Tuilerie

The letter is as formal as it gets: written on parchment that, if it were any thicker, would be a wool blanket, and bearing both the Order of the Pillar seal and Manadhlaer's personal one.

My Tûr,

The subject of this report herself bade me write it, and so I really must.

After her night in the Hammer Hall, which at the very least did her no harm, Manadhlaer had been whisked around the Vale to a dizzying variety of safe-houses. This bright, bright morning, Manadhlaer had taken her breakfast in the Hall of the Order of the Fountain. Where Hammer Hall had smelled like a soldier's armpit directly after a battle, despite the most heroic efforts of Lieutenant Ancalassë, Fountain currently smelled like -- well, soap, and lots of it.

Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.

Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.

With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.

My beloved liege,

I wanted to tell you of my dream -- I dreamed of Themodir once more.

But first, I will report that I have tried the corn beverage on hir Silwë and hir Tolmen, who are both long-lived Noldor of good constitution. (Tuilerie and Ailinwen were also nearby, but Tuilerie never takes strong drink, and Ailinwen was perhaps too intelligent to try it.)