The first breath of spring had arrived some days ago, blown upon the gentle west wind rolling into the Valley of Imladris. The eaves dripped with melting snow, hung with rapidly dwindling icicles that glittered in the mellow sunlight. Patches of green appeared in the fields which once had been blanketed in snowy white. And in every garden, sharp green spears thrust upwards through the soil, bearing the promise of bloom and growth. Already a few brave blossoms of nínim hung drooping from their slender stems, suspended above the ground like white tears falling upon the snow. The air lay thick with the heady scent of restless growth and change. Songbirds, returned from their winter abode in southern lands, twittered among the budding branches.
The tableau outside her handsome arched window might have cheered Uilossiel some other time, but now she leaned against the window-frame, staring outside with a pained expression. It had been easy to mask her grief with icy indifference when all outside was drearily blanketed in snow. But now, as leaves budded upon the trees and the first blooms of spring appeared amid the snow, a deep restlessness seized her, as if her heart had been roused from its frozen torpor by the advent of spring.
Uilossiel tore her gaze from the window and turned sharply on her heel, steel-grey robes rustling about her ankles. She thrust open the window, and fresh air wafted into the room. Though the sun shone upon the melting snow outside, there was a keen chill in the air, and she shivered slightly.
"The cold bites sharpest when the ice flees," she muttered to herself, remembering an old saying of Gondolin of which her father was fond. Perhaps some cleaning and tidying would settle her frayed nerves, she thought. For a few moments she busied herself with arranging and re-arranging the books she kept in her room - the very same books which she had already gone over countless times during the long, bitter winter. She was certain that she had memorized everything about them now, from their titles to the colors of their bindings and their respective locations. Once more she paced the floor, slippered feet treading the same path on the plush blue rug before her bed, worn by her constant pacing.
Her restless steps paused before a large carven wardrobe resting against the wall. Uilossiel wrenched open the door, frowning at the thought of having to make ready a new set of garments for the changing season. Perhaps she could persuade her mother to add a few trims to her old dresses and forgo making a new one for the spring. She detested the bustle and inconvenience of sewing, and would only submit herself to it if the need arose. Shuffling through the assorted robes and dresses hanging in the wardrobe, Uilossiel began the task of taking down some to be folded and put away, and others to be laundered and starched for the coming spring. For a moment, the steady rhythm of her hands as she folded and sorted her clothes blotted out all unpleasant thoughts.
Mechanically, she reached for the next dress hanging in the wardrobe. Her hand met a rich pane of velvet and she recoiled as if burned, staring at the dress for a moment before hastily pulling it out of the wardrobe and laying it on the bed. The deep indigo fabric, which she had chosen to match the colors of the Arrow, shimmered mockingly in the pale sunlight. Uilossiel ran her hand regretfully over the detailed silver embroidery adorning the collar and sleeves. She had worn this dress only once - at the winter ball hosted by Vanimar - and she doubted if she would ever have the heart to wear it again. What a waste, she thought pitifully. Perhaps the velvet could be saved, if she ripped the seams and cut it again to make a dressing-gown or something more practical. Hastily she folded the dress and shoved it to the farthest reaches of the wardrobe, shutting the doors as if it could shut away all the memories she would rather not recall.
Though she and Dolthafaer had amiably agreed to part ways for a while after their last argument, remembering the past still stung. But now it was time to put off regrets of what might have been and look to the future. Soon, with the coming of spring, her House would march east over the Hithaeglir to the aid of the Malledhrim. And she had resolved to go with them, lending her hands to the healing of hurts and mending of wounds as best she could. Though she had little experience in the healing arts save what she had managed to study over the winter, she was sure of one thing - much blood would be spilled before the gates of Dol Guldur ere the Shadow either prevailed, or was driven from these lands for ever.
Uilossiel strode resolutely toward her desk, reaching for an ornate wooden box resting on its far end. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if it had been lying there untouched for the entire winter. As she opened the lid, a thin piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She bent to pick it up, glancing at the graceful script written on it. To Nuldafairë - may this remind you of Lindon, which you once called home, and of Bar-en-Vanimar, which has become our home. Without a second thought she tossed the parchment into the fire. Some things were better left forgotten.
Within the box, on a bed of sky blue satin, lay a marvellously carved oyster shell. The shell had been a keepsake from her first visit to the shores of Lindon as a young scholar. Last autumn she had asked Elvealin to carve it after seeing a few lovely examples of her work. Elvealin had chiselled a swan with wings outstretched, the symbol of Bar-en-Vanimar, into the pearly inner surface of the shell. Delicate application of blue enamel gave the background the appearance of waves, contrasting beautifully with the gleaming white detail on the wings and body of the swan. For a moment, she admired Elvealin's artistry, then firmly closed the box and opened a small drawer on one side of her writing-desk. She drew out a key, shoved the box into the drawer and locked it firmly.
Perhaps it was better this way - she would have no lover to mourn if things went ill in the coming campaign, when the Arrow would march with the warriors of the Hammer and Fountain into the gloaming darkness that had overtaken the Greenwood. And if the tides of war turned against them, she would be free to focus her mind on the healing of all the warriors of Vanimar, without being plagued by worry for a certain one. Uilossiel turned back towards the window, and met the scene outside with a determined smile. The winter had passed, and a new season had come.
