Friends of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams

[mark12_30]

There were no shackles that bound him, so why could he not move? He could see nothing; feel nothing; hear nothing; touch nothing; smell--

His stomach churned. The smell-- a dusty smell of neglect, of mould, of lifeless rot.

In the darkness, he knew the silence that surrounded him; silence of stone rings, stone walls, stone circles, unmoving, unalive. All around him the dusty smell of age and decay wafted. Near, too near, was a sickly sweet smell-- death and more death. Tombs. The tombs of men; tombs of kings and soldiers and stewards; row upon row of rotting bodies lying in ring upon ring of stone.

He thought of the mounds of Rohan; simple mounds, in rows. Grass covered them; flowers grew upon them. Death within, but life without. No such green graced the stones that ringed him round. Heavy, heavy, weighing down his spirit even more than his body, the dull lifeless stone and the dust of age and decay stole even his breath. Soundlessly, he cried out. An answer touched the echo of his cry.

My lord, I am here.

Erebemlin!

Courage, my lord.

As quickly, the life-thoughts stilled. He sought them, reaching, grasping, groping. Stone closed ever closer round him. The dusty, mouldy smell of decay gave way to the sweet stench of rot, and he knew no more.