{date unknown}
The great swan conveying Olwe deposited him safely at the base of Mount Taniquetil, the holy Mountain and tallest of the Peloir Mountains on the edge of Valinor. In gratitude, Olwe bowed to the snowy swan and strokes the luminous soft feathery head as the bird bows its head in return. Then the swan turned away and without a backward glance and a great flap of its mighty wings, the bird took to the air and flew away.
Wearily, Olwe made camp and build a small firelight with twigs and branches. Exhausted beyond thought, Olwe rolled himself into his bedroll, and fell asleep.
Then the dream began....
The skies were angry, dark steel, with black clouds rolling across the sky swiftly. The ground was mud beneath his feet. His armor, cloak, and boots were splattered with it, and water had seeped into his boots over the days of travelling in hard, pounding rain. Olwe's eyes roamed constantly up and down the line of elven warrior file past him, their coloring shown a myriad of lineages, all of them wearing determined expressions, somber, alert, anxious.
Some faces, he could swear he knew, though he had never seen their countenance before. And as they continue to march past him, his heart pounded hard in his chest, and he looked nervous behind and before the train.
Suddenly the ground beneath them heave. Horses screamed, rearing. A discordant wave of elven voices rose, all startled, all in confusion. Olwe turned and ran toward the head of the column, as fast as elven legs would carry him, but in his dreams, the air itself wrapped thick arms about his pistoning legs, dragging at him. No matter how fast he would run, it would never be fast enough, he realized. He felt the air about him change, grow more dangerous. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he drew up to a halt, lifting his eyes slowly to the skies.
Above them, a cloud swirled and twisted upon itself. Silence descended upon the column of elves as all their eyes, as one, looked up, watching the cloud. Like black fingers, it seemed to clench and then the "hand" opened, fingers outstretched, and began to move toward them all. A fear clenched Olwe's heart, and he looked wildly around at the elves still staring. "RETREAT, " he screamed at them. "Hurrry, hurry, retreat."
He began to yell, reaching for the nearest horses, jerking on their bridles and turn them back the way they came, shaking riders out of a disbelieving stupor. "HURRY, HURRY, turn the column....NOW!"
His eyes fastened upon a couple of rangers..."Spread the word, down the line, " he shouted. He watched as the line turned on itself with agonizing slowness. Then he heard the screams of those who were first in the line and their mounts. Jerking his head around, he saw the cloud descend and both elves and mounts fall screaming to the
ground, and lie still. Somewhere, someone screams his name, but he still moves among those elves who are riding, running, fleeing from the cloud, the miasma that is bringing low their comrades.
Then the very air about him blackened and he raised an arm, pressing his sleeve to his nose, trying to breathe through his mouth, using the fabric as a filter, but his throat burned, seared, and his eyes watered. his nose dwas filled with a foul stench, and he chokes back bile. He tried to keep moving to, herd and press others before him, to run, to fly to safety, but his head started swimming and his knees felt weak. Stumbling, he took a few more steps, his lungs struggling for fresh, clean air.
He felt himself faling to the ground, his body screaming for air, needing air...falling....falling.....
He gasped and jerked away, the fire cold, his body in a cold sweat. He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around his legs, rocking a little. Slowly his breath eases, and he draws in a deep breath, as if he may never take another, and slowly lets it out. He turns a troubled gaze to the skies, to the moon, whose trip across the heavens was nearly completed. Then he slowly rose and began to break camp. "Today, I will see the face of Lord Manwe, " he whispers. "I pray he gives my spirit rest...and hope."
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Wearily, Olwe made camp and build a small firelight with twigs and branches. Exhausted beyond thought, Olwe rolled himself into his bedroll, and fell asleep.
Then the dream began....
The skies were angry, dark steel, with black clouds rolling across the sky swiftly. The ground was mud beneath his feet. His armor, cloak, and boots were splattered with it, and water had seeped into his boots over the days of travelling in hard, pounding rain. Olwe's eyes roamed constantly up and down the line of elven warrior file past him, their coloring shown a myriad of lineages, all of them wearing determined expressions, somber, alert, anxious.
Some faces, he could swear he knew, though he had never seen their countenance before. And as they continue to march past him, his heart pounded hard in his chest, and he looked nervous behind and before the train.
Suddenly the ground beneath them heave. Horses screamed, rearing. A discordant wave of elven voices rose, all startled, all in confusion. Olwe turned and ran toward the head of the column, as fast as elven legs would carry him, but in his dreams, the air itself wrapped thick arms about his pistoning legs, dragging at him. No matter how fast he would run, it would never be fast enough, he realized. He felt the air about him change, grow more dangerous. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he drew up to a halt, lifting his eyes slowly to the skies.
Above them, a cloud swirled and twisted upon itself. Silence descended upon the column of elves as all their eyes, as one, looked up, watching the cloud. Like black fingers, it seemed to clench and then the "hand" opened, fingers outstretched, and began to move toward them all. A fear clenched Olwe's heart, and he looked wildly around at the elves still staring. "RETREAT, " he screamed at them. "Hurrry, hurry, retreat."
He began to yell, reaching for the nearest horses, jerking on their bridles and turn them back the way they came, shaking riders out of a disbelieving stupor. "HURRY, HURRY, turn the column....NOW!"
His eyes fastened upon a couple of rangers..."Spread the word, down the line, " he shouted. He watched as the line turned on itself with agonizing slowness. Then he heard the screams of those who were first in the line and their mounts. Jerking his head around, he saw the cloud descend and both elves and mounts fall screaming to the
ground, and lie still. Somewhere, someone screams his name, but he still moves among those elves who are riding, running, fleeing from the cloud, the miasma that is bringing low their comrades.
Then the very air about him blackened and he raised an arm, pressing his sleeve to his nose, trying to breathe through his mouth, using the fabric as a filter, but his throat burned, seared, and his eyes watered. his nose dwas filled with a foul stench, and he chokes back bile. He tried to keep moving to, herd and press others before him, to run, to fly to safety, but his head started swimming and his knees felt weak. Stumbling, he took a few more steps, his lungs struggling for fresh, clean air.
He felt himself faling to the ground, his body screaming for air, needing air...falling....falling.....
He gasped and jerked away, the fire cold, his body in a cold sweat. He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around his legs, rocking a little. Slowly his breath eases, and he draws in a deep breath, as if he may never take another, and slowly lets it out. He turns a troubled gaze to the skies, to the moon, whose trip across the heavens was nearly completed. Then he slowly rose and began to break camp. "Today, I will see the face of Lord Manwe, " he whispers. "I pray he gives my spirit rest...and hope."
> Next Olwë > Next Alqualondë