Uilossiel stared numbly out of the window, blinking like an owl caught in the bright sunlight. All of Imladris was blanketed in snow, which reflected the light in a million splinters of brightness. There had been a sharp frost the evening before, and silver patterns danced across the window-panes, curling in fanciful shapes. Oblivious to the grandeur of the winter morning, she rested her chin on one hand and continued to gaze blankly through the windows.
The chill outside did not reach the room; instead a merry fire crackled in the hearth. Along the walls of the room lay shelves containing various jars of healing salves and draughts, and bundles of dried herbs hung neatly below them. Slowly Uilossiel reached for a piece of parchment on the table before her. She had asked for some mindless task in the healing halls, as Laurelindo and Eliriael were looking after Estarfin. She did not trust herself near Estarfin today; though it had been many days since he was brought back to the Valley, the horror of that first glance at him in the healing houses had stayed with her.
And just this morning ... She shuddered, knuckles whitening as she crumpled the parchment into a ball. She had awoken with the sheets tangled around her legs, and had cast her gaze around wildly, believing herself to be in the healing halls again. For in the night she seemed to have relived the entire experience - the hurried whispers, the urgency of the healing room, and the unending supply of bandages needed for Estarfin's wounds. In her dream, a dark-haired form lay on the bed, face obscured by Laurelindo, who was standing in front of her. He called for more bandages and a draught from a nearby table. She sensed the patient's life ebbing away with every drop of blood that seeped into the bandages. Yet time seemed to pass with agonizing slowness, and though she tried to hurry her feet along, they moved as if dragging through a thick mire. Finally she returned to the bedside and passed the items to Laurelindo, who was pulling out an arrow from the patient's chest. But now it was she who must stitch the wound. Her hands trembled no longer, for she now knew somewhat of how it was done, thanks to Tyulusse's instruction in the past few days. She took up a bottle of salve, intending to begin disinfecting the wound. As she stepped closer and peered at the sallow face resting on the pillow, she drew back with a cry. It was not the face of Estarfin, but that of the Lord of the Arrow. Fear and darkness gripped her, and the bottle of salve slipped from her hands, splintering into pieces upon the tiled floor. There was a blinding flash of white as the bottle shattered, and the room faded from view. It was then she had awoken, blinking in the sunlight streaming in through snow-framed windows.
It had been no more than a dream, but it troubled her deeply. What sort of healer would she make, if the sight of a familiar face upon the bed caused her to freeze in fear? She was a scholar, not a healer, more at home in the library than in the healing halls. To be thrust into such a situation as the healing of Estarfin's wounds, when she was merely a student of healing, had been difficult. She was glad that Laurelindo and Eliriael had been there, for they had given orders which she followed numbly, willing herself to shut out the turmoil within the room. And now - Estarfin was out of mortal danger, but still in need of care, and here she was hiding in a storage room counting healing supplies. It would pass, she told herself, and tomorrow she would make a visit to the patient's room and perform whatever duties were asked of her. But not today.
By now the sunlight had melted some of the frost upon the windows, and she could see the snow-covered valley more clearly. A few children were playing outside, their faces muffled beneath warm scarves. Bitterly she turned away from the window and cast her glance downwards. Bits of shredded parchment lay strewn about - she must have unconsciously ripped the paper in her hands. Fortunately the paper was blank - or was it? Spidery ink lines staggered across some fragments. Idly, she rearranged the papers, turning them this way and that until the writing was legible. She frowned. It seemed like her own handwriting... but when had she written this? Squinting at the crumpled pieces, she glanced over the hastily penned lines.
Bitter the ice, bitter the snow
Wounding the earth with frozen steel
Yet wounds more bitter still I know
And cold more biting do I feel -
For if the ice is deadly white,
Fair still it gleams with crystal sheen
And if in love there is delight
So also far more sorrows keen.
He has returned to me at last,
Out of the bitter cold and frost
Yet fear returns, holding me fast -
What would I do if he were lost?
Bitter the joy, bitter the pain
That I have found in recent days
For when the spring may come again
So will come war, to cloud our ways.
For a moment she bowed her head in silence, heart heavy with foreboding. Then she sneered and gathered up the scraps of parchment, crumpling them in one fist. They were poorly written verses, hardly worth a second thought. Her form was slipping, and so was her command of verse if this doggerel was all she was able to produce. Hastily she stood up and cast the papers into the fire, a fierce smile curving over her face as she watched the flames leap up to meet them. Let her foolish verses burn, and her fears with them. She could not - would not allow this craven weakness to master her. Looking towards the window, she saw icicles hanging from the eaves, glittering coldly like daggers in the sunlight. She must be firm as ice after a sharp frost, bold as the leaping flames in the hearth. She would prove her usefulness as a healer somehow, and push all distracting thoughts - or persons - out of her mind.
Uilossiel turned on her heel and strode over to the desk. The day's work was waiting, and she had wasted enough time in her musings. As she began measuring out the ingredients for more sleeping draught that Laurelindo had ordered, she smiled to herself. Perhaps she would make a decent healer yet.
