azrudaur

The scratch of pen on paper, the flowing lines of my strong hand. The quiet splutter of the logs in the braizer; cold in the north, even in summer. The rich red wine. I am a man flushed with pleasure, deep in success.

In the deep quiet of the dead of night, my favourite hour. I am blessed with the need for little sleep. Is this a change in me, wrought by my service over these long years, or a gift of my blood? I do not know, but the joy of the silent hours is a precious pleasure.

She is finally fast asleep, lost in dreams.

Pleasant ones I hope... she has already suffered too much.  Her... wound... has been taken care off. It no longer bleeds nor it brings her pain.
Foolish woman... what have you brought onto yourself? Despite all of your pride and resistance... you are now half-way between your and my side.. I wonder if you even realize that.

The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.

My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -

'Check'

Shut the walls away, close the eyes and dull the senses of sight and sound. There is nothing here in this room, this place, to comfort me. Nor in memory - I push Araenion and Vallandur away in my minds-eye. I float, aimless, like petals on water, spindrift. Foam riding on the ebb and flow of the sea.

I have seen them. Yes, of course. Awakening, yet ever-awake in the mind of their master. Hidden like precious pearls within the tight-closed shell of the black land. Shivered at their sightless gaze, groaned under the thrilling agony of their apprehension - I am a favoured Man.

Adunzil snaps small twigs and feeds the fire. I observe his graceful, spare movement through half-closed eyes as we change our watch and I prepare for sleep. The air is cool, though not too chill, the half-moon westering as night continues.

I shrug further into my cloak and hood. The night is peaceful, we are close enough to Nenuial for the eyes of our folk to keep the land quiet. I feel safe, as though held in the palm of my father, cradled by the solid earth and roofed by the trees.

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.

I despise cats. Skulking killers of the smaller birds, delicate and fragile. Birds that fill the air with sweetness and harm nothing.

My latest songbird hops about its gilded cage, whilst the northern woman is taken back to her captivity, more docile than when she was first taken.

It amuses me, then, to claim a cat as a kinsman, dark and sleek.

There are few women here. Those that live amongst us are either cooks or whores. Many are both. And even those who come disparaging the thought of lying on their back for a coin or for the offer of a strong protector, are usually put to whoring by the men in the end.

 Earth beneath my feet is wet and mushy. My boots sink slightly in it, leaving a barely visible track among the yellow grass. I don´t mind that, since there won´t be a trace left for anyone to follow, unless they happen to be those shiny folk Azrudaur speaks of with such loathing. No...he is lord Azrudaur... I ought to remember to give him that respect. After all, he had earned it.