Friends of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams

[littlemanpoet]

"I answered your question I hope?" Aeron asked.

In a manner of speaking, he had; but it was not the kind of answer Raefindan had been seeking. Before he answered, he studied Gwyllion; what she had said about curves and roots had moved him, like a hand stirring the water of a deep, murky pool that had lain still and cold for a long time. Raefindan turned to Aeron.

"You did. I had been thinking that there must have been some old, hardened ragroot of a man who you often hung about, had used the word, and you had caught and owned it for yourself. But maybe not. Mind you, I am not all rock, myself, and I have been known to pine. Man and woman are not so easily set apart from each other as you might think. Is that not so, Gwyllion?"

She beamed back at him, thrilled that he honored her thought back to her. "Yes, it is so! You are a wise man!"

Aeron laughed. "Only because he agreed with you!"

Raefindan grinned, then stretched and yawned. "It is time for me to turn in. Good night to the both of you."

The bid him a good sleep, and he left them by the fire. Jorje's head came up, and he watched Raefindan walking away. He trotted around the fire and fell in step at Raefindan's heel.

"Good dog."

It had been a long, hard day, filled with trouble. It seemed that Ravion and Mellonin were trying to mend fences, which was good. Raefindan climbed into his sleeping mat, and Jorje huddled beside him; he was glad for the extra warmth. He soon fell asleep.

His dreams were troubled again. He retraced his steps through the mountains, following the path he had trod the day he had hunted for Mithrellas. He came to the cliff edge between to monolithic boulders that joined to form a rough arch. Mithrellas's body was there, as it always was, broken on the rock below as if she had just fallen a minute ago. He despaired. His son and daughter had turned their backs on him in his mourning, choosing to find happiness away from home in Dol Amroth. He could not find joy, never again. He leaned forward, tipped, his knees locked straight, he leaned further, his head dropped below his feet and he fell. The fall was long ... would it never end? The rock strewn gorge sped up to him. The rocks were marbles, then fists, then maces, then battering rams, then boulders, and then contact. He woke up. Was he dead? It did not seem like the floor of a gorge. No, it was very cold. He could see stars above, and the snoring of another. Ravion. He was in the marsh of the Entwash. He shook his head again. He feared that he would dream that dream again. Sleep fled far away for the rest of the night.