paradisalogs | (no subject)

Who: Galadriel and you
What: Nightmares
When: Now
Where: Galadriel's mind
Rating: PG-13. Battle scenes, mostly

Galadriel’s nightmare begins in a cacophony of sights and sounds, intermingling and fading into one another. The sounds of battle assault your ears: steel hitting steel, the snap of bowstrings, the screaming of dying of men. The smell of blood is in the air and you can feel the overwhelming heat of a blazing fire against your face.

As you stand observing, things begin to settle and you find yourself in the midst of a battle along a seaside, a sword in your hand. The landscape might have been beautiful- stunningly so, were it not for the bodies already littering the beach and the clashing of swords still surrounding you. If you have keen eyes, you might spot some familiar golden hair amid the chaos.

Do you seek her out? Do you flee towards the boats landed on the beach? Whatever choice you make, you should make it quickly; the Fëanorians won’t leave you alone forever.

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"And neither should you! What's even happening?" A man comes after her with a sword and she unceremoniously kicks him in the leg, hearing it crunch underneath her foot. When he goes down, Martel slams him hard in the head with the side of her blade. His ears will be ringing for quite a while, if he's not unconscious.

"My place is here, defending my mother's people. My uncle-" Whatever she was about to say is cut off by another attack. Galadriel doesn't bother with the blunt end of the blade, bring the steel down to cut into the man's side.

"There's no time. You must find safety."

"And where exactly is there safety?" The entire beach was a large battlefield. "And whose to say they won't follow me? Galadriel, if you can't be safe then i won't be either. I'll stay with you."

"Martel, this is my burden to bear. If you head inland, seek out my father's court. Even Fëanor would not dare follow there."

Her voice has taken on a pleading tone. You don't need to see this. You don't need to see her like this.

Martel doesn't even pay attention and gives her the most stubborn look. "I am not going anywhere until this battle is over with. And you and I will walk off this battlefield together. You are one of my best friends, Galadriel. I will not leave you in the middle of a battlefield. I don't know how it works in Middle-Earth, but that is most assuredly not how it works in Aselia."

Finally, Galadriel gives a solemn nod. Almost as soon as she does so, however, their surroundings begin to fade and shift; the battlefield disappears, and with it, the soldiers, and the two women find themselves on icy landmass, a booming voice echoing overhead.

"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. ..."

Martel squints up at the voice, and then turns to Galadriel. "What does that even mean? And where are we? It looks like the northern continent when Celsius is upset."

Galadriel takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. "This is the Helcaraxë. And what you have heard is the beginning of my exile."

She shivers, only partially from the cold. "Come. We must push onwards. To linger here is death."

"We'll be fine. I don't think any of this is real. It's something... something else. Because none of this makes sense. Why would I even be here?"

She frowns, her brow furrowing. "You should not be, you are right. Yet, I would prefer not to stay here overlong. This is a place of dark memories."

"I think this entire thing is full of dark memories." She looks at Galadriel. "Which way, then?"

Galadriel turns back and casts a final, sorrowful glance at the white shores behind them.

"Onwards. To Middle-Earth."

"Onwards, then." She gives her a reassuring smile and links her arm with Galadriel's. "I always have missed travelling."

Galadriel smiles faintly and points toward the horizon. "It was there I witnessed the first rising of the sun. Such a sign of hope was welcomed after this crossing."

And why that was should become increasingly obvious. As they walk, they begin to pass bodies buried in the snow. Not victims of war, but rather of the elements. They are laid out as respectfully as possible, but not buried. Never buried. The ground is too frozen.