The woman across the table comes into focus like a figure approaching through heavy fog. Once she is whole, the world around her blooms into view, rising and coloring the Fade in uneven splashes. The change draws the spirits that linger in the library, as idly interested as Beleth is, but their presence is different. As they near, a true sense of Doraith emerges, the sense of community and population, the taste of summer and safety, and for a moment everything is content. The sound of surf becomes the whisper of leaves and the far-off creak of heavy, hardy branches. The candle at Galadriel's arm burns low and, as it expires, swaying dappled shadow settles over the library.
Beleth's hand stretches across the distance toward the woman but, as expected, it passes through her shimmering gown and her long, dark hair. She does not take notice, conversing as she is with the shape of an elf alongside her. As Beleth's hand sinks through her, however, the whole of her blurs, just slightly, and rises away, like a gleaming halo settled across her shoulders. She laughs, bright and brilliant but the sound is louder than it ought to be.
Half a second later, the crows above startle and a cacophonous rattle of feathers and cages drowns her out.
To dream of her friend and those ancient gardens is a gift, but like all dreams it is both fleeting and fickle. Despite Beleth's gift of a blanket, Galadriel is feverish and cold and the stir of birds and air in the tower creates a thready draft. A shiver nearly topples Galadriel's precariously balanced head and, as her head slips in her grip, the whole of the dream around them is jarred along with her.
The woman, in that instant, is two at once. The old memory is soft and gentle, but the new one is not. The second woman who stands, at once, in the same space as the first, is wrapped in a grey cloak rather than summer silks and she is as wholly different from the first as she can be. Her hair is spun silver, bound and tied back, and where the memory of Melian was warm and indistinct, this woman is real and sharp, enough to be alarming. She does not sing, nor smile, and as she turns to speak, Galadriel's head sinks again and both phantoms burst apart like smoke struck by a breeze.
For several seconds there is nothing of note save, perhaps, the faint scent of pipeweed.
Unfortunately, though the sounds have ceased and the figures vanished, Galadriel is not awake. Her posture is strange and uncomfortable, her head rests heavily across the inside of her forearm, her back is curled at an odd angle as she rests against the table, but she still slumbers.
The dappled shadow around them grows more uniform and, as her dream reshapes the Fade, there is a certain tension to it. The sense of songbirds and deep forests are swallowed up, gradually, and before long only the sense of deep remains. Where other spirits had hovered before, caught in the edge of ancient dreams, now they were absent. Only the most curious among them remained and they drifted far, away from the shadows that had taken the elves.
no subject
Beleth's hand stretches across the distance toward the woman but, as expected, it passes through her shimmering gown and her long, dark hair. She does not take notice, conversing as she is with the shape of an elf alongside her. As Beleth's hand sinks through her, however, the whole of her blurs, just slightly, and rises away, like a gleaming halo settled across her shoulders. She laughs, bright and brilliant but the sound is louder than it ought to be.
Half a second later, the crows above startle and a cacophonous rattle of feathers and cages drowns her out.
To dream of her friend and those ancient gardens is a gift, but like all dreams it is both fleeting and fickle. Despite Beleth's gift of a blanket, Galadriel is feverish and cold and the stir of birds and air in the tower creates a thready draft. A shiver nearly topples Galadriel's precariously balanced head and, as her head slips in her grip, the whole of the dream around them is jarred along with her.
The woman, in that instant, is two at once. The old memory is soft and gentle, but the new one is not. The second woman who stands, at once, in the same space as the first, is wrapped in a grey cloak rather than summer silks and she is as wholly different from the first as she can be. Her hair is spun silver, bound and tied back, and where the memory of Melian was warm and indistinct, this woman is real and sharp, enough to be alarming. She does not sing, nor smile, and as she turns to speak, Galadriel's head sinks again and both phantoms burst apart like smoke struck by a breeze.
For several seconds there is nothing of note save, perhaps, the faint scent of pipeweed.
Unfortunately, though the sounds have ceased and the figures vanished, Galadriel is not awake. Her posture is strange and uncomfortable, her head rests heavily across the inside of her forearm, her back is curled at an odd angle as she rests against the table, but she still slumbers.
The dappled shadow around them grows more uniform and, as her dream reshapes the Fade, there is a certain tension to it. The sense of songbirds and deep forests are swallowed up, gradually, and before long only the sense of deep remains. Where other spirits had hovered before, caught in the edge of ancient dreams, now they were absent. Only the most curious among them remained and they drifted far, away from the shadows that had taken the elves.
They were alone.