Enyalëa Tarnin Austa, estel anarórëva
The Tarnin Austa. The cursed festival, in my mind. So many years past, yet to me a short time that the peoples of Gondolin were gathered upon the eastern wall. Behind and before them, the lamps lit through the night, like swinging jewels; to wither aside their lesser glow before the majesty of Vasa and cast her lights through them like all the colors of some rainbow in the mist, shining rays of color around the shimmering east wall. I remember the breaking of the first voices upon the rising of Vasa, the shouts of "Aiya!" And the raising of hands to her glory. I remember the feasts of food, and the air being filled with the music of choirs that sang with all the warmth and joy of summer itself. But I, as we all do, remember the final feast, and the beginning of the last hour.
This gathering, so long after, was as the people that create it: a withered memory of greatness, yet beautiful in its steadfastness. For as lady Danel spoke, 'we have not truly been defeated', and as I, 'Nor shall we be'.
They brought with them lamps in the darkness, and I played quiet music and kept my voice to perfect silence until the first lightening of the sky, only then did I speak and step aside that Norliriel may play upon her silver flute, with such a lightness as if she herself were calling the dawn into being.
As the first rays of Vasa-Anar pulled into being, I raised my hand as I had so many years ago, and the silence was rapidly shattered by the launching of so many golden fireworks from the hillside behind me; their lights paling before Vasa and shimmering upon the lake. And harps were once more raised, but this time accompanied by dancing; and I myself danced, as Ornessar and Fealivril played. Many ate, and sat about, and some words were spoken in memory of that city, the city in which my father fell, in which my brother fell, in which so many had lost those most precious to them. Yet all the same, we remain. And for many more the rising of Vasa-Anar, I intend to still.
