"Noted."

"I think I may have run out of emotional energy to spend on politics right now. How did the printing press go, we got distracted from that by averting relative-related disaster."

"It makes sheets with the content we desire, very quickly. We don't produce paper in that kind of quantity but we're scrounging up as much as I can."

"Do you not have paper mills? No, wait, there's no way the kind of paper I'm used to would last long enough for Elves. How do you make paper?"

"Parchment, for important things. We treat it for most other purposes, and it'll make a thousand years just fine and hopefully by then the Silmarils have been recovered."

"The Silmarils?"

"Stop things from decaying. Very nice, if one is an Elf and has lots of things that will all decay before you hit your first millenium."

"Oh, cool. What happened to them? Wait, is it the obvious answer."

"Enemy stole them, was that obvious? The answer to who created them is even more obvious."

"So far, 'the Enemy did it' seems to be the ultimate answer to every 'so how did things go wrong' question. I'm afraid I don't know--oh, Feanor?"

He laughs. "See? You know everything you need to know about politics already."

"If only it were literally that simple!"

"I'd comment on the three simple rules of Elf politics, but you said you'd tired of it. We'll head down to Dor Lómin tomorrow, how's that?"

"Healing. Blissfully straightforward."

"Head in and sleep, you accomplished a great deal today. I am going to stay out, I think, and walk."

"Good night."

He does stay out, and walk, and do something else stupid.

I hear you have a hand.

A laugh. Already had one.

I'm probably happier than you are.

Might be. I had a nice prosthetic.

Illia, completely oblivious to what she would probably otherwise think was a rather adorable interlude, goes to bed and sleeps the sleep of the just.

In the morning they take fifty people - mostly Men who will appreciate a rotation closer to home - south. On horseback, with Illia and a few hundred copies of simple explanations of magic.

Illia will explain magic verbally, on the way, if anyone cares to hear it.

Everyone's listening. It's a beautiful day. He is in something resembling a good mood.

Illia refrains from nerding out enough to stop making sense to beginners, but she's still quite enthusiastic. At one point she almost falls off her horse.

He assumes magic Men come with magic durability? If they can die as easily as regular Men that'd be quite alarming. He imagines telling Maedhros to go find his sorcerer-child and bring her immediately, this one's been stepped on by a horse.

"Careful."

"Oh, I'd've been fine," she says dismissively, righting herself.

"You're unusually hard to injure?"