You said you’d bind yourself to me, forsaking the immortal life of your people.

The red priestess shuddered. Blood trickled down her thigh, black and smoking. The fire was inside her, an agony, an ecstasy, filling her, searing her, transforming her. Shimmers of heat traced patterns on her skin, insistent as a lover’s hand. Strange voices called to her from days long past. “Melony,” she heard a woman cry. A man’s voice called “Lot Seven.” She was weeping, and her tears were flame. And she still drank it in.

It was a dream, Arwen. Nothing more

The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost; her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth