{ narrative } no hands are half as gentle or as firm as they like to be
For the past month - perhaps even more - the Deepmoor's Lady has been positively reclusive in her nature. Dedicating herself to Amunet's recovery has been in and of itself something of an intense experience as it will no doubt continue to be, and yet it would never cross her mind not to have begun, not to see it through. She spends her evenings by the fire with the two of them, teaching them Gaelic when she's not simply there to keep company, when she's not on some errand to their betterment. She speaks quietly with the healers, and lets herself be distracted when she reads the letters that Kethaigne sends, telling her of news beyond their borders that she'll carry to her brother.
(And when she is small and weary and weak, Nuada holds her and she remembers that once that was all she needed to feel safe, she curls her hands into fists with the force of holding the memory in her heart.)
However she has neglected her responsibilities to those outside her lands - it pains her, but her own must be first if they are to one day be more than this - she can't regret it, even as she finally begins to move and amend. There are letters to be written, perhaps gifts to be sent, even apologies made.
She stands at her balcony and watches the water a long while before she withdraws to her study.
Uther Doul,
It has been some time since we've spoken and as I have since heard better news of you, I am sorry that our last conversation was not so promising and that I have not had the chance to have a better one. I'd like very much to see you, so I shall keep this missive brief in the hopes we might discuss matters personally. Thank you very much for the sweets, and you must write back shortly so that we might visit.
In hopes of seeing you soon,
The other letters can wait a little longer.