Seregrian awakens slowly, letting herself drift upwards from sleep to wakefulness. She looks around at her surroundings in confusion, for this is not the place where she lay down to rest mere hours before. She is standing in a high place, a platform within a vast open grotto. As she turns slowly to take in the sight, she recognizes it: Tith-maudhûl, the lair of Bogrian in Moria.
This must be a dream, Seregrian thinks, but such a dream, it’s so real! The feeling, the sensations, all of it is exactly as she recalls the vast Fanged Pit of Moria. The slight movement of the air in the huge void brings the stench of blood and rotting flesh. The gloom is pierced by shafts of light from unguessed portals in the cavern roof above. And the sounds, the creaking of overburdened stone, the echoes of falling rocks; but also the monotone, single-note whisper coming from a dozen throats: the chorus-song of the merrevail.
Seregrian recognizes the high timber platform, forming the royal roost of the she-bats. She begins ascending the winding grade, a spiral path leading to the topmost tier of the pillared scaffolded tower. At the center of the circular space stands an ancient Dwarvish mirror, which she remembers Bogrian claiming and using it as a vanity-glass, basking in her dark self-absorption. There is a figure standing before the mirror, facing away from her, but she sees it is clearly not the Tyrant-queen of the merrevail. She slowly crosses the platform and halts, as the figure speaks to her without turning.
“I greet you, Heart-sister,” the she-bat says, “for such we still call you despite your spurning our overtures. Are you still of the same mind, refusing our offers and denying yourself the delights which can be yours?”
“If this is some sort of parley,” Seregrian replies, “then you already know my answer. Your offers perished in the ice of Celebdil, along with all your kin.”
“Not all, for She Who Must Be Obeyed parleyed with you that day. She, and one other.” And the figure turns to face Seregrian, who sees in the light –
“Gwathwethil! So, you still live, and now you walk in my dreams, hawk of Sauron, through some foul craft of the Shadow you serve?”
“As one of the few of our sisters who departed Moria, I have risen to my queen’s side as Her body-servant, to attend Her will. And in this hour, it is Her will that I speak thus with you. Indeed, you have been made aware to Her; and others under the Great Eye are aware of you in their turn, for their own purposes.”
“You appear different than last I saw you. Are these trappings a badge of your new status among your kind?”
“Indeed yes. I wear the mark and raiment of those who serve not only Bogrian, but also the eldest and mightiest of our kind – and one day, it may be the greatest honor of your life to be granted audience with Her in Her abode, the greatest citadel of our kind. You especially would be drawn to this place, for its appeal matches you well, in appearance as in its very name: Seregost!”
“The Blood Castle? And I am supposed to cast my lot with you, simply over a rumor of a name! I bested you in battle, so you tempt me with bargaining? Take this message back to her, to Bogrian, or this mighty nameless elder of yours: the Blood-queen does not treat with those she would burn! Behold, I come with fire, both from the earth and sky, and I shall find you all and bring your end!”
A smirk, then “And what end shall that be, Elf-child? To find your precious mother? Yes, in your vanity you have declared yourself and your purpose to those against whom you cannot stand. For in your folly, the Nine now know your name – and thus the Great Eye has heard as well, and in that lies your doom. Up until this hour, the Eye has given you the greatest gift: you have been beneath notice. But now? The Eye turns to you, and it will not forget you or your Elvish hubris.”
Seregrian watches Gwathwethil intently during this exchange. The morroval is indeed different than their last encounter, now clad in crimson and looking stronger and better fed. But it is the eyes that speak the greatest difference; for not once during her speech did her eyes change from amber to grey, the sign that Thandwen was speaking. And not once did her eyes lower from looking distantly, as if reciting what was taught her to say, or taking unspoken orders from a voice only she can hear.
Seregrian makes a daring gamble. “You can hear me, O Bogrian, I deem, through Gwathwethil’s ears. Let your body-slave carry this vow back to your new lair, which I will indeed find in time: everything you hold dear to you shall perish in fire, and the last thing you hear before the Void shall be my laughter!”
Gwathwethil smirks at her, “Not long now shall that meeting be delayed, arrogant Elf. Each day brings you closer to us, and we await the reunion where you shall decide to join us or perish.” She turns to look at Seregrian, and though the eyes are amber, the face is filled with regret, even fear. And the next words, though meant to be heard by unseen ears, are meant for Seregrian as well:
“We hear you, and we know your heart’s desire and we know it remains true, maiden. Come to us when you can, we are waiting….”
…and Seregrian sits up with a gasp, fully awake and aware. She is lying in a bed in a warm lit room, the light coming from a tended fire and a guttering lamp. Sitting in a chair by the fireside is Hutha of the Riders Four. She is wearing a light shift, her clothes and boots folded and laid upon the floor, her other gear stacked neatly in the corner.
“Did I sleep? How long was I in dreams?”
“For some time, Spitfire. You did not move, you scarcely breathed, then your head began thrashing to and fro, and you awoke just now. Here is mead, as you requested before you laid down. You were expecting these dreams?”
“All Elves walk thus in dreams, but what awaits us there is not always what one expects – and that was the case here.” A smile. “Thank you, Toothpick, for watching the hours with me.”
“Thanks are not needed, you should know that by now. May your dreadful dreams pass with the night, Elf friend,” Hutha raises a goblet in salute.
“For the most part – Elf-friend,” Seregrian toasts in reply. But as she drinks, her thoughts turn to the final moments of the dream-walk. Did her mother give her a message? The words linger on her mind - like the fluttering of a bat’s wing…
