Aldúya, the 49th day of Lairë
Life goes on, my leather-bound friend, though sometimes I wonder at how it can, when such grief has befallen my House. It was scarce more than a fortnight ago when the healers of Imladris admitted Themodir to their care, he who had been borne by four messengers from the Hithaeglir (Norliriel among them), suffering from grave wounds and goblin-poison. I do not think any of the healers could have done more for him, in the end, for the poison was nothing any of us had seen before. It was widely known that Norliriel had sung to him during the journey from the Hithaeglir, willing her strength into him that he might endure to see his betrothed again, and for that I cannot help but look on her with wonder. I would never be able to do such a thing, I who can scarcely make myself useful still in the healing halls.
I was not there, when Manadhlaer and her betrothed were joined in marriage, only to lose each other moments later. I could not have borne to see the sight, I fear. Perhaps the others of the house will think less of me for it ... but it is all over, now. I still mourn, indeed I do every time I walk past the grassy slope leading to the cairn which sealed my dear friend's widowhood. But now I see her in the Vale, my friend Manadhlaer, with other ladies gathered around her and a white swan by her side, and my heart is eased a bit.
Still I have been thinking long and hard about this peculiar poison, and though Tyulusse and Laurelindo are absent from the Valley, having journeyed to Eregion, I have the keys to the chamber in which Laurelindo has kept some spider-venom from the Greenwood. I have not done anything yet, but have recently come across some volumes on the analysis of poisons that might prove useful. Anything that might help, I will find, and note down. I have no pretences of being able to find an antidote ... but studying is the least I can do. It has always been this way.
My harp sits uselessly in the corner, when I had so wished to be able to play a dirge for my widowed friend, or compose a ballad in memory of her lord. But I cannot hear any music in my mind, and the words will not flow from the pen whenever I sit down to write. I can only see blank paper, and hear the silence of grief whenever I think on Themodir and his passing. Others have done much better in memorialising him. All I can do is continue on in my duties, as I have always done, and hope that the House will rally after this crushing blow. Slowly, like the bark of a tree closes over a fallen branch, old wounds will mend and new life appear. Of that, I am sure.
