Something Un-Feanorian by Himring

Chapter 1

Beleriand: A dreamscape.

The trees are burning. No, they are houses. Why did I think they were trees? But suddenly they are trees again, throwing out long thorny branches to catch me, to tear at me.

No, they are houses. Flames lick down from the rafters; they run up doorways to the lintels and along window sills. These are no longer the abode of any living thing. Fire dwells there. Burning debris is whipped about the narrow streets by a rising wind. Half-seen figures run at me. I hardly even glimpse the raised swords in their hands—and suddenly they are no longer there.

Searing heat crisps my skin. No, it is the thorns—ripping, tearing at me. I was looking for something. What was I looking for? Where are the children?

With that thought, I become aware that I am dreaming and that it is not my own dream I am dreaming. I recognize the dream, because I have shared it before. I know who the dreamer is.

I run through narrow streets, chasing fire, being chased by fire. I am looking for the children; I am sure it must be the children I am looking for. But the trees keep getting in the way. No, they are people, attacking me. But are they people? Their arms are like clutching branches; their hair is flame. They shout at me but I cannot hear what they say.

He is dreaming of Sirion again. He is dreaming of Doriath.

I cannot stop. I cannot stop. The world is on fire. I am screaming myself; it is my screams that are coming out of their mouths. I kill everyone in my way, and everyone I kill is my own self. Where, where are the children?

I call out his name, silently, in my head—and even as I do so, he becomes aware of my presence and at once he tries to push me out of his dream.

Flame roars all about us. We run, we run—along the narrow winding streets, through woods and bushy undergrowth—lashing out, being lashed out against.

It was no part of any Feanorian strategy that the Havens of Sirion should burn, I know. There was nobody they wanted to kill, all they wanted was the Silmaril, and the ensuing chaos could hardly serve their purpose. Their plan had been straightforward: scale the walls from the south, drawing as little notice as possible, secure the route to the palace, surround it, surprising the guards, obtain the Silmaril, and withdraw again before the defenders should get a chance to concentrate their forces.

But they had seen what had happened at Alqualonde. They had seen what had happened at Doriath. When everything, but everything, went wrong with their simple, straightforward plan, and the whole place went up in smoke, they were not at all surprised. They were under no illusions about what they were doing; they knew the risks. They made no attempt to conceal that from us.

But still Maedhros is trying to push me out of his dream. He does not want me to see what comes next. And although I try to tell him that I have seen it already, more than once, and he cannot protect me this way, he refuses to listen. And because he is trying to push me out of his dream, because he is trying to spare me the sight, I cannot gain purchase on his mind, cannot wake him up, however hard I try. He pushes, while I pull, both ineffectually…

…and we stumble onwards, through thorn, through flame, while high-pitched, cold laughter rings in our ears—and I just hope that it is Morgoth who is laughing, because the other possibilities are even more disquieting. And suddenly space opens up around us, and it seems we have stumbled out of burning Sirion, out of the hostile woods of Doriath in which Maedhros searched for Elured and Elurin in vain, into a place I have never seen, awake or asleep, and I wonder whether it is one of the great cities of northern Beleriand that I have heard about, but it is all in ruins—well, they are all in ruins now—and yet I have not heard of any that looked quite like this…

But the dream still ends the same. In a shallow pit beside the charred remains of the hall he finally finds the two boys. Sometimes their faces are indistinct; sometimes they have red hair. In his dreams, he cannot always distinguish us very well from our uncles, or from Amrod and Amras. But this time our faces are clearly defined; it is Elros and me, at exactly the age we are at now. We are corpses, of course; we always are. Our throats have been cut, and once again, I feel the desolation and grief of Maedhros as he realizes he has done it with his own hand.