Uilossiel leafed through the multitude of books upon the shelf. Three handsome bookshelves, deftly carved of lebethron wood, stood within her room. Two flanked the large bay window in front of which her writing-desk stood. If she stood facing the window, the third bookshelf was to her right, on the wall beside the fireplace. She had a meticulous system of arranging her books and papers on these shelves. If the placement of anything was disturbed, she felt as if the fabric of the universe had somehow been tampered with, and would not rest until all was in order again.
Lately she had neglected the ordering of her books, which leaned this way and that upon the shelves. It was quite an apt reflection of the disorder within her heart, she thought bitterly. She had thought that she and Dolthafaer had come to an understanding a few days ago, when she had met him in the Library and apologized for her sharp words concerning his errand in the Hithaeglir. But yesterday evening, she had seen him in the Hall of Fire, deep in converse with Luthelian.
Something base and petty, that she had not known herself capable of, reared its head in that moment. She had put on a saccharine smile, feigning politeness to the girl when inwardly she wanted to slap her on her pretty rouged cheeks. How dare she look at Dolthafaer with those fawning eyes, and bat her eyelashes at her commander? And Uilossiel had also wondered with growing fury why Dolthafaer did nothing to rebuff the girl. So it was no surprise, once Luthelian had retired from the hall, leaving her and Dolthafaer alone, that she had flown at him in a fury, demanding why he suffered the girl to treat him so. Did their love mean nothing to him? Why did he stand by when Luthelian was obviously throwing herself at him? She had made several scathing remarks about how the girl claimed that he had been giving her archery training, alone, and what that was supposed to imply.
She should have held her tongue, for he had replied with words as biting as hers. He had called her jealousy unfounded, worse than madness. And as for the girl, he denied any association with her save on official business for the Arrow. Sharply, he had reprimanded Uilossiel for interfering with his duties to the Arrow. Why was she asking him such questions over such a petty matter, he had asked, voice raised. Surely she knew he had no intention of dallying with Lothelian - to him she was merely a new recruit, to be trained like any other. And why, if Uilossiel cared for him so, did she welcome him back from the Hithaeglir with 'a love so warm it might have frozen a lake midsummer?'
The sound of their raised voices carried through the hall. They had unconsciously stepped closer to each other as the argument grew fiercer, and Uilossiel felt a sudden urge to scream, or backhand Dolthafaer, or do something drastic. She had never seen this side of him before, and it infuriated her.
"If this is love," she had sneered, "I would rather have nothing more to do with it."
"If your love comes at the price of abandoning my duty my House and my Order, perhaps I do not wish it!" he had snapped.
"Strange that I have only heard you say that word under such delightful circumstances, my lord." She lingered on the last two words, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Then she had spun on her heel and walked out the door, heedless of anything else except her own wounded pride.
Deep, choking sorrow, and regret for her foolish words washed over Uilossiel as she now stood before her bookcases, attempting to restore order to her books, and to her own troubled mind. She swallowed thickly, willing the tears not to fall. After what had happened the night before, she would understood if Dolthafaer decided to break things off between them - her jealousy had been unjustified, her words unforgivable. She scanned the titles of the books upon the shelves, and felt a small measure of comfort at seeing their familiar faces. These books upon the top shelf were her own works, she noted with pride.
On Musical Notation in Beleriand. The Evolution of the Concert Harp - from Tirion to Imladris. The Noldolantë - A Textual Analysis. Music and Metre in Epic Poetry. She knew everything about them, from their embossed titles to the contents of each chapter that she had pored over, researched, and revised countless times. Their familiarity was an anchor to her in her grief, as she attempted to pick up the shattered pieces of her former happiness. Last of all, she came to a plainer book, which appeared to once have been a journal. On its side was simply embossed Collected Poems. This was the volume into which she carefully copied her better works of verse.
A piece of parchment fluttered out of its spine as she opened the book. Uilossiel smiled wanly. She recognized it as one of her latest works, which she had intended to copy into her book of poems after refining it slightly. She had penned this poem while in Lindon, as she gazed across the waters of the Great Sea, lost in grim reflection about the sorrows of her people in Beleriand which now lay beneath the waves. And as she had listened to the mournful music of the sea, she had wondered if Makalaurë the mighty singer still sang of the deeds and woes of the Noldor, upon the lonely sands. Now she sat down at her desk, smoothing the paper before her. She took up pen and ink and was soon absorbed in her work, forgetting her own sorrows as her pen told of those far greater than her own.
Makalaurë
Alone he stands; alone he weeps
Alone he lingers sorrowing.
Alone he looks upon the deeps,
From them their music borrowing -
Singing of light devoured and quenched,
Of darkness swift descending
Of swords with blood of kinsmen drenched,
Of sorrows never-ending.
Beneath his feet the breakers rage
Against the broken boulders
That have weathered many an Age;
And in his grey eyes smoulders
A weary fire, a dying light
In which the fading embers
Of ruinous fire look on the night.
He sings, and he remembers
Waves foaming under crimson stain
From bloodied harbour flowing
And fallen kinsmen cruelly slain
By kinsmen, little knowing
More cruel acts and hopeless deeds
Would leave a wake of sorrow
Behind their pathway over Sea
Where new hope for the morrow
Sprung burgeoning through ice and flame
And sorrows never-ending -
Thus over Sea the Oathbound came,
Their cries the darkness rending.
So once he sang - and still his voice
Is raised in song, recalling
His kin, their Oath, their bitter choice;
The Doom upon them falling.
And still he stands on barren shore
Beyond the ocean singing
Of kinsmen he shall see no more;
His voice in darkness ringing
Over the waves which westward roll
From lands now long forsaken
By his own people - he the sole
Remnant on lands now taken
By rule of Men - for faded now
Are kinsmen of his own.
While on the strand the breakers sough,
He stands and weeps alone.
