She lay awake, staring up at the deep, resplendent blues of a Gondorian dawn. Beside her, Calidis lay sleeping dreamlessly for once, breathing slow and even as the fire still glowed softly, little now but embers.
Xanderian rose slowly, carefully, and drawing Lovelorn used the point of the sword to coax the embers back to a small blaze, then nestled the iron pot in the coals to begin brewing tea. Calidis Nighteye would wish tea when she woke.
Dreams.
The huntress’s dream that night had been vivid and powerful. Part of that could be explained by the haste and tension of their errand. Her sister Xandilif had called for aid. Mans had returned and was in Linhir, their friends were endangered. Surely that was the stuff of nightmares.
However, this had been no simple nightmare.
She had dreamt of a small city of white stone burning, bright red flames licking the sky, sparks exploding as walls gave way. The townsfolk stood in stunned silence, watching the blaze devouring buildings and men alike. After a few moments, she recognized the scene.
Linhir had been put to the torch.
Her gaze moved outward, expecting to see orcs laying siege, but they were not orcs. Men held the torches, men launched flaming arrows into thatched roofs, men preyed upon men. Men pillaged and plundered and took what they could while the fishing hamlet died. Pirates descended from the coast, and brigands from the rocky hills...all the evils of men were turned loose upon the town, and none of the survivors seemed disturbed. They almost seemed...relieved.
Above the crackle and the din, the howls of the mob, a laughter echoed across the coastline, harsh and cruel and filled with dark mirth. Then a voice, one she knew but did not know. It sounded similar to Nethrida and yet was not her, chanting. “Tarek ManSlayer and Malmoud of Da’ansk and Ethilian of the Horde and Desmoana of Arnor and Thistleweed the Piper and Mans of Kheledul and Annedyl of Linhir….” And the names repeated, in an endless cavalcade of voices, over and over, the tones slowly becoming a reproach, an accusation….a condemnation. All of this was her fault. She bore the sins of all these travesties.
Then the dream changed, to a sky filled with smoke and death, fell beasts wheeling through the air like mockeries of songbirds. Her eye raced along the blasted earth, and she expected her gaze to fall upon Barad Dur, looming large in her nightmares and her duty….but it did not.
Instead she gazed upon the ruins of Minas Tirith, blasted open by some unimaginable force. Everywhere empty eyed refugees trudged away from the dying fortress while others slew one another for what meager scraps of bread they could find. The light of Gondor had failed.
Slowly she turned away in the dream, and looked out to sea, beholding the graceful craft assembled for war, purple and silver pennants assailing the wind. She looked down to her hand, saw the pulsing, blood red gem gleaming in the plain silver ring, felt the power and delusion of it as it seemed to almost coil around her finger. Sindya, the Gift of Bruni, Ring of Artifice.
A living thing...a foul thing...all she had ever wanted.
She reached the hand that wore the ring up to her face, caressing smooth metal, and as she slowly took off her cold silver mask, she awoke.
Now, her hand steady, she poured two cups of tea as she watched the sun break the horizon, whispering to herself. “Was that a memory, a warning, a premonition….or a secret hope.”
