TITLE: Kaimelien no' vell wanwie (Dreaming On The Past)
SET: 10 years after the destruction of the ring.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are, unless stated, creations and property of Tolkien. Not mine. I make no money from this…
THAKNS TO: Olôrin Mithêl's Elven translator, for umm, precisely that. Thanks all to Anna Rousseau. And my boss who told me the extended LOTR DVD could also come with bookends J
The world of dreams was his world, as it had been for the last three millennia, but now, as they had been for the last three weeks his dreams were being haunted by a shadow in his mind. As he tossed back and forth he felt, as he had for night upon night, the pressure on his mind, the pressure that felt like someone was trespassing on his thoughts, taking over there and waiting for something to be revealed. And then, as his always did, he saw them. Two figures in sea blue walking towards him, across a wasteland, the like of which he had never seen prior to this. Their faces were dark and obscured but as they walked towards him, he felt, as before, a vague feeling of threat. And that threat was creeping nearer. And then, as he had every night previously, Legolas Son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood and Lord of Ithilien, awoke, a startled cry dying on his lips, sweating, trembling and unable to sleep for the remainder of the night.
This sequence had repeated itself every time he allowed his mind to slip into the dream world, be it night or day, and the reserves that he drew on to sustain himself were dwindling dangerously thin.
Angrily, Legolas threw of the light covers he lay beneath and exited his chambers to the staircase that curled languorously around the tree of Ithilien which supported it. As he stood gazing idly over the forest he passed a hand over dull grey eyes that usually gleamed sapphire blue and with a limp gesture flicked back a strand of limp blonde hair. Part of him was aware that he looked unkempt with hair usually brushed and braided hanging loose and tangled, a larger part did not care. All he wished for was uninterrupted rest so that he did not feel so tired, so useless, so hopeless all the time. Dejectedly he realised that the rest he sought desperately was not to be granted to him beneath the boughs of his beloved trees. No other inhabitant of Ithilien suffered from the nightmares that plagued him. A healer who had come to speak to him on beholding his terrible appearance had suggested it was a delayed reaction to the events of ten years ago, until he had pointed out that blue robed figures had not figured prominently in the destruction of the Ring, doubting as he did that he would have nightmares about Gandalf trying to kill him. At that she had left mumbling comments she thought he could not hear about 'stubborn fools,' and 'madness'.
And that, he knew was what lay at the crux of the matter, the Elves who dwelled in Ithilien seemed to think he was slowly going mad. The events of the past ten years, joining the fellowship, the death of Boromir, the battles at Helm's Deep and Pellenor Fields, the destruction of the Ring, his poisoning by Duredhel, especially that, he reflected, were deemed worthy enough to send him to the brink of his sanity. But within himself Legolas felt no different, just soul-crushingly weary, and that, he noted wryly, had lasted so long he felt he was about to lose his grip on reality. He had to get away from this place, he decided. It was his home but he felt that everyone was watching, slowing charting his suspected descent into insanity. Himself, he didn't see why nightmares made people think he was mentally ill. Everyone suffered from them at some time or other. But not, he recognized, the same thing, every night, without fail, and surely not with such an overwhelming sense of invasion within his own head. Yes, he had to get away from this place, but to where?
Lasgalen? There he would get peace and quiet that was for sure. Few dwelled in Mirkwood now, many Elves from there had taken their final journeys to Valinor, those that remained in Middle Earth had moved to live in Ithilien. However, despite the destruction of the ring Mirkwood still remained dark and vaguely sinister, no longer did any semblance of Greenwood, the place Mirkwood had been when Legolas was born, remain. Legolas would return there no more; his home there would be consigned to a memory until the ends of his days.
He needed, he decided, to be among friends. Someone who had experienced what he had experienced, someone he could talk to, who could help him stop the dreams that haunted his sleep, and for that there was only one place he could go. Minas Tirith, The home of the King of Gondor, a man of many names, Elessar, Aragorn, Wingfoot and Estel. Hope.
Legolas left immediately, leaving only a brief message in a note. Then taking a mount from the small stable beneath his home he left to return to Gondor and the golden city of Minas Tirith.
He rode through the night, not pausing for food or rest. Upon reaching the plains of Rohan the gentle canter of the horse across the flat land lulled him into a gentle sleep, his eyes unseeing as they gazed unswervingly across the night darkened grasslands.
It was there once more. A shadow and a threat in his mind, not dissimilar to the presence of the Uruk Hai that he had felt all those long years ago. He tried to force his mind back to the land of the waking but trying as he might his mind was unable to free itself from the trap it was ensnared in.
Then he saw it again, the open desert plains, Legolas could feel the coarse grains of sand and pebble beneath his feat, the hot sun radiating onto his fair skin. The two figures once more floating effortlessly towards him arms outstretched. Their heads were bent so all he could see of them was their bowed heads. The dream was running the course it had run every time before, but now it seemed different, more powerful, and the two figures seemed to becoming closer than previously. Soon it seemed that he could make out every detail in the robes before him. Legolas tried frantically to back away from them, to run and escape the mind crushing presence, gaining strength inside his mind. Yet as he tried desperately to escape he felt his feet sinking deeper into the sand, and the more he tried to free himself the deeper he sank until he was buried to his waist in the fine, deadly grains. Then they were before him, the dark faceless features, so much like those of the wraiths gazed down upon him. One reached out a cold, unfeeling hand, and gently touched the cheek of the Elf before him.
Who crashed back to awareness with a distressed lurch that threw him from the back of his horse to land with a sickening thud on the ground beneath him, the sudden impact stealing away both his breath and his hold on consciousness. A blissful drop into unconsciousness in which no blue figures haunted him.