around me, his touch burning me from the inside out with fire. I turned in his grip, but still he continued, "there is no language in all of Arda that can capture the things I would make you feel. I am not talking about friendship, Galadriel—though your companionship I do desire—and I am not asking you to like me. Loathe me for an eternity if you truly desire; believe me, I enjoy watching you rage against me. There are other ways for you to explore your never-ending hatred of me far more exhilarating than pointless murder."

His thumb traced the outline of my lips, and his pupils widened despite the light as he looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes, "I can smell that decadent want building in you like a tempest," he breathed. "What a shame we stand in the forge's courtyard now; I hardly dare to imagine what might have happened should I have found you in your quarters like this."

He pulled away, and I shivered as he withdrew his touch, my cheeks hot with something more than just embarrassment. "But no matter how disgusting the enormity of my desire may be," he declared, "it still cannot detract from the work that must be done. And if you test me again, I will not hesitate to kill you, even if it tears my very soul apart in the process.

"We are even now. Whatever score you had to settle over your brother has now been paid, both through my apology to you in Númenor and the recent price I paid in blood and flesh. I meant it when I said that I am sorry, Galadriel, for your brother—for all of it. And I was not lying when I said that I intend to heal these lands, a task I still believe would be better accomplished with you at my side, especially since you have already overseen the production of three such magic rings."

His hand dropped to mine, grazing my knuckles and Nenya before wrapping around my palm. I froze in place, watching as he lifted my fist smoothly to his mouth, unsure of what he would do until his lips pressed to the back of my hand with feverish promise. How could such a small gesture feel so consequential? I stared at him, at the sunlight striking the crystal in Nenya's center and dispersing into a thousand little shards of light. The infinity of rainbows scattered across his face like stars—like freckles.

It was not hatred which blazed to life in my heart in that moment.

"You need not respond to me today, but think on these things. Think about what it is you want, Galadriel, not what you have been told you ought to seek."

As quickly as he had lifted it, my wrist dropped from his hand, and just as swiftly, his warmth withdrew from me as he seemed to vanish from the courtyard.

I gasped, leaning against the wall behind me. The cold, rough stone pressed firm into my back. Grounding me. I grabbed my skull in my hands, shaking it despite myself.

If I let him do this to me, what else would I allow?

But the answer came back to me—Anything.

My hands shook as I laced my boots, the leather straps slipping from my fingers. I swore as the warm light filtered into my chambers, the task taking me longer than it should have after the events of the afternoon and my stubborn insistence that Elara leave me for the remainder of the day. As usual, the struggles I faced were of my own design.

With fingers trembling from adrenaline, I finally tied off the last of my laces and rose from my seat, brushing off my training leathers.

If it had been intimidation, then why did I not feel afraid?

The sun was bright and crisp as I wove through the streets of Eregion, slinking through what few alleys I could find to make my way down to the edge of Celebrimbor's realm. No sooner had I reached the outermost armaments, though, than I had been spotted by a cheery face.

"Lady Galadriel! A marvel to see you join us!" one of the soldiers called out as I entered the sparring grounds. His voice was bright, edged with disbelief. "It has been too long—how many moons since you last sparred? You will teach us much today, no doubt!"

I nodded curtly, keeping my expression neutral as a few broken murmurs greeted me from the group of soldiers I approached and a smattering of guards either visiting or brought with me from Lindon. Whispers of my past prowess, my recent lapse in passion, and now, my sudden return. They did not know what had spurred it—how could they? But I ran through my meeting with Sauron over and over again in my mind, so many times I was certain were a healer to cut open my skull and slice through the layers of my brain, they would have seen his face, worn into the very matter of my mind.

I was so agitated, still, from that encounter. The physical exertion of sparring seemed to help relieve some of my frustration, but I could not smooth it all away. Worst of all, I struggled to use our exchange as fodder for my crusade against him. Yes, he had revealed he planned to craft something with Celebrimbor in his attempt to gain control of and heal Middle-Earth. Yet, he had not tried to break into my mind. And he had not attempted to take the ring from me, as dramatically as he had acknowledged it and even brushed his hand against it.

I shivered again at the memory.

I had come here to sweat out the frustration, the anger, and the gnawing ache of uncertainty. But as I surveyed the faces around me—these soldiers who had trusted me with their lives, my people who looked to me for protection—the resolve crystallized. I could not falter. Whatever torment Sauron inflicted on my heart, I would shield them from his designs. If he would claim to heal this land, he would do so on his terms, and I knew his price would be their freedom. I could not allow it.

Celebrimbor's soldiers and my own guards gathered, their excitement almost palpable. Among them stood Arannis, his familiar gaze wary but hopeful as it had ever been since he followed me from Lindon. I threw myself into the drills with them, each movement an outlet for the storm brewing inside me.

