Slamming her book on the table in frustration, Uilossiel pushed back her chair and stood up, scowling. What use were books and letters when two of her house were lost in the Hithaeglir, possibly dead by now, and the Arrows were daring the peril of the mountains in order to search for them? Hands clasped tightly behind her, she paced before the large bay window which faced north and east, towards the craggy peaks of the Hithaeglir.
It had only been a few days ago when Nuldafairë had told her of Lord Estarfin's absence and the Arrow's assignment in the Hithaeglir. The news that lady Danel had gone in pursuit of Estarfin had shaken her deeply. Why, it seemed only yesterday that Danel had been dancing happily at the ball with Lord Anglachelm, white flowers twined in her hair. It was frightening that she could be here one moment, and presumed dead the next. And Lord Estarfin as well - she did not know him well, but had taken it for granted that he would always be there, brooding in the shadows.
What madness had taken him, that he would do such a thing... venture alone into the Hithaeglir bent only on finding his death? And how much were Nuldafairë and the other Hammer recruits to blame for the downturn in Estarfin's spirits? From what she had heard of him, he was always somewhat of an unstable character, and the loss of his recruits was the final blow that led him to this madness. She laughed bitterly, remembering that spring day when Nuldafairë had invited her to watch him and Sargiel spar with Lord Estarfin... how could she have known that things would come to this?
A merry twittering from the window roused her from her thoughts. In his little cage of willow-wood, a tiny songbird chirped ecstatically at the winter sun. Duilin, his name was - Nuldafairë had told her when entrusting his pet to her care, two days before the Arrows departed for the Hithaeglir. Uilossiel clenched her fists, willing herself not to worry about him or the other Arrows. They were seasoned warriors, she a mere scholar. She was a fool to think they could not handle themselves in the Wild - indeed Nuldafairë had done so long years before she was even born.
Still, a pang of longing filled her as she remembered how gently Duilin's master had fed him the last evening she had seen him, and how proudly he had described rescuing Duilin as a young fledgling. She twisted her hands together, knuckles whitening. This was no time to be distracted by sentiment. Whether or not he and the Arrows returned safely, her duties to the Library, and now to the houses of healing would remain. She glared at the papers strewn haphazardly around the table. It was not like her, to let such matters keep her from her duties.
She had written some of her best work in the years after Tancamir had left the valley, and had found solace in immersing herself in study. How now did Nuldafairë's absence affect her so? She scoffed inwardly. Ai, she sounded like a pathetic young maiden of fifty summers.
Duilin had taken up his merry song again, after falling silent for a while. Uilossiel glanced at the bird, a dark resolve etched across her face. He had proven to be only a distraction, and so had her affection for his master. She stormed over to the cage and threw a black cloth over it, nodding in satisfaction as Duilin ceased his singing. She had spent too long cherishing the novelty of her acquaintance with the archer, and had wasted enough time alternately worrying and dreaming of seeing Nuldafairë - no, Dolthafaer, she reminded herself sternly - again. Resolutely, she sat down at her desk and straightened the books and parchments before her.
Think, do not feel - that was always her recourse in times like these. Analyse, enumerate, reason - waste no time on silly sentiment. Uilossiel laughed mirthlessly as she began to list projects to complete after her work for the Library was done. She would dig out all the manuscripts of her old poems and pore over them for grammatical errors. Read the index of healing herbs found in the vicinity of Imladris and commit it to memory. Track an obscure reference in a tome of history through several centuries, authors, and volumes until she found the truth. Practise writing in a clear, precise script ... no two letters should differ in size, placement, and slope. Copy texts and timelines until her hand ached and the pen wore out. Work until the candle was spent and the disorder of papers and tomes on the desk resolved itself into a checked-off list of finished tasks - until sorrows were quenched by the hard, unrelenting glint of black ink upon pale parchment.
