#noldorianking

11) A drabble about my muse’s worst enemy.

The sheets were damp with perspiration.  It was a balmy, humid night but the dreams were stressful and terrifying.  A sweat broke out from the mere thought of the reality of them.  He tossed, with little regard to the maia sprawled out next to him and seemed oblivious to the fist that landed squarely on his chest.  

Círdan curled against the comforting form even as his brows furrowed deeply, fisting a handful of the sheets.  A low groan escaped as the images became more and more vivid, more distinct as if seen through the present rather than the mind’s eye.  

A stranger at their gates, clad in finery and fair beyond measure even for their own kin.  Promising them jewels and technologies and the glorious future being all but within their grasp.  He stood before them and there was something more to his substance there and it was familiar.  It actually reminded him of Ossë - something far more powerful and large than what he truly seemed.  It was concerning because this was something that was bound to happen.

Rather than seeing that scene play out, the dream blurred and the timeline changed to something that he could only assume was the future.  It was a battle.  There stood the mighty figure in armor that gleamed in the dull light of the ashen land.  Standing there over the remains of others, others that he recognized via their crowns or sigils embroidered onto their mantles.  There was one mantle, a resplendent blue with the stars that he had seen daily since he took in the young Noldor prince as a would-be king but now a true king.

A mantle resting upon the burned and charred remains of the now former king with the spear broken by his side.  It was all he could do to look up from what had been Gil-galad, now broken and made no more, to the darker force standing there and the bright gleam of a ring on his finger that burned and gave off a greater sense of dread than the mourning and anguish his heart started to grasp.

Círdan awoke with a shout, sitting up quickly and looking around the room as if there would be some manner of a threat but there was only Ossë looking up at him with wide, curious eyes.  ”Just dreams,” he murmured but his hands were still shaking and sweat clung to his brow and trickled into his beard.

Estë shook her head, hands glowing a faint white as she turned her thought to the Elf before her. His wounds were great indeed, but there was hope for him yet. And yes was determined to save him, if indeed she could.