Morning
Flashes before my eyes, seconds flying by,
Impression familiar, fleeting apparition
He wakes in a cold sweat. Pain courses up and down his veins. Sindarin feels something tug at his flesh, and then a warm, sticky wetness trickling down the side of his chin. A trembling hand reaches up slowly to touch his face. Bringing it away, Sindarin winces at the sight of the ruby red droplets stained on the tips of his fingers. Moving, his hands and arms shake as they push hay aside. Reaching next to him, the sound of an object scraping on the ground can be heard as he picks up a small, intricately carved lockbox.
His fingers fumble at the clasp holding the box shut. Eventually unclasping it after a few seconds, the hinges open. He brings out a small, beautifully carved wooden mirror. The design of an two leaves, interwoven with each other runs across the surface of the mirror upon which the reflective glass has been inlaid.
Lifting it up, Sindarin looks to himself. A pale, scarred face stares back at him. Blackened, swollen eyes stare at him from the mirror, the edges of them encrusted with dried blood. Large, angry gashes gouge his face. One of the scars seems to have split open. It is this scar that weeps blood, dripping down the side of his face to the floor. His white hair falls limp and lifeless.
Sindarin sighs, holding the mirror down and placing it gently next to him. His head slumps.
Minutes and hours bound together, distance intensifies,
Nothing in my memory, telling me how or why.
The dream burns in his mind.
***
Standing in front of him is a woman dressed entirely in white. Sindarin's heart leaps as he walks towards her. She stands in the center of a wooded grove. Behind her, a sparkling blue lake runs through the heart of the glade. Overhead, the trees gather, parting in the center to let a single, strong ray of sunlight shine through, illuminating the woman.
His heart fluttering like a bird trapped in a gilded cage, Sindarin approaches her slowly. Standing in front of her, he takes her hand in his and he falls to one knee. Smiling, Sindarin brings her hand to his lips. Then, he reaches into his tunic pocket, and he retrieves a gleaming, golden pendant. On its base was the carving of two leaves, interlinked and interwoven with each other. The light reflected off the pendant, glinting from the ray of sunshine that came through.
As he looks up at the woman, the woman whom he had willingly given his heart and soul to, his voice was both strong and clear.
"Lillith Al'Neiana. It does my heart proud to give you this, a token of my everlasting love. My heart is yours Lillith Al'Neiana for all eternity."
On Sindarin's neck was a matching pendant. Two leaves, interwoven and interlinked, belonging together for all eternity.
***
Shaking his head, Sindarin closes his eyes. The vision....it was so strong, so intense. That carving, two leaves curling around with each other, what did it mean? Looking to the carving on the small mirror, Sindarin shakes his head. He cannot remember, and each time he reaches out with grasping, probing thoughts in his consciousness he is denied..... The swirling miasma of grey fog encompasses him, blocking him.
His hand moves up to touch something small hanging around his neck. Golden eyes glance down. A pendant. Hanging around his neck. Shaped like two leaves, interwoven for an eternity and beyond.
"Lillith Al'Neiana," he whispers to himself. The name triggers something deep down inside him. A lingering remnant buried deep within his heart. A sharp wave of agony sudden in its intensity.
There is sorrow attached to that name, but Sindarin.....he does not know why. It is something lost......lost in the swirling veil that engulfs his thoughts and memories.
Screams. Screams and fire.
The sudden onset of another image. The vision....it was so sharp, so clear, so
painful.
Wife? Have I.....was I.....married?
The thought did not make any sense. None of it made any sense. There was a note under the mirror. Picking it up with trembling hands, Sindarin opens it.
To my husband, my heart will remain yours always and forever.
Folding the piece of parchment, he places it gently back in the lockbox, and then puts the mirror back over the parchment. Closing it, he places the lockbox within the folds of the brown leather jerkin that he wore.
Soft words escape from cracked and parched lips.
"How can I find answers when I don't even know what the questions are?"
Breathing heavily, he glances around. Golden eyes take in their surroundings. A cold, dirt floor. Around him are cobwebs. At the far side of the room were broken cogs and other assorted machinery. It was almost as if there had been noone here for a while.....and outside of Sindarin, who was to say that there had been?
Clenching his fist, Sindarin closes his eyes in frustration. He had lost track of the amount of time he had dwelt within this old mill. The days had began to blur into each other. One day after the next, all the while searching for something that he could not possibly understand. The memories that were lost to him. Yet, if nothing else, the mill allowed him some small respite from the world at large. For the most part, noone passed, and when they did, Sindarin found it easy to hide the traces of his passing. Opening his hand, he closes his eyes. A small flame springs up into life in the middle of his palm, he watches it for a second before closing it. The flame disappears. Yes, it was best that the Mage Hunters did not know of his presence. The conjuring of the small light was but a simple cantrip, yet Sindarin dared not do more. The results of the magic that burned within him were.....unpredictable at best. His magic produced unexpected results, and there were times that this acted as a boon to him, and times that it was a hindrance. Yet he had learned through the long, painful roll of years not to call upon it unless it was absolutely necessary, for more reason than one.
Each day was the same. Wake. Forage. Search for answers that were never forthcoming. Sleep. Yet, even though this existence was empty, it was life.
Reaching backwards, Sindarin pulls the hood over his head, concealing his features.
It would not do for one to gaze upon his scarred features.
Sindarin exits the mill. As he opens the door, as he steps inside into the sunlight.....as he heads outside one more time, a ghost follows him. The ghost of a woman dressed in white, long blonde hair spilling down as it glints from the sunlight. She watches him, and she waits patiently.
She waits for the day that he frees himself from the prison that he has trapped himself deep within. She whispers, a voice that he will never hear again.
"I have died.....and I am the lucky one. I am free."
Perhaps Sindarin will never be free. Perhaps he will be imprisoned for an eternity and beyond, trapped within his own mind.
***
It is afternoon when Sindarin returns. The crystal clear water of the nearby blue lake yielded its bounty, enough for the lost elf to live another day. Yet deep down he is empty and lost -- searching for answers that he cannot yet find.
Oblivious to what has happened inside the mill since he left, and the group around and within it, conflict brewing like a storm on the horizon, he takes one step after another, unaware as he does so that his path takes him towards change. Change, and perhaps the key to unlock a door. Would such be the strange hand of fate playing itself one more time?
As he approaches slowly, the scarred elf is unaware of one more thing. Another presence, watching him approach......