[Undómë]

The light from the little lanterns that hung in the trees about the yard played about his silvered hair. Emlin’s face was cast half in shadow as he spoke to her. She could not read his features; she dared not yet seek his mind, unsure as she was of the intention behind his questions.

‘A leaguer, Master Emlin. What a curious choice of words. But then this night has been a most curious one for speech.’ Her voice trailed off, considering his question more fully. ‘Melian’s leaguer, that is what I think of when I hear that word. That none could pass into her fair country without her knowledge. And so she held back the Shadow from Thingol’s realm.’ She laughed, surprising him, she thought with such a merry assessment of so serious a subject.

And he seemed serious enough, this Elf of Lindon, though he spoke in a light voice. Something hangs on my answering . . . she thought, her grey eyes considering his demeanor. He speaks lightly, to be sure. But perhaps that is his own defense against what reply he might receive.

‘But you are no shadowed creature, or so I would deem you. Though, and let me be plain spoken in this matter, I find your presence disturbing . . . disquieting, more like. It puts me on edge in a way both unsettling yet enticing. And I have no girdle the like of the enchantress of Doriath which I have set about me.’ She was quiet for a while, collecting her thoughts.

‘We have only met but once before. Earlier in the evening. And yet I feel as if you press closely in against me . . . like and unlike my brother. For despite our differences, Tindomion is a comforting presence. But you . . . I have no experience, no words within which to capture you.’ She fell silent again, then touched his wrist lightly with her fingers.

Speak to me, Emlin . . . mind to mind, will you not? That I might hear your questions, your words, without the subtleties and defenses with which your lips might cloak them . . .