[Anguirel]

For some time the Smith seemed to be otherwise engaged in the wine cellar beyond, leaving Lomwe's cautious query drifting on the air. The Master Smith's voice continued to reach the four Elves was they rested in the heat, intermingled with the clangour of bottles and glasses being moved about.

"Ah, the Hithlum vintage...awfully fine...reserved for his Lordship and the brothers of course, not common folk like us, I'm keeping it so he can have his customary drink after he admires the new mail...well...ah, yes, this is perfect. Thargelion-made! Tremendous, tremendous...now, five of these seven goblets...I mean...four, I don't drink myself any longer, sadly..."

Before long a tray, several silver cups and a bottle of white wine upon it, could be seen advancing, at a constant speed, firmly, unfaltering, towards the party. The Elves realised that the unseen Smith must be carrying it.

"Now, then. As to this voice-do have a drink, by the way, I'll just lay it down on this slab...there-the Voice. This young fella-" here Lomwe realised he was being referred to-"says you heard it on the first night you came, but I'll wager you heard it on every night since as well, no?"

A pause hung in the air, before Oremir, wanting to bring the Smith to his point, nodded. Had he been visible, the Noldor felt, they would have seen the Smith nodding back, before he went on.

"Aye. Of course it's tricky to measure time down here-time of day, that is, light and twilight and season, for the chronometre I forged can give me a fine arithmetical answer."

Several of these words seemed to be technical jargon, most likely of the Smith's invention, though Quenya in basis. Only Lindir recognised them, remembering tinkerings of long ago.

"But as I reckon it," the Master Smith said, "the song rings out, clear as a clarion or a great bell, in the dying hours of twilight. Even down here it can be heard. Over-powering beauty, innovation, poetry, sadness. The Voice sings of the Noldolante, the tragic but heroic fall of our race. And I cry, though there be none to see nor hear it. I weep dry tears...that Song told me everything that had happened since the Nirnaeth, everything since I plunged into the Orcs on this thresholds and slew enough to force them out, before my body broke...before I refused my summons. From it I know of the death of six of my seven lords. Five of those fates I believe. But one...I have proof is false. I digress..."

The Smith paused, portentously. Perhaps he had a little sense of drama.

"The Second Son of Feanor is on Himring's Hill, and has been ever since the end of the First Age. The Song is his. It can be, can come from, no other."