Ah, Diary. I neglect you... but there are so many patients of late, and so little ink. I believe that Norliriel's cat steps in my blasted inkwell out of choice, that it too might leave its mark on the thin parchment we use for reports and requisitions... quite a few marks, forcing me to rewrite a complete monthly report to Lady Danel (who is also away travelling, but Manadhlaer of the Houses files her reports on time, cat or no cat) from scratch. Thus the second of two requisitions put in. I let young Cuillidir fill out the one for alfirin. Ai! His rune for 4 looks, to the eyes of whichever quartermaster sent for the bundles, very like a 9. Thus I found myself taking delivery of more than twice what I thought I had ordered, and finding room for the stuff in various closets and cupboards. At least we will not soon run out, and dear Elloen, who steadily works on my portrait, has promised me and the Lady Ambassador some ink.
But Cuillidir is officially one of ourselves now. He is an odd duck, however you slice it. At his Oath-swearing today, I was interested to see that his swan is depicted walking, or, as he insisted, waddling. (I did not bring Rámarillë to the ceremony. A good thing -- she might have been gravely offended by the "waddling" remark.) Yet he also saved the life of Master Vagnur, despite the Dwarrow-sire's protests that the situation had not been so very serious, by amputating an infected joint of Vagnur's finger. The thing had gone septic (Cuillidir showed me the specimen after it had been separated from Vagnur, so I know he was correct in this) and Vagnur had but a poor chance of recovery if Cuillidir tried to save the fingertip. Such little infections, in one so elderly for his race (though still but a boy by our reckoning... for some reason, this baffles me more than the Second-born's May-fly lifespans), can quickly become deadly. So I knew Cuillidir, however he stammers and freezes around the Cauns, why ever the silk lining that I personally sew into every set of duty robes causes him to itch so, had sound judgment when it came to the patient's life.
He surprised me today, in more than just the matter of what sort of swan he received from Tûr. He took the Oath in the Old Tongue! Apparently, before she left on this secret trip (which takes so long... why? What could they possibly be doing?), Norlië was kind enough to write it for him, and Elloen, in between painting sessions, to go over and over it with him until he had it mostly right. And apart from a single mangled vowel in "Ambar-metta" at the very end, he pronounced things in Elloen's (and Elvealin's!) quite regal tones. It is a good thing he did not ask me, really. I would have given him my Telerin accent, which no doubt would have been a source of amusement.
Not long after meeting me at the Hall of Fire one night and asking if he might put his skills to work at the Houses, Cuillidir asked me wherefore a survivor of Alqualondë came to serve a company of largely Noldor (he has not met such as Losgael yet, and his patient Quenya-teacher hails from the Golden Wood, but that is beside my point) -- indeed, a Noldo liege. I thought about it, and even asked the Lady Ambassador how she thought this all came to be. Was it all for love of Themodir? Was it solely the purpose given me by work at the Houses? Lady Danel chimed in that what ever the reason, they were glad to have me, and it struck me... hers was the first voice I heard say, "Welcome home, sister," as soon as my own part of my ceremony had finished. And it was how she said it, as well. She meant it. And it has proven true. I did not know I had a sister, but there is Norlië, less than me in height, raven-haired as the archetypal Noldë, and yet my twin star, according to that astrologer and Norlië's own unparalleled devotion.
And she will be the one to sing me the Memory Seed song on her return, once Elvealin has given her that gift, hidden in the lore kept faithfully by her family in the Golden Wood. I will lie down, and she will sing to me, and I will dream... how ever this works, whether my own undertaking the healing will help convince Tûr -- who seems to feel his own extreme grief is a sort of duty of office -- to do so also, if I may just once dream of Themodir's fëa made whole, of Themodir happy again and radiant as he was when we danced together by the light of the great fires... then it will be worth it, Diary, what ever it is. Elvealin reports that most who undergo the healing wake feeling refreshed, having slept wonderfully. If I am given the privilege of singing the song to Tûr, letting the warmth of my affection for my over-proud, compassionate liege travel from my hand to his own, then whenever I too pass into the West, I may say to Themodir and my family that I worked hard and well upon these shores.
