There were fell voices on the air. Whispers that I could make no sense of. The wind was cold and biting against my skin. It howled and moaned in my ears, but still, the whispers were tangible. My feet cannot move through the snow. Is it snow? Is it something else? I cannot move.
I look up to see an altar. It is pagan and defiant. Symbols of the east, but worse, in blood and etched into the stone and wood, symbols of the Great Eye. Lying across the altar I see a man - no, it is a bear - and his hair has been shorn and rent crudely; mocking laughter of dwarves, and men and orcs alike ring in my ears, drowning out the whispers of the wind. I look above the altar and see a swallow flying high in the sky. For a moment there is hope, but a wicked arrow strikes it down, and its corpse collapses atop that of the bear’s. There is grief and anguish, and I could taste blood on the air.
A lion weeps for the death of the bear and the swallow. Vengeance sets in his eyes; it is a look I know all too well. Behind the beast, the lion, the pride calls out for blood. They call for blood. They call for blood. The sky turns red with the ichor of the men they would ruin. The cub falls. The Lion rises. They still call for blood. The frost begins to melt. I can move. I look up to see the sun rising to red dawn. There are seven stars in my line of sight. Seven figures in the dark. As the light of dawn sets upon them, they fade from view; they fade from the night. I race towards them as a grey mist sets over the plains of battle. My footsteps are an uneven beat to drums that are pounding in my ear. Only the lion still stands.
The drums. The drums. The drums. The drums the drums the drums the drums
They pound in my ears, in my mind; they echo like thunder across the plains. The crashing of steel is like lightning; it is a cacophony of war, a cacophony of the cries for blood and martyrs. The frost is gone and I stand now encircled in flames and fire. The lion and those who follow him fight fiercely; we are all set aglow as if the sun itself had put its fire on us. The mighty serpent falls beneath the crushing weight of his opponent; his venom is spent. His scales are rent and his fangs are broken. Beneath the Great Eye, the spear is blunted, but not broken. It stands crossed with its brother under the symbol of that great evil.
I race towards the lion once more. My feet are off-beat with the drumming that shakes in my skull. Blood and murk spray up beneath my boots as I run. Step. Pound. Step. Pound. Step. Pound. Step, pound. Step, pound. Step-pound Step-pound Step-pound STEPPOUNDSTEPPOUNDSTEPPOUND
Water is filling my lungs. I gasp for breath, trying to haul myself to the surface as the waves crash and toss me around. It is merciless, and rocks shave against my skin, and they draw blood. I can not tell which way is up, and I fruitlessly move towards the light. Just as I feel as though I will sink, I break through into fresh air. It is cold and crisp, and I cough, trying to expel the frigid waters from my chest. I manage to drag myself to the banks and drag myself up. I know this river. This is the Anduin.
I look around to try to make sense of what I am seeing. I haul myself onto my chest, coughing up the water of the Anduin. I sit up and exhale shakily, a deep cold dread settled into all of me. Further along the banks, I see him. The Lion. His mane has been shorn away. His body is bent and broken. Somehow he has the strength to stand; like a guardian, a protector, he remains. The creature turns to look at me and there is something too familiar in his eyes, something too much like someone I once knew; there is a resignation in his gaze that tells me exactly what I feared shall come to pass, or it shall not, and only he shall know. I know those eyes. I know those eyes. I know those eyes. Those eyes those eyes those eyes those eyes they burn
When I wake up this time, it is with a gasp. I sit up in the bed, and Ithilwe is frightened awake as well. My heart is racing in my chest and I cannot get the pounding to cease. I fly out of the bed and the second that my feet touch the floor do my senses betray me. Though I stumble for my trunk on the floor through the dark, my vision swims all the same. My head pounds in an ache the same beat as those accursed drums. It is all I can do to remain upright.
“Amathlan? Amathlan!” Ithilwe hisses in a whisper as he rouses from the bed as well. I have thrown the trunk open and am dressing for war by the time he reaches me. I tighten my belt and hold with whitened knuckles the hilt of my sword. “What are you doing?” He demands, grabbing me by my shoulder. I am too faint to resist him as he wheels me around to face him. His eyes are sunken and tired, struggling to focus on mine, but they still search mine relentlessly for some semblance of an answer.
My hands tremble as I release the hold on my blade. He takes my hands in his, squeezing them gently in an attempt to reassure me to speak. The wavering of my voice does little to belie my fear.
“I thought we had more time.”
