Furley sweated, tossing restlessly, his brow furrowing as he slumbered.
The arrow whizzed past him, and must have missed by inches. The fire was hot on his face, so much that it felt like his sweat burned and clung to him. The heat seared him, and the terror overwhelmed him as he looked around. The flames were catching further and further, getting closer and closer to him, reaching out to consume him. They flickered in his eyes and all he could think of was his mother.
A brigand ran at him, and he ran his standard issue spear right through the man's gullet. Blood seeped onto his hands, and Furley watched the man's face in horror as it twisted and convulsed in front of him, writhing in agony as the man gazed upon Furley, the last thing he'd ever see on this earth. And all Furley could do was stare back, and pull the shaft back out of his body, the stench of death spewing forth as he did.
The fire hazed his vision, and he tried to run. But he couldn't move. No matter how much he moved his body, he was rooted. No matter how loudly he cried out, no words or sound came from his mouth. All he could feel was the heat. And as the fire got hotter, the blood on his hands began to sear and burn him like hot tar.
And then it appeared. That red, hooded thing. It faded into view, and before he knew it that was all he could see, filling every inch of his vision, and he couldn't turn away. It screeched something fierce, and carried a stench like a thousand carrion carcasses. All Furley could do was go limp, and his young face watched as it came toward him.
"You are your mother's son. And you'll always be nothing!" it hissed at him, in his father's voice, and then it lunged at him. Only then did Furley manage to scream, and only then did his hands reach out in front of him, like some crazed meat shield as if it had any hopes of saving him. The Cargul screeched back, it's voice so deafening that it pierced his ears, and suddenly there was nothing but that infernal squeal. It enveloped him, and devoured him, spinning him through the air as he cried out in terror and his vision went grey.
As soon as he flinched, he re-opened his eyes and found himself standing, enveloped in a cloud of silvery fog. Looking about him, he saw nothing but the cavalry sword in his hand, and as he looked down, he saw that he was clad in his armour from Harwick that had come with the title of knight. Feeling his face, it was unkempt, like it had been that way for several days. Looking about him, the confusion set in, but it wasn't exactly the flames, and for that he was relieved. Even in dreams, anything was preferable to living that once more.
A sharp breeze hit his face, and disappeared as soon as it came, but the fog largely dissipated, though the landscape was still greyed, like someone hadn't finished painting their masterpiece. Feeling for his toes, he found they could move. And as they moved, he felt sensation in his legs and arms. And he found that he could walk.
Choosing a direction, he began stepping, and as he did, he found his vision clear more, but where he had come from darkened and greyed behind him, the colour draining from the landscape. He took a few steps, then a few more, and then finally burst into a quick stride until suddenly, he was hit by the thick, carved wood of a palisade.
Touching it, he felt the splinters between his fingertips, and a strange tingling in his palm. The breeze hit him softly again, and as it did he turned round, and suddenly saw where he was.
A town, somewhere in the Riddermark. Not large, but with a small palisade with platforms atop it, like a wall surrounding. There were a few towers, built high to overview the landscape. Where were they? Stangard? Possibly. He couldn't tell for sure as his mind was a haze. Looking behind him, though, he saw a collection of carts, and a man attending them. Wait a moment. He knew that man...
"Amaken! Amaken!" he called out, but the man did not respond. Instead, he kept fiddling with the straps of a tarpaulin. Running closer, Furley called out and stood in front of him.
"Amaken! Hey. It's me! It's Furley!"
But he carried on like he wasn't even there, fiddling away with the straps, a dejected look on his features. Furley looked to him, puzzled, waving a hand near the man's eyeline, but he didn't even flinch. Sighing, Furley wondered if he was even really there. Looking down at the nearest cart, his eyes widened. There were arrow shafts jutting out of it, and fractures of wood like it had been hit with a sharp object several times, bits chipped and fractured along the timbers.
