The Eye of His Dark Majesty

The Chosen One

Her commands rattled inside me, a heavy chain coiled around my chest, squeezing tighter with every step I took away from the castle. Spy on Galadriel — those words throb like a curse, infecting every thought. How could she know so much about me? From the way my father spoke I had assumed no body knew. Yet someone had to have brought me into the city and that someone informed the King of my birth. My heritage, hidden away all these years now in her hands like a weapon.

My footsteps are unsteady on the wet ground. In my torment I hadn't noticed a few drops of rain start to fall, light and cool, teasing me. Then it quickened, a relentless drizzle turning into a full downpour. I don't bother with my cloak. Let it drench me. Let the cold cut through the numbness creeping into my bones. It feels good, even if nothing else does. It's the only thing that makes sense — the only thing that feels real.

But my mind is a mess, a chaotic whirlpool of fear, doubt, and anger, pulling me under. The rain does nothing to quiet it. I need something stronger— something that can drown the noise for good.

I need a drink.

Without thought, I veer off the path and stumble down toward town, toward the familiar streets where sounds of life don't seem so oppressive, where maybe — just maybe — I can find something to dull the sharp edges cutting into me. My vision is blurred, tears streaking my eyes or rain. Doesn't matter now anyways. I see lights from the tavern in the distance glowing in the wet streets, voices rising and falling like echoes in a dream.

I push open the door of a tavern, and the warm, thick air hits me like a wave — smoke, sweat, and the sour scent of ale. It's all noise and heat, but I don't care. I only care about finding something - anything - to make forget, to push me into that oblivion where nothing else matters.

I stagger to the bar, my hands shaking, and drop onto the stool like I'm crumbling. The barkeep does not ask questions. He takes one look at me, grey brows creasing, weathered eyes centering mine in some mix of judgement and indifference, before pouring a dark, amber liquid into a chipped cup and sliding it my way.

"Something strong," I mutter, thought I'm not sure if it's a request or prayer. The glass is cool in my hands, and I raise it my lips. The burn as it hits my throat is vicious, but it's what I wanted — something to bite back, something to make me forget. I slam the cup down and demand for more.

With every swallow, the world gets a little blurrier, the pain in my chest dulls, but it's not enough. I keep drinking, a poison to pour into my mind, body, and soul. The tavern noise melts into a distant hum as the alcohol starts to sink its claws into me. I feel the world tilting, the faces of strangers shifting into shadow.

I barely register the sound of my name at first. It cuts through the thick fog in my mind like a distant echo, but I'm too far gone to grasp on it.

"Morena."

This time the voice is closer, stronger, like a lifeline pulling me up from the depths. I blink, trying to steady my breathing , and slowly lift my head. He's standing over me, his tall frame casting a shadow in the dim light.

Isildur's voice cuts through the haze of the tavern, laced with a worry I'm not prepared to face. "Morena, let me take you home. You're not okay."

The words pierce through me, sharper than the bitter sting of the ale still burning in my throat. I shake my head, the room tilting slightly as I push away from the table. "I'm fine, Isildur. Just leave it."

But he doesn't. He stands, his towering frame shadowing me as he steps closer, his brow furrowed. "You're not fine. Look at yourself. This isn't you."

I can feel the panic rising in my chest, creeping up my throat. He doesn't understand—he can't. The walls are closing in, the noise of the tavern pressing against my ears, and the heat of his concern feels suffocating. My heart pounds in time with my rapid breath, and I need to get out. I need to move.