((Expect a dream from every character in the next day or so. Some deal with their pasts, some will highlight a part of themselves they didn’t realize was there, some are completely random. I hope you enjoy this little series. I was just struck by it last night. :3))
“Come to dinner, darling one!”
A short little girl – no more than four – heeded her mother’s call, bright golden-red hair bouncing happily into the farm house’s main room, blue-green eyes twinkling with anticipation. “What’s dinner, ma?”
The tall and usually stoic woman looked down to her daughter and couldn’t help a soft smile. Her Rohirric accent was still thick, even years after leaving her people. “We will have stew tonight. Now go, call your father and wash up.” She swayed gracefully back to the fire, stirring her concoction one last time; her daughter pranced away with much the same grace, calling for Daddy.
Reality swirled around them, but no one seemed to mind; the next Loriwen knew, she was sitting at the table, a few years older. Her hair was in pigtails, like she hated, but she had to look nice for mourning. She didn’t mind, if only because she was so sad, herself. She had only met her Uncle Thurwald once, but he was a real nice man with great stories and the best laugh of anyone ever in the whole world – well, except for Daddy. They were going to wear black all week and she had to look nice. That meant no playing outside or sneaking woodcarving behind the house when Mommy wasn’t looking. Her parents stood up and held each other, then parted on one side and motioned for her to join them. She quickly hopped down from the chair and rushed over to be comforted.
As soon as she reached them, everything shifted. Loriwen felt the same, yet she was a young woman getting married. She didn’t feel very happy for it, but it was a good match. He didn’t care about naught but inheriting his parent’s farm; she was just too old by the village’s standards to stay single any longer. It wasn’t normal. They both agreed, as childhood friends, to stay just that: friends. It was acceptable enough, giving small kisses in public and never expecting more from the other. As they kissed, they froze. It seemed as though they stood still while time flew away from them.
When they parted, both were older. Holt was beginning to grey early, only thirty-two. She herself was almost thirty. He was off to work in the field again, working on keeping the squash safe from the impending summer – it had been a horrible spring with too much rain. How did she know that? She just did. He walked off, and she waved; then quickly rushed to change and go into town. Once she walked out the door again, the door became the door to the Pony. She was suddenly carrying a small basket that only had a few loaves of bread in it. Unfortunately, she managed to walk into a scuffle on the porch of the Pony, and she was quickly and unintentionally pushed off the edge. Landing with a thud, everything changed again. Suddenly a strange man – she knew his name was Tarlanc, somehow – walked over with his friend Brant. Brant, she knew if only by face; he was one of those rich Heartwood boys, the one that managed to get himself lost for a long time. Gossip spread fast amongst the housewives. She would know, she was often the butt of it…what with her still not getting with child. The stranger with dark hair and eyes that seemed to shift reached down to help her up, and she couldn’t take her eyes away from him, even as it seemed like he couldn’t take his away from her. Where their hands touched, it was like an ember: a long-lasting and smoldering heat that, with the slightest provocation, would ignite into a flame. Everyone, even that rich boy Brant, faded away completely.
Then they were behind the Pony, hidden by trees. Weeks had already passed somehow; he looked at her, calling her “Loriwen” as he always did. He was the only one who ever called her by her full name. It made her knees weak every time. He held her hand in much the same manner as they did when they met. She already talked to Holt, he didn’t care she was sneaking around with the strange Gondorian sailor; not in the slightest. He’d snuck around with other women, too. But Holt didn’t know the true decision Loriwen came to in that moment. She looked up to Tarlanc – so much taller! – and caught her breath once again. She was running away. Staying in a friendly but entirely dead marriage was something she couldn’t do; not now, not that she found someone who made her feel so alive. Her hands reached up, grasping the grinning man by the long, dark hair; she yanked him down for a rather passionate kiss.
When they parted, she was in Dol Amroth. She didn’t know how she knew, given she had only ever heard stories of the port town, but this certainly fit those descriptions and she just knew. Her tall man had already pledged himself to her, and they walked by the docks hand in hand. Even that simple act, with the sea salt and warm ocean breeze washing over their senses, made her heart soar. She closed her eyes, standing on the end of a pier as her scandalously new betrothed (or husband? He certainly acted like it was the latter) protectively wrapped both arms around her waist.
Loriwen’s eyes opened, and she saw ceiling. All which had just happened played through her mind at lightning-fast speed, ending when she blinked a few times. A yawn finished off her confusing reverie, and she turned to see a bare shoulder illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Her eyes drifted over to his face, jaw agape as another loud snore escaped. It was still the face from her dreams. Dreams. It was just a dream. A convoluted, entirely made up dream. Well, at least they ended up together in it. She smiled and quietly brought a hand to his forehead, brushing her hand down his face, cupping it quietly. She’d always run away with him, if given the chance. They were meant to be together. Scooting up to kiss his forehead, she snuggled back into him. His arms automatically went around her protectively – just like in her dream. Loriwen went back to sleep, hoping she would dream of a future this time instead of a completely disjointed past.