Across the ages, their passionate yet dangerous bond has remained unbroken. She has known him by many names as Mairon the Admirable, Annatar the Lord of Gifts, as the sinister royal counselor in the last days of Númenor. As a demi-god in disguise, a...
Such a beautiful boy. Solemn even as an infant, wise as though he'd been here before in the deep recesses of time.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Above the din of an army of hundreds, jagged black helms an insult to the silver sky, there is a banner. Held aloft above a dark host, it is heavy, but the orcs gather to raise it over their heads in triumph. War chants take flight like a murder of crows, frantic and maddening.
She cannot live after seeing this. She cannot...should not survive this.
A naked body is impaled on the post, arms stretched across the back. The torso flutters with the shafts of black arrows. Silken hair catches the wind as blood drips onto the orcs like a benediction. The elf has been murdered and made a banner for the hordes of the enemy.
She cannot survive this. She will not.
A figure rises over the din, a leader cloaked in flame. A slayer of impossible measures.
She will not survive.
Her heart shatters. But it doesn't kill her.
*****
Ivy McKee stirred easily from sleep. She appeared so peaceful, her roommate had no idea about the horror she had witnessed behind her eyes that very night. Her body ached, the muscles tense as she raised up from her sheets. The city was alive with morning outside the open window, the summer heat rising into their flat and hovering in the air like dust specks.
"I'm going to mass this morning," Maryanne said from the kitchen table, flipping through a copy of Photoplay magazine and munching on an apple. "You want to come?"
Ivy rolled her neck, massaging her stiff shoulders. "No thanks."
"Hungover?"
"Yes. I don't want to vomit into the baptismal font."
"That would be unfortunate." Maryanne neatly positioned her cloche hat over her strawberry blonde curls. "Need anything while I'm out?"
Ivy smirked. "A new brain would be swell."
Maryanne fixed her hemline at the door and gave a heavy sigh. "Well, I'll see what I can do but I can't promise anything."
As she shut the door, Ivy slumped back into her pillows. She closed her raw eyes against the abrasive light. Her nightmare was slipping out of her grasp, the images that had ravaged her during sleep fading to a convenient black. The remaining amnesia only left her confused and empty. Head pounding, she stumbled to the cabinet and popped a couple aspirin.
Truth be told, she hadn't been to mass since she had left the orphanage at 18. Still, every Sunday, Maryanne asked if she wanted to go. The image of Christ dangling above the altar left her cold. Bare crosses were fine, but crucifixes were disturbing. Something about a person hung up naked and bleeding made her feel panicked.
