Uilossiel wearily put down her quill and glanced out the window. Golden light streamed through the window, and the leaves still hung green and thick upon the trees. Yet there was a new tang in the air, the promise of colder days marking a subtle shift in the seasons. She sighed and pushed away the manuscript in front of her, then rose and made her way to the window.
It was not easy to remain in the Valley, while others of her house were still abroad, and had been for several months’ time now. She gazed northwest, over the crest of the ridge bordering the Valley, and swiftly her thoughts ran to the Hammers of Vanimar who were seeking Themodir in the wastelands to the north. A few days ago, she had encountered Daegond,the Hound of Vanimar in the Hall of Fire. The Hound was quite sure that the company were making for Angmar, where Belethoriel had been imprisoned.
Pushing the hinged window open, she leaned one elbow on the the wide window-sill and stared outward. The sunlight fell golden and benign upon her shoulders, as if in mockery of her darkened spirits. In frustration she sought for a piece of jewelry to worry between her fingers, but her left hand met only a smooth expanse of wrist, where her sapphire bracelet had formerly rested. Her bracelet - which was now far away to the north, she remembered, if Dolthafaer had taken it with him on her journey. It seemed an age ago when she had awkwardly given it to him on an impulse before the tourney, as a good-luck token, she had said. She flushed with embarrasment on recalling the memory, and cast her eyes downwards to her bare wrist. The bracelet had been an old gift from her father, for her fiftieth begetting-day; a simple silver chain strung with a single sapphire, and never had it left her right wrist until she gave it to Dolthafaer.
She winced. Now was not the time for sentimental musings, especially when Vanimar was gearing again for war in the East, and all those able to assist in Imladris had been called to offer their services. It seemed that her plans to travel south to Eregion had to be forestalled, since she had been deluged with more scribe work in the past few days, from both the Library and her own House. Glancing at the parchment spread out on her writing-desk, Uilossiel decided that she deserved a respite.
Turning away from the open window with an air of resignation, she took down a worn leather-bound book and her small harp from a nearby shelf. It was an old, well-loved volume on the music and lays of the First Age, filled with dog-eared pages and notes scrawled in the margins by a young hand. It opened to a well-worn page inscribed with the title Song to the Winds. A few blots which looked suspiciously like tears decorated the page, and Uilossiel sighed as she smoothed back the wrinkled pages. It was a ballad of the Edain, of the House of Hador, which she had found in this book the year her brother had left the Valley. Taking up her harp, she tuned it for a few moments, then found her fingers slipping into the familiar strains of the ballad. Moments later, her voice joined the strumming of the harp, soft and faltering at first, but swelling with strength as she continued.
“South Wind, swiftly wandering o'er
Grassy land and sandy shore,
Knows't thou where my love has gone,
Where his steps have wandered on?
“Swift and sure thy footsteps be,
Swiftly bring thy news to me.
“North Wind, from the snow-clad height
Bending dread and august sight,
Hast thou seen him standing there,
With thy breath cold in his hair?
“Swift and sure thy footsteps be,
Swiftly may he come to me.
“East Wind, from heat-ravaged lands
Spread thy bare and wasted hands,
Sift through dust and sand once more,
Tread where he hath trod before.
“West Wind, from the Blessed Shores
Cast thy gaze from sunset's doors
On these marred and perilous lands
Where I know my love yet stands.
“Swift and sure thy footsteps be;
Swift to bring him home to me.
“All ye winds from realms of day
Witness here my oath today:
While my love the Wild doth roam,
I shall watch till he comes home.”
As the last line of the song ended, Uilossiel continued playing, lost in her own thoughts and letting her fingers shape the tune of the ballad at their will. At first her improvising was soft and mournful, and her fingers blundered upon the strings. Then, regaining her composure, she began to vary the ballad tune, interweaving delicate arpeggios and flourishes with the melody so that it became a thing of fragile beauty, like a newly-opened crocus amid the thawing winter. And as the frozen streambed gathers strength with the first thaw of spring, her music swelled and soared with hope, as she poured all her unsaid feelings into the strings of her harp. There was time enough to mourn and to worry; but it was not this day. And though the darkness might gather upon those she held dear, she would not cease to hope for their return.
