Uilossiel

Giving two crisp knocks on the heavy oak door, Uilossiel waited for a moment outside Lord Erestor’s study. Her long, midnight blue robe, marking her out as an assistant scholar, rustled uncertainly as she shifted on her feet.

"It was a very close contest," remarked the Lord Ambassador. He had returned to his usual place in the Hall of Fire, beside Sogadan, and was of the proud belief that he had averted a national catastrophe.

Menelya, the 53rd day of Tuilë

Elenya, the 49th day of Tuilë

The afternoon air bore the slight chill of a spring that had not yet lengthened into the gracious warmth of summer. Somewhere nearby, the song of a lark floated from a shadowed glade as Uilossiel made her way along the well-worn path. Brushing away a stray lock of dark hair blown by the gentle breeze, she drew her warm cloak about her shoulders.

Humming contentedly to herself, Uilossiel dipped her quill in the inkpot and began to write. She sat at her finely carved oak desk, gazing from time to time out of the window which overlooked the valley. Since she had returned to Imladris from Lindon, she felt complete somehow, as if there was a piece of her that had always remained in the Valley and had just slid back into place.

Barely visible at the bottom of the page are a few scratched-out lines of ink. If examined closely, they seem to form these lines:

Good-night Isil, thou silver sphere,

Good-night to friends both far and near,

Good-night to birds and beasts at play,

And flowers blooming in the day.

For you may close your blinking eyes

And slumber while my mind still lies

Awake, restlessly gazing on

A face upon my memory drawn.

Aldúya, the 46th day of Tuilë, year 3008 of the Third Age.