Thrust. Parry. Sidestep. Strike.

Sauron's voice echoed in my mind: "Think about what it is you want, Galadriel." My blade hissed through the air.

Thrust. Strike. Feint. Block.

His hands—confident yet conscientious—remained uninvited in my memory, as though they belonged there. But I pushed them aside, forcing my focus back to the sparring grounds.

I shifted my grip on my sword as the next opponent approached. He was young, barely out of his early years as a soldier, and his nerves showed in the way he adjusted his stance. I should have gone easier on him, but instead, I surged forward, my blade meeting his with sharp, deliberate force.

Each clash of steel reverberated through me, a steady drumbeat against my thoughts. The physical exertion helped—sweat beading on my brow, the burn of muscles long untested—but it could not smooth away all the edges of my turmoil.

"Focus, soldier!" I snapped as he hesitated on the sidelines.

The fledgling guard before me faltered, his footing uneven. A simple sweep of my leg sent him sprawling, his weapon clattering to the dirt. I was on him in an instant, blade hovering over his throat.

"I yield! Argh, I yield!" he cried, eyes wide with panic.

Panting, I stared down at him, his youthful face flushed with exertion and shame. My blade felt too heavy, the victory hollow. But behind that hollow victory lay something sharper: the reminder that every one of these lives depended on me. Sauron's schemes would not touch them—not while I still held a blade.

I lowered my weapon and offered a hand to help him up. His grip was shaky but grateful as I pulled him to his feet.

"It was well fought," I said, though my voice felt distant. The young elf nodded quickly, his expression both relieved and apologetic.

Turning away, I caught sight of Arannis watching me, his brows knit with something between concern and admiration. I met his gaze briefly before retreating to the edge of the training grounds.

As the sparring resumed without me, I leaned against a nearby post, my breath slowing. The anger that had fueled me now ebbed, leaving something heavier in its place. I had sought release, yet the weight of Sauron's presence lingered, unshaken. And beneath it all, the same thought gnawed at me: How can I fight to protect them from him when I no longer have the will to fight him at all?

Sleep evaded me. But every night following Sauron's arrival in Eregion, I dreamt.

Always, they began the same. I floated naked in a pool of water thick and red as blood. A hand never failed to reach for me, but every time I stirred to clasp it, something inevitably sucked me down, dragging me deep beneath the surface and suffocating me under those waves and waves of crimson.

But I did not drown. Instead, I emerged gasping in some other place, deep beneath the earth. Surrounding me was a cavern unfathomably broad and impossibly hot—long copper shadows stretching across the walls in warning from a light source somewhere at my back. Every time I made to turn around, a sound like the earth cracking open would shriek through my ears, replaced with the sensation of falling from a great height and descending down, down into burning.

Then—coldness. I stood as though on a precipice—a vast, foreboding darkness stretching fathomless before me. There were two colossal gates, wrought from a substance darker than iron, darker than even the blackness that surrounded them. The columns rose to an incomprehensible height, vanishing above into a vaultless, starless firmament. Their surface, though unadorned by any mortal artifice, seemed alive with shifting forms—faint, curling patterns that danced like tendrils of smoke caught in an unfelt wind.

The stillness pressed closer, as if the void sought to drown me in its depthless silence. Yet there was motion, subtle and unnerving, at the edge of my perception. Tiny glimmers winked and vanished like fireflies snuffed by an invisible hand—stars, perhaps, caught in some eternal cycle of death and rebirth, their light devoured and regurgitated by the all-encompassing dark.

I longed to flee, but my feet were rooted, my limbs as lead. The void pressed closer, the hum growing louder, or perhaps it was my own heart, thundering like the wings of a trapped bird. I felt myself leaning forward—tipping towards that darkness—towards that abyss. Questions then would plague my mind—as though I were at the verge of comprehending a memory impossibly important. I could almost taste the echo of something—as though the past or the future were reaching back, folding in on itself through time to sound a trumpet's warning.

Here the dream would fragment, and in it there were visions of life and death—dark and light—the sun burning like a wound in the heavens and the moon fallen beneath the surface of the deep. A black dragon, a black sword, a great eagle. Arda Marred, Arda Burned, Arda Frozen, and me, standing there before those gates, one arm reaching forward and one behind me—pain and sorrow searing me as the light left my skin, my eyes, my hair.

A never-ending exhibition of ever-intensifying ferocity—abyss, gates, fire, ice, monsters, death, light, and grief—grief unending.

And always I woke. And always I wept.

Author's Note:

Lilómëa = very dark, full of darkness

Morlócëon = black snake

Neither of these are perfect Quenyan names (i.e. Lilómëa doesn't have a proper feminine ending, and I'm not sure about the ëo back to back in Morlócëon); however I am not a linguist and thought it would be fun for the two of them to saddle each other with a hateful Epessë.