Miruial crept into the healing room on the soft padding of her thin periwinkle slippers. The scene before her was clearly the cause of alarm among the steady stream of healers who had come to her at her workshop that day. Glass jars and phials that usually stood at attention in neat orderly rows on their shelves stood in haphazard locations all throughout the room. Several balls of parchment paper lay littered at the base of the red table, where Eliriael sat poised rigidly.
“She cannot be consoled!” the first had announced.
“No one has been allowed to enter her wing since yesterday!” the second explained.
“She will not see to any patients!” the third panicked.
The silver-haired elleth stood up at the third healer’s report, actually concerned. “It is because there are other capable healers in the house, and she does not need to work every day! Now, go see to your own work and leave her be,” she snapped. With a second thought, she softened for a moment and added, “But I will go visit and see what ails her.” And with that, she sent the poor healer on his way.
Slowly approaching Eliriael at her desk, Miruial tucked the silver key into her pocket. As the doors to this wing of the healing house had always been laid open, the key had never been needed. Standing behind her old friend, she laid a pale yellow shawl over Eliriael’s shoulders and brushed her long hair away from her face. The usual neat arrangement, pinned up with flowers and pins, had been forgone, and her locks fell in long dark waves down the back of her chair. Peering over Eliriael’s shoulder, she could make out a letter to Lord Anglachelm with an account of healing supplies. It was clearly unfinished and had been marred with scratches in several different places.
“You should look into keeping a scribe, as your healer friends have advised,” she started.
Eliriael jumped slightly, indicating that she had not noticed her entrance. Pulling out of her chair in one fluid twirling movement, Eliriael turned and buried her face into Miruial’s neck, hugging her tightly.
“What has come over you?” the silver-haired maiden spoke softly. Eliriael rarely exhibited such behavior…save once a year in the summer. Even then, it was rarely to this extent.
The frail form in her arms looked up with a helpless expression, pleading for reassurance. “Belegos…in my dreams…He is waiting at the north gate of the valley.”
“What does he say?” It was rare that Eliriael dreamt about the scout from Gondolin anymore, ever since the two had reunited under Vanimar. Perhaps his disappearance from the House had prompted the apparition to walk in her dreams once again.
“Nothing! He stands and waits, looking to the north. Oh, Miruial, he wears the most sorrowful expression and I cannot do anything for him!” Eliriael clung to her friend tightly, grasping at her sleeves. “What if he is in trouble? What if he senses some danger that comes from the north?” Here, her expression grew pained. “Parnard said…”
Miruial quirked an eyebrow. “The Lord Ambassador?”
“Yes, yes, they were good friends. He said Belegos might have gone to the Halls of Mandos with Estarfin!” she exclaimed in a rush. “What does he mean? Why would Estarfin…?”
Miruial wisely kept silent, quieted Eliriael with a look, and steered towards the double doors. Together, they left the healing houses and then the Last Homely House. Walking across the valley, they huddled in the face of the cold gust from the north and Miruial wrapped the shawl closer over Eliriael’s shoulders. Finally, they reached their destination and Miruial nodded towards the sentries posted at the north gate. Her friend turned towards her with a questioning glance.
“You must stand and wait here, as Belegos does. Things will be revealed in time.”
Eliriael gave a small resolved nod and began her vigilance, releasing a single word on her breath in prayer, “Elbereth.”
