If Alva had ever expected to suffer so much, he would not have gone on this mission, even on pain of displeasing the King and being dismissed from the King's Guard. Every day without Ithildin was a nightmare.
At first, he was tormented by desire, dreadful in its intensity. Alva's entire body spasmed whenever he remembered how the beautiful elf submitted to him: eyes closed, sweet lips half-opened, hair damp on his forehead, arms and legs wrapped around the man, clutching him closer as if to merge into one being. Gnashing his teeth in paroxysms of unbearable lust, beset by vivid elf-centered fantasies, Alva tossed on his wide bed and abused himself in vain attempts at relief. A few times, he thought of going to one of the trysting houses Trianess was famed for, and once even reached the door of the Blossom of Desire, but turned back. The thought of anyone but Ithildin touching him, or of being with anyone else, repulsed him.
The day after Alva's return from Fanneshtou, Chevalier Amargo Aguirre – who only recently was making Alva's heart flutter – sent him a splendid emerald necklace. Chevalier Ahayrre opened the velvet case absently, shut it indifferently and returned it without bothering to explain. None but Ithildin existed for him.
The usual advances of the court ladies and gentlemen irritated him, old friends were a nuisance, and anyone who flirted with him was plain aggravating. When the other Guardsmen invited him drinking, he always begged off, as he loathed company now. He especially avoided anyone who might pry into his misery and try to talk him out of it.
No flame can burn forever. Eventually, the dreams deserted him, leaving only gloom and desolation. Alva asked the King for a leave of absence and hid from the world. He tried to put his feelings to verse, but could not, and the floor of his study was littered with torn-up scraps of poems and sketches of a face – always the same face. He even tried learning the Ancient Tongue, but progressed poorly, not being exactly fit for diligent study at the moment.
Alva cursed whoever had called him musical, as now it seemed a jibe. He remembered the phrase that the elf had shouted at parting, and had tried translating it first. The translation he got was an "I love you." Alva thought it a cruel joke, threw the book away and cried. His memory had substituted a few sounds in a very similar "I am grateful to you."
Days and nights crawled along, and his grief deepened. He got accustomed to drinking wine at night, telling himself it was the best cure for insomnia. Then he started drinking in earnest, getting drunk alone or down in the port amid the rabble – sailors, thieves and harlots. Weeks passed in the fog of drugs and alcohol. Alva lost track of time and sunk into apathy.