Elrond's Dream by bunn  

There is a dream that comes to me now and again.  It is a false dream; some sending of the Enemy.

It is well known that Sauron uses our darkest fears against us, twisting sorrow to guilt and guilt to despair.  I shall write the dream out here, and so take the strength and bitterness from it.

*****

I can hear the waves hushing gently against the quays, somewhere in the mist, but all else is quiet. The spires and arches of Mithlond are dark in the dim hour before the dawn.

A red light kindles, barely seen at first through the fog. I am asleep, and yet I know it’s there.

A voice is singing, quiet at first, barely to be heard above the waves. Familiar, yet far off. The sound of it holds me, caught still as a statue in the high king’s hall.

The singing is stronger now. Behind it is the beating of a drum. Many drums.

They are coming. They are coming through the mist to the sleeping city on the shore.

The singing voice is a veil over my eyes, a binding on my wrists, it stifles my breath, is a sword at my throat.

It’s hardly the first time.

The betrayal and the blood is familiar. Why was I such a fool?

It’s only a dream. Not all dreams are true.

*****

The starlight glitters on the waterfalls.  The distant sound of falling water carries peace and joy with it, even though I know the valley is besieged. Imladris stands, but all around the world is dark.

Somewhere out there are legions of orcs, their furious commander, a great Power of the world, and his standard, the broken body of a kinsman and a friend.

Here, among the protecting cliffs, under the guardianship of the river, here is peace.

Except... there is a voice mingling with the water, a voice I know.  There’s a strength to it that is familiar, calming the waters. He taught me this.

The enchantments that tangle on the steep valley path fall away.  Someone is coming, a star upon his shoulder, eight-pointed, rayed, and burning red.

Behind him, the besieging legions rise, and the sky darkens. 

I look up, hoping, and see the last star in the sky go out.

I have no Silmaril, but he has taken an oath to walk in the dark, before I ever met him, before he saw the darkness. Sauron twists all such things to dreadful purpose.

He is leading them onward and I hear the screaming start.

It’s only a dream. Not all dreams are true.

*****

We have driven Sauron back to his fortress, hunted him out and followed him to his Black Land.

I am in my tent, the guards are alert. Gil-galad is watching, as I will watch when he sleeps, or when Círdan does. Isildur’s tent is next to mine: I hear him snoring.

The walls of Mordor are held by orcs and Men of many kinds. We saw a few Dwarves for the first time yesterday: I wonder what the Enemy offered them.

We have seen no elves with the Enemy yet.

And yet... is that harpsong? Is that the sound of a voice? Is there a long cool hand across my eyes, a blade across my throat?

No. He’s far away. Kinslaying was over and done with long ago.

Sauron would use anyone if he could, but...

No-one is singing, out there in the Black Land.  No-one is cleaving through the might of Númenor with the sword made by Fëanor himself.

He was kind to us, Elros and me, and Elendil is of Elros’s line.

It’s only a dream. Not all dreams are true.

*****

Two children, two perfect boys, lying together beside their exhausted and triumphant mother.   Have I ever been so tired?

Did my father feel like this when we were born, I wonder? Joyful, worried, and longing for sleep all at once.

But these, my children, I shall see them grown, as my father did not see his sons grow up. I shall not leave them, nor will they be taken from us.

So very tired.  I can hear a sound almost like harp-music, a lullaby that Maglor played, once, so very long ago.

I should open my eyes and see the babes are sleeping safe, but my eyelids are so heavy.

Where is that music coming from? What is that sound, like a sword from the sheath?

He’s far away, and why would he want my children?  He didn’t want us, except that there was no-one else...

If he were going to turn to darkness, he would have done it before now.

It’s only a dream. Not all dreams are true.

When they are a little older, my boys shall have a pony each, and we will ride together down to the Sea.  Perhaps I’ll ask him to play a lullaby for them then, as once he did for us.

*****

The waterfalls are singing under the moon. Outside the valley, darkness lies heavy on the land.  Wolves howl and terrible things stir in the night.

Rhudaur, our nearest neighbour, has made alliance with our foes in Angmar.  Have they forgotten our kinship, or do they remember Numenor too well? The mountain-passes are perilous and fraught with orcs and bandits. 

The North-kingdom is almost dead.

Our enemies are Nine. Some of them I count close kin, and they would kill me, and all my family, and laugh.

The old nightmare has lost what force it had. None of the Nine are Fëanor’s sons, for all that they are kinsmen and traitors.

I listen to the old dream, the old nightmare of Maglor’s voice.

If anything, it brings me strength.  Imladris has been besieged before: I know now, who is, and who is not a servant of the Enemy.

*****

Sauron is fallen and the Ring destroyed. There will be no more nightmares from that source, if it was ever Him at all, and not only the long and bitter shadow that my own childhood demons cast.

I shall leave my daughter, my sons, my home, and all that I have made and done in all these long long years.

I go to seek Celebrían, to find her healed, I hope, of all the horrors of Middle-earth. Healed, or ... at least alive.

I’m sure she is still alive, beyond the Sea. She must be. I hope she is.

But first I’ll seek him out, my old nightmare, my foster-father.  If I am a remnant of the fading Elder Days, then how much more is he? 

I’ll ask him if he’ll come with me, I will reach out my hand and say: love grew between us, once. Come with me, kinsman, for I must say farewell to my own children. 

And if he comes, then the old nightmare is over and gone for good. 

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