I awoke in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat. Since I began down this path, I have often been plagued by nightmares and all sorts of terrible dreams; tonight was different. I did not relive the harrowing night my life changed, nor did I envision my companions being cut down by the traitorous Lysander. No, it was something altogether new and not quite as nightmarish as before.
I saw my father atop a white warhorse. He was younger then, his hair billowing like pale wheat in a warm summer breeze. He wore glistening white armor with the double-headed eagle emblazoned on his chest piece. There was fighting all around—bodies forming the banks of a river of blood. Father called out to his men in Elvish. They rallied around him in perfect formation, their weapons drawn. Some were injured but they all stood by his side. His crown glistened in the fading sunlight as stars in the night.
Father drew his blade—a beautiful blade, black until the light hit it; it reflected blue and purple, and seemed to sparkle when the fading sunlight hit it in just the right spots. The hilt was gold and heavily decorated. It was perhaps the most beautiful sword I have ever seen.
I blinked and I was somewhere else, far away from battle. A temple. It was massive in scale, and heavily adorned with gold and silver. From the architecture, I assumed it was an Elvish temple, but I didn’t recognize the god it was consecrated to. Two statues flanked a white marble altar bathed in radiant light. The temple was silent but it wasn’t empty; a young man stood before the statues. I didn’t recognize him, but he had the same golden hair and violet eyes as I do.
He knelt before the pedestal and began to speak. I could barely understand him. It was Elvish, but not any dialect I had ever heard before. He pulled a sword from his scabbard—as dark as the night sky with a hilt of gold. The same sword from before, except it wasn’t reflecting anything—only blackness.
He finished speaking and placed the sword upon the altar. The sword began to levitate and suddenly it was dressed in holy light, as though it was absorbing the energy from the altar. It glistened purple and blue and sparkled like the stars.
The elf stood and reached out for the sword. The second his hand grasped the hit, I awoke. A word echoed in my head. Not a voice, but an image. The sword. Ilmarë.
I must find this sword. It is calling out to me; it wants me to wield it!
I know how silly that must sound. Swords do not have a will of their own. They cannot transmit visions and dreams…yet I know it to be true.
I must keep this secret. My companions would surely thing I was touched in the head if I told them the truth. I would not blame them. I have questioned my sanity over and over on this night, but something in my heart of hearts tells me it is true. Something greater than myself compels me forward on this mission. I can only hope this is not another trap, set for me by my enemies.
Until we meet again,