The world is strange and nothing makes sense.
It's all flashes of nothing, and something, and something even stranger. As though he's simply been plucked from the world, and then just as suddenly, he's back. But his body feels strange – weak somehow, as though perhaps disused, like a thing that's sat upon a shelf for far too long. Like the broken thing that gets thrown away.
When his eyes first open, he isn't even sure that it's real. It almost feels like a memory, like déjà vu. He knows this place, knows it in his heart, but everything is strange – it no longer knows him, perhaps. These are the trees - his trees - but they don't caress him like they once did. They seem tentative now, touching him gently, almost as though they don't believe it. And it's a lucky thing that they're so gentle – he can't see himself, but he's a shell of his former self. He never got to recover his strength after the illness that had almost claimed him, and his once-muscular form still looks more skin and bones than substance and sinew. He can rebuild himself in time (had he not once built himself from much less?) but his physical power now is nothing. And months (years? Decades?) of inactivity has not helped the cause. His brain skips through the time, like a record that's been scratched. He's still recognizable – the blue and green are still present in his mane and tail, and the band of runes still encircles the top of his left foreleg – but otherwise, he could be a stranger in his own skin.
Still convinced he's dreaming, he presses forward (when had he started walking? Had he ever stopped?) His feet still know the way (how many times has he walked these paths, both when he knew what was real and when he knew nothing?) but he's still a little surprised when he finds himself exiting the pine forest and entering the clearing. The dirt and grass crunch beneath his hooves, and he can't help but think that perhaps, perhaps, wherever he's been, this really is home.
He wants to speak, but his breath catches in his throat. He's dreamed of this, he's sure of it, although he can't quite pinpoint when. He's dreamed of this, and it finally feels so real, that he can't – doesn't dare – speak. Say something, and the spell might break. Say something, and he might know for sure that this is a dream, a delusion. He is a man waiting for the other shoe to drop, but facing it bravely – he's lost many things since his disappearance, but his core of iron is not one of them. He does not let himself believe, not yet, but the longer he stands there, wide eyes drinking in a scene that's achingly familiar and yet subtly different, the harder it is not to be deceived into thinking he might really be home.
erebor
heat manipulating servant of the chamber
warship x straia
So, um, hi guys I missed you? Fair warning: posts will come at the speed of a snail tunneling through a glacier, unless they don't
