Manadhlaer, trembling slightly, slipped on the falconer's glove before the bird had fairly settled on its perch. "Step up," she told the bird.
The falcon proudly stepped onto the glove and presented its leg so that the nis could detach a cage of cunningly wrought wire. Inside this tubular cage was a slip of paper, and upon that paper much depended.
It was the message Manadhlaer had been waiting for, from Istuileth, away in the frozen wastes. "Lirullin is safe," it said.
Three simple words. Manadhlaer sagged slightly with relief. The rest of the message brought little comfort: Lirullin was weak from the toxic minerals where she had been kept, and would need healing. While the Eldar did not sicken as mortals did, they could be poisoned, as Manadhlaer well knew. And she knew that not only Lirullin's hröa, her physical house, would need healing.
The bird, back on its perch, set to preening its flight-feathers. Manadhlaer considered, and called for Sarmëtecil, her scribe and, if a healer could be said to have such a thing, a squire. "Blankets," Manadhlaer said, and immediately the younger elleth nodded understanding. Sarmëtecil made a note on her ever-present slate. Lirullin would have a fire waiting, and the softest, deepest blankets that could be wrought from sheer love upon the looms of the House.
The two ran down a short list of preparations, and Sarmëtecil departed to carry them out. Immediately Manadhlaer took herself inward, to the lush indoor garden, and thought of Istuileth again accompanied by the Lossion called Iluheapme. She had seen how the Man looked at her, but of course such a thing was impossible, and she knew Istuileth knew it. As she watched the shimmering fish circle in their pond, foresight came upon her. "She will want to go eastward," Manadhlaer said aloud. "Across the Hithaeglir. Nor do I dare to let her go alone." Was this how she herself would finally see the mellyrn in bloom? But what of... all of the other matters also?
On the garden bench, Manadhlaer tipped her head back and interlaced her fingers. There was much to be done, she knew. And much would need to be done slowly if it were to be done rightly. A fëa did not heal in a single night.
