Suliad, Lindir! *puts down on your windowsill a ornate wooden box and an envelope* I brought you some teas and herbs, I saw the last time you severely depleted your reserves. Those are all approved by the healers to strenghten one's constitution.
My little scholars have heard of your malady, and they send their well wishes and want to see you soon. I thought to warn you before five children beset you unexpectedly in the halls some time in these days. *Laughs softly* They wanted you to have this. *Hands you the envelope*
Be well!
Narë of Imladris.
Ah—Suliad, dearest Narë of Imladris!
Forgive the delay in this reply; I had been indisposed (read: asleep, utterly unaware of the world’s turning) when your generous gifts arrived. Allow me to recount the tragedy that unfolded in this chamber:
A pale shaft of dawnlight piercing the curtains, illuminating a room shrouded in the delicate quiet of rest. There I lay, draped most elegantly (if I may say so) upon my bed. Yet, beside me, curled like a most exhausted cat on a chair far too small for such purposes, was poor Eredin—my ever-dutiful assistant. The picture of suffering. He had fallen asleep there while watching over me, plagued by back pain (I did warn him about sitting like that for hours—he insists on martyrdom).
The true drama began when a knock disturbed the stillness. I did not stir—Eredin, half-conscious and terribly affronted by the cruel dawn, awoke first. With a groan worthy of a wounded hero, he rose, massaging his shoulder with all the sorrow of a minstrel in a tragedy.
And there—oh!—there lay your ornate box and envelope upon the windowsill.
"For me?" he whispered, dramatically clutching the envelope to his chest. (He claims he did not say this aloud. I assure you—he did.)
Upon realizing your gift was not, in fact, addressed solely to him (he may never recover from the disappointment), he proceeded to brew the teas you so thoughtfully provided. The scent of herbs filled the room—restorative, divine!—and as I finally woke (with the grace of a swooning heroine, naturally), I was met with this sight: Eredin, looking terribly smug, cradling a cup of tea as if he had conjured it from the mountain springs of Valinor itself.
But, ah!—the envelope! The note! Your words, penned so lovingly, with the Elvish script styled so artfully, and the heart—the heart! The small fingerprints!!! I nearly wept. Eredin did weep. (Or so he claims it was just the steam from the tea. We are all liars in this house.)
And the message—Such tender affection—I am simply undone!!
Your little scholars plotting to beset me in the halls? Be still, my heart!
I shall endeavor to recover swiftly, lest I find myself overwhelmed by a horde of well-wishing children. (Eredin says he will provide “adequate warning” but I know he secretly encourages the chaos.)
Dearest Narë, you have my eternal gratitude for your kindness. I am fortified by your teas, uplifted by your words, and thoroughly scandalized by Eredin’s dramatics. Rest assured, I will greet the young ones soon—if I survive their ambush.
With love always (and a dramatic sigh), ✨ Lindir of Imladris ✨
