The Lokistone

Lokistone 13

In western lands beneath the Sun
the flowers may rise in Spring,
the trees may bud, the waters run,
the merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night
and swaying beeches bear
the Elven-stars as jewels white
amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell.

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Wind rushed violently all around her, like a tornado, ripping at her clothes and hair and sending her sense of up and down spinning loose. Jane gritted her teeth, holding her arms tight against her chest, keeping her fingers closed around the Lokistone. Light and dark and gray whistled past her in blurred confusion.

She dropped straight down.

Her stomach plunged—

The wind calmed. The darkness filtered out, replaced by a heavy, chilly gray fog. Something solidified beneath her feet. Indistinct, ominous whispers flittered all around her head—and far behind, and far in front. She dared not open her mouth to say anything.

A strange sound, like simmering water, crisscrossed far above her. And shapes began to form in the dusk.

A black, level floor. Two pillars of fog tightened and hardened into pillars of stone. Then, swirling black tendrils, like ink spilled into water, coiled and curled across the mercurial ground. As she watched, it solidified, took shape...

Into the figure of a young man, lying on his back.

He wore obsidian armor—it glimmered like mirrors. His black cape spread out haphazardly yet majestically beneath him. He had a white, narrow, marble-like face, long lashes, and lengthy, wild raven hair. His arms were stretched out to either side, reminiscent of a man on a cross—his face expressionless, his mouth silent. Colorless. Motionless.

Except for the jagged, bright-red wound on his left hand.

Jane gasped.

And in a blinding rush, everything clarified.

Thick, potent, poisonous darkness pressed down upon her. An eerie blue light somehow came from everywhere—yet did nothing to banish the shadows. A rotten stench made her choke. Echoes of labored panting, strained breaths, rang through the room.

And he lay in front of her.

Without armor. His clothes ragged and dirty and ripped open. His arms somehow tied to those pillars. His face looked deathly white—gray, even. And the blue light made the tears in his eyes glitter. He stared, searching, up at the ceiling, his fists clenched, as if his only thought was to keep breathing.

His expression flickered. He closed his mouth, and swallowed.

He frowned.

He turned his head.

He saw her.

For an instant, he did not move. Then—

"Jane!"

His voice sang her name—but his expression sharpened into agonized dismay.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his voice husky from weeping.

"Are you—What's happening?" Jane gasped over him, stepping closer.

"How did you come here?" He pulled reflexively on his bindings. Nothing happened.

"I—I just—"

"You should not have done this," he rebuked her, trying to sit up, fresh tears falling. "I made a bargain with him—a bargain that you would not be touched because you posed no threat. If you come near me he will consider our pact broken—"