Vallandur

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.

Weeks have passed. Months. Seasons. I feel time passing beyond the solid walls of my prison. But this room is as changeless as pondwater - I know the exact number of all the stones in each wall, have counted every stitch in the single tapestry.

I no longer look through the thin, slim-slit window. The sight of the stars and the sun amongst the free clouds pierces me like a cold knife - the wound of imprisonment deep and unhealing. I weep dry-eyed and soundless now, inside. I am weary of weeping, but it does not end.

She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth. The sound comingled with the cries of the suprised birds, enticed them to open their throats and join her.

A delightful day. Yes. I rode with the elf maid obedient beside me, and my few men about me. North from the crowded, fetid encampment, out into the hills around the northmens' camp, Esteldin.

I watch her pull up the hood of the cloak that I have given her. Enveloped in its sable folds, clad in the black dress, her face shines softly, the moon in clouds. She has been enclosed in this tent for long enough, it is time to move her to more fitting accomodation.

I pull back the flap of the tent sharply. The first true light for her in many a day. I see her eyes open to receive the starlight, turning her face in yearning before, senses opened, the shock of the scene before her slaps her back to reality.

She sits. Because I tell her to sit. I am a man of passion, and dark humours boil within me now. She is wise to heed my words and do as I command.

I pour two glasses of the finest red that I have. The cut of the glasses deepen and intensify the rich colour of the wine. It is too crude to liken it to the blood of my man that she has caused to be spilt. My man, to me. To her and her ilk, just a Man.What can they know, secure within their timelessness, about what life is? About what life is, to a Man?