“Yet this I give to thee. It is not of great value, to your eyes, yet the power within shall wield as a mighty flame. Go now, and you shall see thy path as thy fate decrees. Fare ye well, my friend.”
The dream was long, yet it was not real. There had been no light, no choir of beautiful voices that had sent a thousand shards of silver down his spine in a deep blue sky as rich as velvet, and pricked with a thousand stars.
Rain still came, falling in a somber beat akin to war drums as it pounded his salvaged body from the sky. Wounds heals and wrath boils and the foolish attack in an instant.
And the ready bide their time.
Dawn had come, and as the sun tried to splay its vast and brilliant beams upon the earth the dank darkness of the land absorbed every ray of light. Wooden huts could be seen in the distance, and a thain sat in a hall and sleapt.
He rose slowly from the ground, weary and stiff, yet his eyes and ears remained keen. Suprise was what he had waited for. And only one chance could be proved. Whatever honour and justice remained in the world deserved this chance, this revenge.
All the others had gone. Thrown out or idley didgarded. Yet the thain had underestimatied him. He was still here, watching. Waiting.
And as ice the steel glinted against the air, such shimmering patterns captured in this blade from the fires in the forge. Of hell. And as the abode of Angmar is to be enterd he creapt towards the hall, silently, barely daring to breathe the sodden air thick with a misty fog, a heavy dew.
And the rain became a cover, silencing the soft snap of a fallen twig, a sudden breath.
And the mist became a cloke, covering the silver, the brown, the copper.
The eyes; the face; him.
And he reached the hall unchallenged, reached the great oak doors carven with many runes and ravens and gods. A hand reached out. Touched the cold solidity of the brass fittings, gently pulled the door, teasing it, whispering so as to silence the rusty hinges and the swollen wood as the great door swung open and the hall of the thain was revealed. How had he underestimated him?
He stepped up to the darkness within…
Dawn had come, and the sun tried to splay its vast and brilliant beams upon the earth the dank darkness of the land slowly yielded, and the day began, warmed by a fierce red sun.
“Art thou not to see what thy eyes behold before thee?” hissed the snake of a hundred lies, as he fell, and lay upon the floor, poised as a cobra ready to strike, “thy truth”, he laughed as he spoke this word, “sould not stand to be the downfall of one so mighty, so loved by his people.”
Already he was trying to move from the sodden floor, his rank blonde hair matted with greese, and his pale face scarred by the pox. His lordly firs, as once they had been, were now the dwellings of fleas and lice, and smelled of old mead and the dongs that once took him for dead as they had tried to feast upon his unconcious body as he lay in a state riddled with meat and ale, as he often was.
This man was the not the man that he once had desired to be. A corrupt man, a liar, a thief and many more the masks he wore to fool the world. And now what had he done? He had never desires this. A land lay in the midst of a civil war, a king lay in fear of assination, and he?
He lay upon the floor smelling of a foul marsh.
Again he tried to rise, to plead, to beg. The king was goin to make this right, he had said it, he had said it; and yet this man wanted to set it to rights too, to help, for once, to aid his kin, whom he had all but left to die, to burn, to starve. And he felt somthing, an echo of long ago it felt to his heart, pity, guilt, remorse.
He could have had anything, at one time. Anything his heart desired. He could have had happiness, a wife, a family; but this he did not choose. He had chosen riches, gold and silver, mithril and rubies. And he had ruined the lives of thoes who did not do as he wanted: death without glory awaited him now.
The thain, tall and weary stood, and looked at him, not with the hate and sickness that the man had expected after his influance on this all, but with a look of pity, of feeling, of sadness. He couldn’t take it any more. He reached a quivering arm towards the thain, but he just turned, and walked away, his footsteaps echoing loudly in the vastness of the dawn, leaving the man to weep like an unloved child, and he realised what he had done.
The thain stopped before the great carven doors, the faces of his gods bearing down before him, as the thiain willed thoes unseeing eyes to forgive him, to give him another chance, to give his people another chance. He fell to his knees and the doors opened, creaking silently, and a bloor red light filled the room. Another stood before the thain, sword drawn, gleaming in the rich sunrise, and the thain fell, weeping before him.