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Olwe wakes in a cold sweat, sitting up in his warm bed. Looking down, he sees his hands still clenching the bedsheets. Leaning forward, he slowly uncurls his fists and raises a hand to push back the hair from his face and tries to slow his breathing. The dreams still vivid in his mind, he can almost smell the smoke of burning homes, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the cries of the dying, and shudders. And looming over all, a dark shadow, full of hatred, bent on destruction.
Olwe rose from his bed and crossed the room on bare feet to stare out over the quiet Alqualonde. The same stars have shined down upon the Swanhaven for centuries, but this night they brought no comfort, and their light seemed cold. Gazing up, he catches sight of the moon, and his lips curl in a soft smile. He mouthed a name softly and slowly lowered his gaze upon the still elven city. "Where did you go, oh, my people?" he whispers, a deep haunting sadness in his voice.
"Seek thee, the elven clans, and prepare ye," commanded Irmo, the Valar of Dreams. Olwe pressed his forehead against the cool wall and gazes out the window. "Lord Manwe, mighty King of Arda, bend ear to my plea," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Long have the Teleri dwelled blissfully upon these shores, under the watchful and protective eyes of the Valar. Now, we have been called upon to take up this task..." he paused, exhaling, "and I do not know if I am worthy or equal to the challenge. Mighty king, hear my plea, carried upon the winds to your ears, and grant me your wisdom."
High above, unnoticed to Olwe, an eagle makes a lazy circle, and then flies straight and true to Manwe's throne.
> Next Alqualondë
Olwe wakes in a cold sweat, sitting up in his warm bed. Looking down, he sees his hands still clenching the bedsheets. Leaning forward, he slowly uncurls his fists and raises a hand to push back the hair from his face and tries to slow his breathing. The dreams still vivid in his mind, he can almost smell the smoke of burning homes, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the cries of the dying, and shudders. And looming over all, a dark shadow, full of hatred, bent on destruction.
Olwe rose from his bed and crossed the room on bare feet to stare out over the quiet Alqualonde. The same stars have shined down upon the Swanhaven for centuries, but this night they brought no comfort, and their light seemed cold. Gazing up, he catches sight of the moon, and his lips curl in a soft smile. He mouthed a name softly and slowly lowered his gaze upon the still elven city. "Where did you go, oh, my people?" he whispers, a deep haunting sadness in his voice.
"Seek thee, the elven clans, and prepare ye," commanded Irmo, the Valar of Dreams. Olwe pressed his forehead against the cool wall and gazes out the window. "Lord Manwe, mighty King of Arda, bend ear to my plea," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Long have the Teleri dwelled blissfully upon these shores, under the watchful and protective eyes of the Valar. Now, we have been called upon to take up this task..." he paused, exhaling, "and I do not know if I am worthy or equal to the challenge. Mighty king, hear my plea, carried upon the winds to your ears, and grant me your wisdom."
High above, unnoticed to Olwe, an eagle makes a lazy circle, and then flies straight and true to Manwe's throne.
> Next Alqualondë