"Amaken!" he growled. "I demand you tell me what's going on!". When the man didn't respond, Furley reached out, trying to grab him. But his hand passed right through him. Furley looked at his palm in shock and confusion. Amaken looked up briefly, like one would look up if they heard a rustle somewhere far off in the distance, then immediately went back to the job in hand in a way so unlike him.
Turning around, he looked for a sign of someone else, and then saw a cluster of people at the gate. Walking closer, he found his way barred, but walked through them as if they weren't even there. He couldn't make out their shapes at first, but as he passed through them, and turned around, he saw the scene for what it was.
A siege. Kildwin and Altheric were leading the line, with several other members behind them, holding the gate to the town. Above, he saw Elthhelm and his cohort, bows drawn, arrows nocked. If he squinted he could swear that the shapes were almost moving, reaching for projectiles in their quivers, and strings thrumming. But if they were, they were moving so slowly that he must have been stuck in time with them.
But who were they fighting?
Walking further out into the field, he saw various shapes charging in the distance, and heard that familiar thrum of the bowstrings once more, way out in the distance. But the sound got more and more regular, and hummed louder and louder, like the echo of a war drum being beaten profusely and incessantly. The air hummed with the thrill and the fear of combat, and the atmosphere around him became electric. Louder. Louder. Louder again. Faster. Beating so much faster till there was nothing but an unrelenting din, filling everything and anything it touched.
Until suddenly, the sound stopped. The air fell silent, and all was still. Turning to look around, he saw nothing, til a large, dark clad man appeared in front of him. Looking up and down, curiously, it was only when the man came into full view that the colours appeared round him, and he could see him for who he was.
The hunter.
The man said nothing, but stood in front of him, around eleven feet tall, wielding a huge broadsword.
"You were born to die. Prepare to meet your end" the man said. Snarling, Furley raised his sword, but he froze, instantly, as he heard a voice from behind him.
"For Furley".
His face dropped in horror, as he turned and looked upon Daphne, her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, and that familiar, unrelenting, hard, stubborn stare glaring right through him at the towering man.
"No. No!" Furley exclaimed. "Not you. No!"
Turning round to meet the blow of the warrior, he felt the great broadsword pierce through his chest, and as it did the grey of the world disappeared and filled with fountains of colour about them. Every hilltop, tree, bird, cloud, and blade of grass painted in as he saw where they were, and knew exactly where in Rhovanion he stood.
Behind him, he heard the shrill scream of Daphne, as if she had been impaled and dragged from this world by the towering man personally, and as he heard her he tried to turn to face her.
"No... no. Nooooo!" he cried, using all his might to turn round.
And his head smashed onto the floor as he fell from his bed, crashing into the wooden boards as his body convulsed and shook, awaking from his nightmare. Looking around, he saw his room, back in Bree. Feeling his head and palms, he knew that he was sweating profusely, and he shut his eyes, screwing them tightly, desperate for the memory of the night to dissipate from his mind.
Slowly getting his breathing under control, he sobbed silently, alone in his room. He had always thought that one day, should he return south, he would never see old age, nor home again.
But he had never seen her in his dream like that. Breathing heavily, he tried to compose himself, but it took him far longer than he wished. "No, no. Please, no. Not her. Don't take her" he mumbled over and over. It was just a dream, though. Just a dream, right? It was imagination. But it had felt so real to him, just like the past he relived so many times he closed his eyes. "No. No. No, you can't take her. I won't let you" he sobbed. "It's just a dream" he said, over and over and over. "That doesn't mean it'll come to pass". The feeling of dread and panic still lingered over him, though, and he was struggling to convince himself that it was just his sub-conscious dragging his fears to the fore, and not some kind of prophecy or dark magic.
Finally regaining himself, he sat there for what felt like an untold passage of time, as if he was stuck in his room, and there was nothing he could do. It was just him, his thoughts, unto the ending of the world. Staring at the quill on his desk, he finally made a decision.
Standing up, he fumbled around his shelf for a spare bit of parchment, and began scrawling, frantically.
"If I am to meet my end" he thought, aloud. "She at least deserves to know. She deserves to know the truth".
