Imladris; late summer; dawn.
Athelas. Kingsfoil, he reminds himself as he slips out of his chambers. It is so early in the Valley that the sun has even yet to crest the mountaintops that encase them all safely inside. Although light filters in through the windows of Elrond’s Homely House, no true golden sunlight has bathed the main hall in glorious array. Mallosson doesn’t stop to admire or linger on the thought of what the foyer may look like at sunrise; rather, he pushes on, almost slamming open the tall doors to step out onto the porch.
As he races down the path that leads from Elrond’s abode, his cloak, light so as not to be miserable once the sun rises, picks up humid summer dew that has yet to be burned off from the blades of grass. Mallosson knows that if he does not leave the Valley and move quickly, then he will be caught in the throes of the overhead sun, which sounds to him as miserable as spending another evening in the Hall of Fire--even if the last one had not been so horrible.
I got to see the hiril Calanis again, though it seems we will ne’er be fated for our proper introductions if we keep merely crossing paths, he thinks to himself as his soft-soled boots land lightly on the marbled arch of the Imladris Bridge. It has been many months since Mallosson has crossed the threshold of the Vale of Imladris, and the sweeping pathway that lies ahead of him upwards the wall of the valley seems daunting. He puts it aside, reminding himself of the task ahead.
It’s when he is halfway up the twisting path out of the valley that he regrets not taking the time to visit the stable-master to get a horse. His legs would be aching once he reaches the top to head out into the High Moor, but it is too late to go back now. The athelas plant should not be a far walk into the moors, at least from when I last remember collecting it. Besides, Mallosson reminds himself as he breaks into a light jog. The stores of Tham Send are running low.
But he also knows that it is not for Tham Send that he goes out; ‘twas at the request of the strange Hiril Manadhlaer, who gave him an address to which the herbs were to be sent. His thoughts drift back to the few nights prior when he had finally, reluctantly returned to the Hall of Fire--only to be greeted with a large crowd, a strange young woman looking to become a healer herself, and an elleth suffering from sleepwalking and night terrors that needed a quick treatment.
It was the first time he had sprung into action as a healer in years; the sharp shout from across the Hall, urging him to collect the powdered lady’s slipper--it still rings in his head and sends his mind reeling. It sends his thoughts back to times where he was working in musty tents on fields, their blades of grass sharp on the boots, but sharper on the nose, for it was tainted with the metallic scent of blood. It brings back memories of elves slumbering for long days on makeshift beds in emergency halls dug out in caves, or taking final breaths from too-grievous wounds in the gardens of Tham Send.
He shakes his head to clear his mind of the visions flashing before his eyes, but that is when Mallosson finds himself standing frozen still at the top of the vale, on the very threshold of the Gate of Imladris; he had not dragged himself up here in years, and the morning summer air felt heady with anticipation. Athelas first, he reminds himself. Falathlorn later. Eastwards, never.
