Black Wine

Of the Black Wine of Valenthil as preserved in the Ashen Annals of the Talshein Heralds.   In the waning years of the Third Cataclysm, before the Fall of the Star Fire and the sundering of the high courts of the Tolendra, there lived in Valenthil an elven prince named Aerendil, scion of the Morning Star line. Tall he was, and crowned with silver hair, his eyes deep amber drawing one in and capturing them like an insect. His heart, though noble, was not yet tempered by sorrow—and thus it was fated to be broken.   He loved a mortal maiden, Annalena, daughter of men, who came in need to the forest and brought healing to the sick roots of the elder trees. She was fair of voice and unafraid, her singing like the song of birds and her presence stirred the ancient woods to whisper anew. Aerendil, enthralled, loved her beyond reason, and she in turn gave him her fleeting years without regret.   But the blood of men is as grass before the wind. Warm and sweet, all too short.   She passed from the world in the deep of winter, her body failing beneath the weight of years while Aerendil remained unaged, untouched. Her last breath he caught in a woven phial of crystal and silver moonlight. When she was laid beneath the barrow-mound, where no song was sung and no stone was marked, Aerendil withdrew from the light of the world.   He cast aside his raiment and crown and descended into the Dell of Glochid, a cleft in the forest long shunned, where even the starlight faltered. There, beneath a twisted arbor, he planted the black vines of sorrow, Dark Heart, cursed in elder days for drawing upon the soul of the gardener. With his own hands he tilled the earth, and with his grief he watered it. He spoke no word to beast nor kin again.   The vine bore fruit after seven-and-seventy seasons, and the grapes were black as pitch, veined with crimson like wounds. From these he pressed a wine unlike any the world had known. It bore no fragrance, yet its taste summoned love and desolation in the same breath. Those who drank it wept until their eyes dried and their hearts withered. A single drop could unmake joy; a cupful could undo memory.   It was said Aerendil drank deeply, seeking not comfort but erasure. He was last seen upon the barrow of Annalena, robed in shadow, his lips stained dark. When the wardens came to the grove at the turning of the age, they found only a single bottle sealed in iron and rune-bound glass. The vines were dead, the soil salted with his tears.   The bottle was taken to the Silent Halls of Ithlindor, where it lies still, warded by fire and spell. None now dare drink of it, save in dreams. It is called Morlíwen, the Black Wine of Valenthil. A draught brewed not of berry nor bloom, but of love sundered by time, and sorrow unending.   Let none seek it. For in its depths is no solace, only the shadow of what was.