antidote

Dear Diary, today I let loose my hair. As I had thought, it is quite grown back since last year. I wish Galdorion spent more time in the Vale, for several ellyth have asked me where one can get those unique fan-shaped hair-pins, and as far as I know, he is the source. As well, he is a gentle soul, and did not reprimand me for cutting my hair short in a paroxysm of grief one year ago today. Ai Themodir!

O Diary! Oh, oh, oh, I cannot believe it, yet -- it is true!

At last, Diary, the letter came: the star-man, Anglador, waiting on my pleasure and wishing to make a visit to me, to explain his findings. He expressed concern that all of this information would be much for anyone's mind, but I wrote him telling him to fear this not, and I summoned Norlië as well, that she might hear the findings at once and that the hard-working scholar need not repeat himself.

Oh, Diary. Oh, oh, oh.

It started innocently enough. Anglador, the astrologer, came by to show me some star-charts, and Norlië came along with him. (I refer to her by this name still, though there is a more intimate name she told me that only her family ever knew. To keep it that way, I shall try not to quote it in these pages.) Hir Tindir of the Hammer was out on his evening stroll just then -- I had been puttering about in the garden before the visit -- and Lady Ambassador Tingruviel, before long, and Caun Danel ended up joining the group.

My dearest Norlië:

I hope you can read my cramped writing on this tiny parchment, and that Lille's eagle finds you in relative safety.

Oh, Diary! How long have I been unwilling to touch your pages, to record what has really happened?