The sky was burning - nay, the entire world was aflame. And yet the darkness seemed to close in from all sides, amid the clash of steel against steel and the cries of the fallen. She stood, one lone figure amid the destruction, twin blades bright with blood - and then she was falling, falling into darkness ...
Makanárë jolted awake, hand reflexively going to the dagger under her pillow. This night, as every night, the dreams were invariably the same, and yet terrifyingly different. The voices still the same, the faces the same, the regret and horror ever fresh. Sirion. Menegroth. Ost-in-Edhil. All the battles in between. Some scars never fully healed with time. Muttering a curse under her breath, she kicked off her blankets, willing her shaking hands to steady themselves. Slipping the dagger into her boot, she threw on a tunic, scarf and cloak, then stalked out into the night.
For a time she walked mindlessly, willing her heart to beat in time with the forced pace she set for her feet. The arches and pillars of houses rose up on either side of her, but she had eyes for nothing but the scuffed toes of her boots as they trod onward, not caring where they went. The night air whispered over her bare arms, and she drew her cloak around her shoulders. The silver star emblazoned upon it seemed to burn in the darkness, an accusing mark that branded her as one of them - kinslayer, exile, Oathbound.
Would she ever find rest? She could only hope as she vanished into the night, stalking away with measured tread much steadier than the erratic pulse of blood in her ears.
