[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘The sea . . . and so close. I can smell it faintly.’ Giledhel turned a puzzled face toward the three Orcs. ‘How is this so?’

Up from their stony resting place, the four sat huddled together. The figures of the Orcs she noted, even as the last of her question hung in the air, had begun to waver and thin out, to fade. And she, herself, felt lighter somehow.

‘How is this so?’

The question caromed off the crumbling walls of the room; knocking away as it was considered, again and yet again, bits and pieces of her closely woven fantasies. They had told her in the early days, she now remembered, what had happened to this place that was her home. And had soon grown silent with this news of the changes that had been wrought when she could not, would not, hear of them.

Giledhel’s mind became clearer as the gauzy layers of fantasy fluttered away in the salty breezes. There against the wall slumped a familiar figure. ‘Malris?’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘He has grown so careworn.’ She drew near him, one insubstantial hand touching against his face. ‘And never have I seen him look so defeated.’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came Gorgu’s now thin, reedy voice. ‘Your Malris has come at last.’

‘But not for me,’ she returned, drawing back to where the Orcs had all but faded. ‘He lives. And I . . . I have been dead these many years . . . ages, even. Dead and clinging to what now are only long gone dreams . . .’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came the faintly whispered answers.

The pull of the sea grew stronger against her. She felt it lave her bones to their core. Amidst the surging of the waves, the Orcs’ bones rose and fell and rose again, breaking apart in the strong, insistent waters.

‘Go on,’ she called to them as they turned to shimmering mists borne on the westered air.

Giledhel’s gaze turned back to Malris. ‘Fare well, once and always beloved.’ With an even look she surveyed the figure of the woman who huddled against him. ‘May you find some measure of comfort, Malris. I will not hold you any longer to that long dead promise. It serves no purpose any longer, save for ill.’

The grace of the Valar be on you . . .

And even as her voice, her presence faded from the cold, shadowed room there came a strong wind, and the remnants of that long rotted weaving were caught in the currents and borne away.