Minas Tirith

Isulril caught her breath. She ran for so long that it was impossible to determine how much time it took or where she was. She had little thought of anything other than how wretched she had been to tell the man of her feelings, how she had single-handedly ruined their friendship. Words were her weapons, and she wielded them to her own disadvantage. She told him that he had no heart, no feelings.

N.D.

I understand neither myself nor my feelings. I have known this man scarce a month and yet...he is inescapably kind to me, and I do not understand it. I do not understand why a man would be kind to me in such a way without wanting something in return. What does he desire? I sometimes wonder.

Sitting in her appointed suite, Isulril regarded her reflection in the glass of a hand mirror. She was much changed from what she was before. A beauty remained with her, but it was different. She had thinned, enough so that her once form-fitting gowns now looked slightly too big for her. Her skin, once a charming ivory, had paled to the point where she sometimes fancied she was a strange sort of spirit, the area beneath her eyes slightly darker than the rest of her face, her once-red lips now a pale pink. 

After she had been dismissed, Isulril fell into a melancholic state. She ate little, and kept to her bed. Time was something both stilted and fleeting. Time kept her in a glass case, much like a butterfly specimen. She waited for she knew not what.

Soon, she began to waste away. Her body, once decidedly voluptuous, had now become thinner and frail. Her skin became nearly sallow, and there was a faint darkness beneath her eyes. She was weak, she was tired. Very little happened.