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. It was like the satisfying click when one of Ada’s inventions came together, or that comforting sound that her harp-strings made when they were perfectly tuned.
She shook her head slightly. What a very Noldorin thing to say - her Falathrim colleagues were forever teasing her about her obsessive attention to detail and craftsmanship. But it was not as if she could be any different, for the pride in her craft ran through her blood, though tempered by her mother’s gentle Sindarin upbringing. Uilossiel smiled wryly, furrowing her brow in concentration as she examined an obscure word on the text she was copying.
A worthy occupation for a daughter of the Noldor, she mused, those who have always loved the swiftness and power of the written word. What were words if not powerful and mysterious? Every time she opened a book, they had transported her back to the Ages of old, ages she only know from reading about them. And to think that last evening, she had been among some who had walked even in those early days. Uilossiel put her chin in her hands and stared out at the sunlit valley, brow furrowing slightly.
I wonder if I shall ever be called upon in time of need to do deeds of valour and renown for my House, for the times grow ever darker, she mused. But who am I beside the lords and ladies of Vanimar, some of whom have seen the rise and fall of empires and the drowning of Beleriand? A mere scholar, with her nose buried in her books - quill in one hand and harp in the other?
The gentle chattering of songbirds outside pulled Uilossiel from her reverie. With a sigh, she picked up her quill again and dipped it into the ink-well. Peering at the manuscript beside her, Uilossiel began her work anew.
Perhaps my part is not to be in such great adventures, but to keep their memories alive when my people have faded from these shores. She shook her head. There was no need in indulging such melancholy thoughts, not when Anor’s rays bathed the valley outside in golden light, and the land was green with the promise of spring. Taking a deep breath to clear her thoughts, Uilossiel thought to herself,
Though times be dark, the day will yet come. Auta i lómë - Aurë entuluva! The night is passing - day will come again!
