Miruial

Miruial crept into the healing room on the soft padding of her thin periwinkle slippers. The scene before her was clearly the cause of alarm among the steady stream of healers who had come to her at her workshop that day. Glass jars and phials that usually stood at attention in neat orderly rows on their shelves stood in haphazard locations all throughout the room. Several balls of parchment paper lay littered at the base of the red table, where Eliriael sat poised rigidly.

“She cannot be consoled!” the first had announced.

There was a soft rap on the wooden frame of the doorway that stole Eliriael’s attention from the glass jars on the table in front of her. She had been eyeing the consistency of a particular red jar when she looked up.

“I was told by the healers that I would be able to find you here,” a small timid voice presented its owner wearing a sheepish smile.

Again, Eliriael took up her quill, dipped it into the ink, and let her hand hover over the parchment. The tip of the quill stood upon the paper, the ink pooling together for a moment before she began writing. The quill etched itself into the parchment, leaving its imprint and a dark liquid trail behind.

My dearest Miruial,