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Arondir’s dreams were full of blood and fire. Sometimes Beleriand was burning around him as he knelt on the ground in the middle of a vast field of sage blossoms. He was always unable to rise, unable to do anything but watch as his home burned.
Other times he was back in the pit, but Adar sat there on his throne. He held Arondir on his lap, arm wrapped tight around the omega's waist, as the members of Arondir’s garrison were marched in front of him. Unlike the human prisoners, the elves were executed without being given the choice of swearing fealty. Arondir could see the blame and scorn in their eyes as they looked at him, and how all emotion faded as the uruks ran them through.
And always, the dreams inevitably switched to Bronwyn lying dead in his arms, a bloody gash across her throat, her eyes staring blankly up at him as he sobbed helplessly over her body.
Adar stood over him, hands resting on Arondir’s shoulders. “Did you really think I’d let you have this? She could never have given you what you needed anyway.”
It was little comfort to wake up in Adar’s arms.
“What did you dream?” Adar would sometimes ask after Arondir’s breath had steadied.
Arondir never answered him. Instead, he would throw off the covers and go sit in the other room by the fire.