[alaklondewen]

A bright flash illuminated the sitting room where Arlomë paced across the luxurious rug that ran its length. Rolling thunder followed and the elf rubbed the chill from her arms. “I tell you, Evrathol, something is not right.” Arlomë paused momentarily to look over her son who was nestled in the pillows of the long sofa that faced the fire. Evrathol said nothing, and she continued her course. This had been a strange day indeed. First, her confrontation with Morgôs had led to her first glances of the images that haunted her husband’s mind, but she had not had the time to truly consider the implications of these sketches, however, due to the unexpected visit from the Emissary. That man was dark…and cold. He was a brilliant performer…she could not deny that, but underneath, in the recesses that lay behind his bright eyes, a power the likes of which the elf had not seen for many lifetimes of men rolled and intensely filled him like smoke fills a bottle. The elf ran the meeting through her mind and wondered at the keen interest and knowledge the Emissary had dealing with the properties of the flora that were contained within her garden. More specifically, he asked her about several interactions the plants might have when heated or their extracts combined. Arlomë stopped again, this time in front of the large picture window that overlooked the courtyard. Spinning on her heel, she said, “I do not believe, for a moment, that man had a healthy interest in how our plants might lead to new medicines in his country. He is hiding something. The truth was not what he presented, but something dark.”

“I do not disagree with you, mother.” Evrathol sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “There is something else, I believe, that is going on. Do you feel it?”

“I do,” she said softly. Her eyes drifted down to her slender hands as she nervously ran her thumbs across the tops of her fingernails. After only half of an hour had passed in the gardens, the Emissary had suddenly behaved very strangely. The sky was darkening and it seemed rain was imminent, when he sharply turned his head toward the darkest clouds and narrowed his eyes as though he was reading or making out words from far away. Almost immediately afterward he jolted from the bench, thanking Arlomë quickly, and rather ungraciously, and then bolted from the estate, saying he had a meeting with the King. As though the whole affair did not make her uneasy enough, shortly after his departure, a feeling of dread had fallen on the Avari estate. At first, Arlomë had shaken it off as resulting from the terrible storm that began to rage outside, and she wondered at how Rae repaid the people of Kanak for building a temple to him. At this moment, however, she felt as though some evil was at work, although she knew not how or what actions had fallen upon the city.

“I can go out and seek word if anything has happened this day.” Evrathol offered.

“No, no, son. I would not wish you to brave this storm.” Arlomë turned toward the window again and watched the water beat her beautiful plants and fill the puddles of her pathways.

“I am not afraid of the storm, mother, and I might be able to discover what is causing this alarm that fills us both.” Arlomë turned from the window and searched Evrathol’s face. He was so handsome and brave as he sat before her. She could see the passion in his eyes.

The elf began to walk slowly toward Evrathol as she spoke. “My son, I know you are brave and are able to handle yourself, but I would hope for you to stay with me here.” Her voice was calm, but showed a small amount of vulnerability. “Your presence is calming to me…please stay.” Arlomë knelt and took her son’s hand, gently squeezing it. “I need you here, Evrathol.” She patted his hand and her eyes wondered to the window as she spoke almost under her breath. “If only Elrigon would return to the safety of his home.”

As the name of her husband fell from her lips, Arlomë’s eyes widened and a look of horror passed over her face. Mist covered her eyes and she collapsed at her son’s feet. “Elrigon!” She cried as she fell. Evrathol’s voice calling her name sounded as though it came from a far distance, but she could not respond to him. The veil that lay before her eyes rose momentarily, and she saw that it was not a mist, but dust that was settling. At her feet, Morgôs’ limp body was sprawled out. Tears ran down Arlomë’s cheeks as she fell to her knees and touch his face. Her eyes ran over him and she saw the blood that covered his arm. “Elrigon, this is not your time.” Her voice was firm through her tears. “You are not leaving me, my love.”

“Mother! Wake up! Mother!”

The vision was gone, and Arlomë opened her eyes and gazed into her son’s anxious face. “Evrathol, your father!” Her words were fragmented between labored breaths. “He is in danger…”