Aeshaeidr draws her hand around the rim of her cup. "I do not wish to go back," she murmurs, fearful of any present who may know her face or her name outside of her companions. "I will not be welcomed back in Forlaw, not with open arms and not with warmth. But Thorvall's dream I found especially troubling after having my own, which has plagued me for the past week."
She lowers her eyes again. "When I fall asleep has become later and rarer for fear of this dream." She heaves another sigh. "It always starts out the same--warm. I am walking in the sun, and I feel warmed by it. The river, wide and long and what I believe to be the Anduin, though I have only seen it twice, stretches out beside me. The path that I walk down, dirt-trodden and dusty is lined and shaded with the sleepy tendrils of the willow trees; sometimes their fronds caress me, but I am never frightened by them. It is familiar, like a mother's embrace, each touch fleeting and replaced by another just as comforting. The walk is long, and carries on, though I do not weary. I walk always until sunset, and then that is when the path ends; or, rather it worsens, and becomes as mud beneath my feet."
With a sniff, Aeshaeidr repositions herself upright again, having fallen back into a hunched slouch during her recount. "Two great willows arch overhead, and I must trudge through the mud to pass. But every time I stop between them, and I stare, for what lies before me are not the green plains of the North. I stare out between these great willow trees over an expanse of snow; white, glistening, untouched by any hand or foot of man or beast. Endlessly white, and blinding. Yet in the distance I can make out figures, movement. I see a man, the figure of one, and he stands facing a great beast. It reminds me of stories my mother shared."
"But then suddenly comes a great roar like crashing water, like drums echoing across the empty field. Men, or Orc, I cannot tell for their hatred and their wrath, on the backs of black steeds ride through; they have come to slay the beast, I know this, and I wish to stop it. Yet when I try to move I am stuck, and when I extend my arm it is as like a bough of a willow tree; weak and guided like the wind, and I can do nothing but watch; a stray arrow or the slash of blade, and they have slew the man instead. Only then am I allowed to move, and when I blink, I am the one holding the bloodied weapon. And when I drop it, the dream has ended. And I know I will face it again the next night."
