Dark Dreams In A Golden Wood



Dark was the chamber.

Shadowed like a nightmare foreseen, and silent, like a tomb.

Sitting on a chair in full armour, he gazed at the table.

Neither light he desired nor candle.

Within his mind, he embraced the cooling darkness, helping his thoughts to gain clarity.

Sheathed, the large sword lay there.

Moment after moment passed.

He knew: he needed to take a decision.

"Take it" said a voice within his head.

His fingers moved slightly.

But his guts knew better.

The bloodcurdling weapon lay there, pressed down by the immense weight of nightmares and memories of old, and he felt the same weight upon his hands, preventing them to make a move towards the large hilt.

"You are a soldier. Take it. Take it now" said the voice in his head.

"You need it. Your hammer was broken" added another.

"Hold it, fool! Why are you even sitting here?" scolded another.

"Just take it and leave the room" proposed another.

"Do you remember what this blade has done? What YOU have done?"

"Take it. The Orks fear this weapon much more than you do..."

"You never learn from your mistakes, don't you?"

"Just grab it. Do you remember how it was to wield a Falquan? It feels great!"

"To bring this weapon to the Golden Wood is a disgrace on its own!"

"Take it!"


"Do it! Do it now!"


"SHUT UP, YOU ALL!" he roared, clenching both fists, eyes closed.


Slowly, very slowly he opened his right hand, moving towards the hilt of the sword.

Inch by inch he drew closer...

Whispers in his head. "Well done, well done...just a bit closer...you almost did it..."

He opened his eyes. Almost there...


He stood up.

"May Fëanaro forgive me, I cannot do this" he muttered, and left the room.



9 days earlier. Caras Galadhon:


The hunt had turned into a skirmish.

Fanuidhol had always been a thorn, threatening to pierce Lorien's flesh.

But the Orks had grown fierce of late, launching several attacks against the Galadhrim.

Raolor knew, there was always work to do at the borders of the Golden Wood, and his heart was longing for a clash against the enemy.

But after the short skirmish, the hunting party had withdrawn, and the sculptor with them.

The mission within Mirkwood prior to the skirmish had turned out successful, but Raolor had returned with his war-hammer broken and armour and equipment heavily damaged. And yet, he had survived Torist's diversion maneuver without injuries, covering up the retreat of his friends nearby Dol Guldur. He knew, he had to gear up anew if he wanted to be of any use in both Fanuidhol or Mirkwood.

But where to go? Aid in the dire defense of the borders at Fanuidhol or follow his friends to Echad Sirion once again?

Walking along a road, pondering about what to do next, he heard some noise from above. The moment he looked up it turned out he was too late. A bough came flying with great speed, passed his face and crashed right upon his right toe. The sculptor looked up, and suppressed an angry roar. But there was no Talan above him.

"Confounded trees!" he uttered. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed the bough, hurled it against the ground and began to smash it into little pieces with his feet.

Not a single scratch during the weeks in Mirkwood. Fighting for his life, battling Orks and Wargs. And now he had injured himself in one of the safest places of all Rhovanion.

"This. Is. Ri-di-cu-lous!" he snorted, while ensuring the complete annihilation of the treacherous bough.



2 days later. Caras Galadhon:


He stretched his arms out. Mobility was key.