I had not dreamed in many days. Between the wound in my shoulder - which had been infected, but is now healing - and the turmoil in my own emotions concerning one close to me, I thought I would dream more often than the silence that faced me when I closed my eyes.
So, to say I was surprised when I opened my eyes and am faced with the long-lost white landscape of Gondolin would be an understatement. Yet, as I turn to examine my surroundings, I realize that something is wrong. Gondolin is ablaze, the sky above black with ash and ruin. This would be a nightmare I was well accustomed to if not for the fact that nothing was moving but myself. I saw elves frozen in their places, panic stricken and unmoving across their faces. I saw flames stopped midway into the devouring of the houses, and blades halted in the middle of their swing.
“I never got to see Gondolin,” a voice murmurs from behind me, and I spin around to see Cuvallorn once more. But he does not look well, even though it has been but a time since I last saw him. His hair is messy, frizzy, in disarray and unmanaged. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and he looks gaunt, as if he has not eaten in several days. I am too startled to speak, so he continues. “I always wondered if it was as beautiful as you and Mallossel always described it to be. I can almost see the beauty here, in this moment, if I were to look past the destruction to what it once was.”
It takes me a moment to find my voice.
“Cuvallorn,” I finally say. “What has happened? Is all well?” I press, taking a step towards him. He does not look at me, his gaze fixated on a cough of smoke that still had not quite reached the heavens.
“Now is not the time for me to explain what has happened,” he murmurs. “A letter has been sent that will reach you, by order of Lord Elrond. I cannot speak of it here and now. I gave my word.”
Cuvallorn never gives his word. I decide, this time, I shall choke back my curiosity and not press it.
“...Why are you here?” I ask instead. The last times he spoke to me in my dreams, they were not pleasant. Seeing as the setting I stepped into was almost worse than before, I had similar expectations now.
“Do you think you so fear the ocean because many of your friends and allies equate you to fire?” He asks, and the question catches me off guard. “After all, what does fire have to fear but water? Even the very air around it gives the blaze life.” He pauses for a moment. “I could state what you clearly expect me to and relate this to your hair. Yes, it is red, but I speak of your temperament instead, Amathlan. You are a slow burning flame that easily sparks into a wildfire. You stay your tongue until you feel insulted or slighted, and you lash out with all of the vicious pride of you and your kin. And just like fire, you do not apologize. Just like fire, you fear to be quenched by the waves.”
“Your barbed tongue cuts deep, Cuvallorn, but I see not the point in your mincing.”
“You will need to wield that fire in your coming hours,” he states with a sharp tone, turning finally to face me. “To temper the flames or to fan them, I care not, but you cannot afford to live in fear of the water any longer.”
“This begs further explanation.”
“I…” he hesitates, and for a moment I see genuine alarm in his eyes. “I cannot give it. I can only ask you to trust me,” he begs. Although we have been long friends, Cuvallorn is always one with multiple things at play. Trusting him blindly is not something that comes easy to me. Yet he suddenly speaks before I get the chance to explain this to him. “The sword is named Gaeralagos.”
My eyes widen.
“Does this mean you left it?” I demand, and he shakes his head in a hurried fashion.
“No. No, I did not leave it. I do not have such power. I was simply told to tell you.”
“Who are you convening with, Cuvallorn?! Who does such fell things and whispers words in your ears? What news do I have waiting for me?!” I demand. It is only then do I realize that I am towering over him, and he is cowering and backing away - though he is not looking directly at me, rather just above my head.
“Nimlach*,” he murmurs suddenly, reaching out and placing a hand to my forehead. As soon as he does so, I hear screams of the people of Gondolin as they flee, and the sounds of war all around me. The nightmare continues.
This time, I cannot help but feel that I am the cause.
image by TheGultGull
*"white fire"
