Aldalin

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.