Night Visions by Lingwiloke

Chapter 1

Written for B2MeM 2017 Prompt and Path: "Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn." (Mahatma Ghandi). Green Path, Square Eight. (Apparently I just... forgot to crosspost this until now?)

This got unexpectedly dark – I thought at first the prompt seemed rather upbeat, but… no.

Read Chapter 1

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die

There are screams. It is dark, a suffocating, impenetrable, present dark, searing cold, air filled with the stench of blood and death and foul things, choking, choking him, and there are always screams - heart-rending, gut-wrenching, unending screams, and he knows them, he cannot place it but he knows that voice - and that one - and that - and they are dying, and it is his fault, for bringing them here, for failing them, for not being stronger, smarter, more cautious, wise - It stops, and then it starts again, and again, and then - glowing eyes in the dark, slavering jaws, claws, teeth, rending flesh- Pain. Pain pain pain he is being torn apart, it hurts, it hurts so badly but there is that voice, some shred of memory and he knows he needs to hold on just a moment longer, but, oh, it hurts- there is fur in his mouth and claws at his throat and then flesh and blood and then-

And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.

He wakes up with a gasp, sitting up straight in bed, heart beating wildly and the tang of blood still in his mouth. The room is cast into a dim blue light, the crystal lamp on his bedside table covered only with a thin cloth - he cannot wake up in darkness, he needs to see - and he reaches out with hands slick with sweat and trembling and casts it aside to bathe the room in light. Then he sits, and waits for his breathing to calm and the room to stop spinning and the nausea to settle into the dull throb of a headache instead. Half an hour, maybe, before he dares to get up - one of his better days. Two steps to the dresser, the brush of bare feet against the plush carpet, silk-softness of nightclothes clinging to his skin - clothed, safe, well - and there is the washbasin. He splashes cold water on his face and neck, runs hands through his hair - he has messed up the braids in his sleep, again - and looks up. His face in the mirror - pale, tired, but unharmed. Droplets clinging to his skin, maybe water, maybe tears, he does not know. He dries his face; breathes in deeply. All is silent; the only noise his soft breaths and the drip, drip of water where droplets run down his wrist and fall into the basin. Breath. Heartbeat. Breath.

Alive.

He lowers the cloth, folds it, and puts it away. Turns, and opens the doors to his closet to get dressed.

And the king of Nargothrond begins his day.

***

When the day finally comes - when the mortal boy is standing in front of his court, holding up his signet ring like a protective charm – all he feels is pity. Pity for this child whom he cannot truly help, I am sorry I cannot help you, I am sorry, I am sorry, no-one can help us we are lost, all, we are lost and a guilty but profound relief - relief that there finally will be an end.