O Diary! What strange times we live in.
If the recent discouraging events -- Fingolrin wrenching himself away from us and departing the Vale, the Fountain Lord doing the same apparently, the disappearance of two patients straight from their beds in the Houses (the guards, under the stiffest questioning, maintain they saw or heard no one depart, especially with the burden of two wounded, through any of the doors... something fell is afoot, Diary, some invisible corruption of the Enemy I know not how to fight) -- shook me up, what completely flabbergasted me were words from Caun Danel herself.
She has made me Mistress of the Houses of Healing, to run them as I see fit, with my bright star Norlië as my second. I was asked to design and put together a uniform for who ever should work within the Houses, that we might be quickly identified by desperate folk bringing their wounded friends -- like that strange time when Lord Glorfindel arrived with a wounded Perian, who had to be cured by Lord Elrond himself, but that is another story.
In the same gathering, hiril Tingruviel was named Lady Ambassador. It was bittersweet to see her take Parnard's seal from Tûr's hand, but (although no one asked my opinion!) I firmly believe she will be excellent for the position. My Caun is wise. She has also, I think, asked Elvealin to be the Lady of the Harp, and again I can think of no one more utterly fitting for the position. I do so hope Elvealin's brother Elloen, the painter, takes charge of the artisans in other media. Losgael of the Hammer, who weaves, and dear Galdorion and his sculptures -- I am not sure that hair-work quite counts, for these purposes, although one cannot deny he works magic there too -- and of course Telpenaro and his culinary magic, all would benefit from having a strong leader of crafters.
Diary, Caun Danel said nothing but kind words about the robes and colours I chose -- Norlië shall wear shoulders similar to mine, but in a different colour -- and yet, how odd it was to stand before the mirror and see myself wearing aught other than mourning black. I know that committing to the healing and care of his friends (although none shall be turned away, no patient, and equally no one who seeks to acquire or give healing knowledge, for the independent herbalist Tathlas has been priceless -- to say nothing of Melui) is the best memorial I can give my beloved husband. Yet it was strange upon strange to see my hands gloved in Pillar burgundy, and the majority of me in the orange I chose as a blending of that colour and Harp gold. Almost too festive. Yet there it is.
Poor Nieni! How utterly odd it must be for her. What a dear. She is so overly deferential to Norlië and me that it is almost comical. The poor thing is afraid of putting a foot even slightly wrong -- which is, I admit, a refreshing contrast to my crafty brother the Hound. First he worked on me until I gave up and agreed to submit the request for the boar-hunt, though I deem Tûr knew it was really Daegond's desire, not my own. Now he has requested, in front of a crowded Hall of Fire, that I go along so that there is one healer to stop the blood in case any one should be gored by those enormous swine.
Strange upon strange. The scholar Anglador, who studies Varda's gems in the night sky, believes strongly that one can predict events by charting the position of the stars. This was slightly confusing for me, because though I know my begetting-day, the records that would have shown the hour of my birth -- something Anglador believes necessary -- were of course destroyed in the sack of my beloved city. I was made in the spring, I am fairly sure, but the Sun and Moon were not yet -- making this chart business harder, to say the least. At any rate, Anglador drew some lines and circles, and then wore a look of shock -- there is some transit, some event, set to happen to me or around me within the month. So Anglador believes. If this is so, please let it be the antidote at long last! Call it, for the sake of argument, Norliriel's Fire. We had some debate over how to test the mixture. But if we learn, at last, that this combination of ingredients dissolves the Daegûr poison that widowed me not two minutes after I was wed -- nay, not a minute -- then I am content to let the scholar believe the stars predicted it.
As for the oath-breakers (I do not mean the Arrow Lord, who withdrew from his post with permission, but such as -- well, it is a long and bitter tale, perhaps best left unscribed)... they have only strengthened my fealty to Tûr and my Order. For I hear tales that some believed Tûr's leadership a prison, and those within it slaves to him, even as my husband was when he dug tunnels for the yrch of Carn Dûm. Well, then? I am told that Ráolor, who -- like Fingolrin himself -- stood at the cairn and named me his sister, whose shoulder I set back in place after his foolish, drunken challenge of Lord Veryacano -- will, at his convenience, come and speak to me. Fine. I shall receive him as graciously as any one else. Pour him tea, even, though more is wrong with his mind than can be cured with tea, as I saw when I saw him so drunk that his comrades had to push him under that little waterfall to bring him back to himself. But I shall have the same question for him that I would ask any of the defectors: If you thought you were enslaved, and must flee for your very life, why did you not inform me that I, too, was in danger -- much less try to rescue me?
