The Silverleaf (LOTR Fanfiction)

Iavás Lû

Yávië (Harvest Autumn)           3rd month, year 1101 TA

Tick. Tick.

A cold wind clawed at her face, the particles of snow like knives at the command of the heavens.

Tick. Tick.

She stared at the clock that stood upon the table in front of her. Solemn faces lined her vision, all watching her.

Tick. Tick.

The contents of the table blurred red in her vision.

A dagger dripping blood, a book containing instructions for poison, a spider curled around its pin, still jerking in the throes of death. A book open to a brittle page of old, swirling script.

Concerning the-

Tick. Tick.

And the memory flashed before her eyes, leaving nothing but an empty table and a hollowness inside, like the solemn faces were awaiting a decision she did not want to make.

"Time is running out, high king," A lofty voice spoke up, "time is running out. The waters are rising, and we shall all fall."

Time is running out.

"No ships are left to carry us away. What would you have us do? Time is running out."

The dizzying pressure of her head was ringing, ringing.

Tick. Tick.

Time is running out. The murmurs of the solemn faces seemed to rise to her, all repeating what she could not understand.

Time is running out.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick. Tick.

Tick.

Rîniel awoke in a cold sweat, her blankets in tangles and the fire in the hearth glinting off of her heated brow. It was too hot, too hot. She stumbled out of bed, taking the water jar sitting on the chest next to the bed and smashing it onto the fire, the sizzling noise and billowing smoke stinging her eyes. Her emotions swung out of control as she sank to the floor, exhausted.

Time must have passed before she opened her eyes and found the shattered remains of the jar digging gashes into her splayed palms. She gasped with pain as she pulled the bloodied shards out and threw them into the ashes of the extinguished flames. Slowly rising, she moved swiftly towards her trunk she had brought from home. The lid creaked open and she coughed, slightly peeved that she had not chosen a different trunk to take that had less dust in its hinges.

The blood was dripping, dripping onto her silver garment. She quickly ripped an under-cloth she had brought with her into shreds and tied them tightly around her palms.

Memory after memory. She wanted to cry out from the pain and the knowledge a few cuts would leave faint scars, yet she knew these were not hers to complain against.

"Oh Irmo, would it be that my memories were not so harmful," she murmured. Perhaps the great Vala could hear her in all her turmoil.