The fire crackles to itself, bright and warming, as I lay out all the gear that was found on her when she was taken. I begin the detailed inventory... item: long knife, elven-made... length, marks, discription of hilt
... item: fancy leather boots ... colour, design.
... item: one red earring in the shape of a flower, stylised lilly, not elf make. Journeyman work.
I hold the fragile earring in my fingers, twirling it as I ponder the other personal gear. The clothing, her sword and shield, are not of great note. But these... things.... spread out before me, are puzzle befitting a mind such as mine...
A workbag full of silk and metal threads, a riot of colour, spills out onto the table next to a part-finished work. I roll it out, this curious un-finished banner that she bore when she was taken. Thin leather, so delicate as to seem like cloth, scattered with intricately worked stars - a field of stars seen in the north, with the greatest ones blazing. The pattern of stars is familiar ... and for her, damning evidence of her association. The same banner and stars as her dream.
The shadowed northerner. I place the lilly earring into my robe, to drum my fingers on the table. The banner... and the cry when she was taken. 'Caluinilhir'.
A man? an elf? Mere coincidence?
I pick up the next item. Enough to make me curse afresh. I hold an exquisite circlet, fashioned by Men of old, that should by rights remain with Men. Taken from her own brow where she dared to flaunt it - a prize? a gift? What right has an elf to wear a circlet of Arnor?
For that is what it is. I run my fingers over the handsome workmanship. I appreciate the beauty and skill of my sundered race. I pity their enthralment, poor, abandoned fools that they were to bow the knee to faithless creatures like her.
I lay it aside. I will return it to her ... it pleases me to give her a gift of her own gear. That the things she cherishes can be given or removed at a whim.
And the letter. I open it, re-reading the text, running my thumb over the handwriting, my jaw tensing with anger.
And finally I open the small leather wallet, worn smooth by the touch of the skin at her breast. Three wrapped locks of hair. One night- black, its lustre as rich and shining as polished jet. One long lock, radiant. They seem like living things, so vibrant. And one black and flecked with silver - as though she had taken a lock of my own hair, as I lay sleeping.
