Araenion

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.

Gyth ain't returned ter Combe. We'em parted a bit cross ... a bit too much ale. She had ter start on about her burnt man. ruined the party, she did.

All is well. The haunted ruins of the Betrayed City lie far to the north, the aelf thralls bound by aelf words and aelf stars remain unawares in the Ashen Town and I am safe, safe in the Inn in Comb.

Steora will be filled with pride  to hear how cleverly  I slipped out from under their very noses beneath the cover of darkness. 'Scared of your own shadow, Gyth!", she always says. She'll change her tune when she hears how swiftly I rode Heofonfyr south, alone through the wilds, to warn him - my Mentor.

heh.

That went better than i could have hoped for.

Duresen't start out well, though. Master Oldgrove brings me ter the Bridgetown... an' up pops more of them grim northerners ... and then... that old bastard hisself, the helm-giffer. I realises master Oldgrove is an even better liar than me.

'You be safe with me lass' he says.

I take pleasure in the hunt. It is right and fitting that I should  do so, proud heir to a proud lineage. The ride out before dawn, drumming over the earth. The great hounds faithful and eager at the leash. A falcon at the wrist, wildness at my bidding. In the south the amber-eyed lion - even he - must yield his tawny crown to me. Here in the north the wolf and bear bow to my prowess.

But now - the rarest and most precious. The man-hunt.

Me an' Gyth an' Bawde, we come up ter  Bryg Bewiccan - that dead-city, Fornost. That bloody wealas, Araenion, guides us up in ter the dead fields almost ter the gates, further than I bin on my own, to an old tumble down fortress – an' then … he leaves us. Without a by-yer-leave or nothin'... just goes out in ter the mist an' he's gone. Well, I'm buggered if I'm going a-chasin' after him again.

 Bree-Town, Year 3018 of the T.A.