There is an old saying - a story has no true beginning, no ultimate end. Stories are rivers, we tumble into them for a time, then drag ourselves onto the bank. We may be angry, or suprised, or shake off the water like a happy dog. But the story-river does not care, it runs its own course, stronger than anything or anyone cast into it. I am in the river - and I am drowning. Celebhir, born of the sea-elves, washed ever on towards the mouth of the river, to be lost in the sea.
For me, whatever old sayings proclaim, there was a beginning. Here, with my face turned to the stone wall of my prison what else is there to think on? The gift or curse of my race, to recall past times as vivid as a moment ago. I let the seasons roll back ... I see the face that began all this. All of it, from then, right until now, from freedom to this one room, held in the palm of evil.
It began so simply, with a wager. My horse pitted against his, the price of a forfeit for the loser. Oh it was a merry game, and we were merry. Even he, his dour face and cloud-grey eyes lit by a rare joy. And why should he not be happy? He was new come to us, and welcomed, this sorrowful Man, bound by care. Long before he became Aldalin's right hand, before he lost himself beneath the blossoms in her garden, before the brightness of their friendship cast long shadows for us all.
And of all things, I was the most merry of creatures, and favoured by hard-won smiles. I knew as we raced our horses that he would let me win. And he knew, and I knew ... and it did not matter, for the joy of newness and friendship. I claimed my forfeit from my gallant loser. Even now I do not know whether he lost in order to give me that forfeit. He will never say, however hard I press him; Vallandur is ever close-lipped, even with those he feels keenly for.
But that day, as he gave me my prize, he spoke enough for me to know this was no trinket. I thought it odd, yet touching that he should gift as he did. One long lock of hair, and not his own. Elven hair, carried close against his breast for all the years he had looked from afar, and never spoken of so dreadful a thing. Should a man gift a maiden a lock of hair, stolen from another to whom all love is given, unknowing? The seemliness of the gift I quickly put aside, to see the joy he had in giving it to me. The one momento he had of her - Vallandur's heart.
Would that I had refused it. That I had destroyed it. That totem carried so close to his breast, that he had dwelt on so tenderly, infused with his love, of all the things dearest to him ... the essence of such a Man. Such a Man as he is, other, beyond the common run of Men. We all saw it - it shone from him so quietly, yet every word he spoke, each movement he made screamed to the hills that he was a Man above them all. Little wonder then, that the heart of Vallandur would be a potent thing, enmeshed in elven hair, and nestled at my own smooth breast.
And so the seasons went on, and I carried his heart, never laying it aside for fear of losing his gift. Only once did I try to cast it away, but he would not let me set it upon the sea at Celondim, to find its own way west over the waters back to her. I wonder now whether it could have been done, with its own magic weaving us together, a thin silken rope binding us across however many miles, heart to heart.
Vallandur... Vallandur... everything returns to Vallandur. I see him, lying in the gardens, Aldalin ever beside him, talking of great matters. I watch, yes, I am not proud of it, as he lays down his burdens - his care of the North. I feel the north slithering from his heart, it is a sharp pain in mine. And as he falls under the spell of elvendom, I, his dark mirror image, fall under the sway of the north. For the north is his true love - and I carry his heart. I am his heart; and if he will not act for the north, then I must.
It seemed to me then, as I left my friends and kinfolk and looked more and more to the affairs of Men, that he and I had become each other. Certainly he was held in higher esteem by elvenkind that I was. And I loved Annuminas. My Annuminas, that was his Annuminas. Walked amongst the silent tombs of his house, fought alongside his kinsfolk in that ever-long struggle to reclaim her beauty from the darkness. Annuminas filled my dreams, restored, rebuilt, ready for the triumphant entry of the lords of the north.
Vallandur Caluinilhir, rides in glory into Annuminas at the right side of his lord. Yes. My dream then, my dream now. Annuminas, Arnor, these Men whose proud faces make me weep with the pain and wonder of it. These men who unwittingly made me, and who are breaking me.
I know what this southerner seeks. All that I own is in his hands, taken with me when I was caught in the marshes. I am terrified he will piece them together ... that I will bring abut the downfall of what I love. The fear of it burns in me harsher than even the pain of imprisonment. What does he know - what has he found? Do I languish here with all that I have loved laying destroyed beyond these walls? Araenion, surely ... in my heart... I fear... Vallandur. no. I would know if he had left the world - I have lived too long with his heart.
