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.
No sight or sound of my captor, the southernor malevolent in his rich velvet. Azrudaur, iron hand in a melodic-voiced glove. Yet his presence impresses itself on everything here, like a sealing ring into warm wax. He does not need to act openly against me, this captivity is enough. Like water wears down the highest mountain drop by drop - each passing week wearies hope. The walls mutely reflect my own mind back to me, and the darkness grows.
In this stagnation my thoughts turn inward, searching the past for lighter times. But one face comes to haunt my minds eye, pushing away Araenion, displacing even Vallandur.
Anglachelm.
He stands before me. An avenging blade as bright as a lord of the elder days. Radiant and wrathful, a stern judge. His eyes bore into me, pitiless, seeing all that has gone before. He shows me my actions and follies without mercy. With his bright eyes and hair, his naked sword and great shield, he proclaims all that I have foolishly abandoned.
He points to Men, again and again as he has always done since I met him. His opinion of them clear on his face, his opinion of me little different. I shrivel before his judgement. He has always thought me a fool, and our friendship has never prevented him from telling me so.
I recall when we first met ... those beautiful summer-like days before the latest sorrows began. Curuin and I, wondering if our futures lay together. Anglachelm and Aldalin, merry before the duties and burdens of their own households drew them apart. Quiet and beautiful Galvathalion, as dear to me as a brother. And the Men - witty, charming Araenion, dour and faithfull Vallandur.
How did Anglachelm know, even then, that I was sowing the seeds of my own sorrow?
I press my forehead against the unforgiving stones. My own sorrow. As Aldalin, Anglachelm and Galvathalion rose to lead households, to inspire our own people, to build and prepare... I turned away. Have I looked away too long - caught by the fascination of mortal Men? I am moved by Vallandur's duty and love of the Men of the north, charmed by Araenion's devotion to my own people. I gave myself to the causes of Men - to Annuminas, to Vallandur's work.
And is this my reward? I am here, caught and bound by teh hands of Men. And every month Araenion and Vallandur do not come.
'Men are weak', Anglachelm would say. i do not wish to beleive it. I have never believed it. But doubt begins to seep into my mind, like black mud oozes between cold stones.
Does Araenion know I am taken... does he no longer care? Is he dead.. captive... caught in the snare of attraction for a Woman? Is Vallandur lying cold in the gloom of the necromancer's old towers, or lying at ease under the cherry trees in Aldalin's garden, the blossoms drifting onto his upturned face, so beautiful in his austerity?
They do not come. I was born Celebhir of Mithlond. I became Celebhir of Annuminas through the choice of my heart. Now, I am Celebhir the forgotton, the forsaken. I carried a lock of his hair as a promise and a hope. But the Men do not come, and my own people no longer care.
The only hope remaining, is that this meancholy will grow so deep that I will walk into the arms of Mandos - before the southernor returns and I am broken on the wheels of the East.
