In which Liltarë Gelilthor of Nargothrond thinks that the coming of Turin Turambar is obviously a good portent, teases her brother, and thinks dancing is the ideal way to test a spear.
Where usually the sound of bright song, the roar of flames, and hammer on anvil pounded a deafening beat, now the forges of Nargothrond stood nearly empty. A few apprentices worked in the back, and Liltarë recognised Elmiror, a striking jewel-smith with copper dark hair held up in a net of finely woven threads of gold. Now she bent over a project, seemingly showing it to the dark-haired Elf next to her, and Liltarë heard her brother’s distinctive laughter ring across the room. Somehow, she doubted that her fellow apprentice was actually working.
Liltarë watched the pair for a moment, trying to discern if Elmiror returned Inwistion’s obvious affection. The jewel-smith was closer with her feelings than her brother, but just then, Elmiror looked up with a smile brighter than the brilliant gems she worked, and Liltarë smiled. There would be a wedding soon. And plenty of fodder for teasing her brother at dinner—for what cause would a healer have to spend so much time in the forges. It obviously wasn’t to see his sister, as he hadn’t even noticed how much she’d been away! No, his weapon-smith sister was only a pretext to visit the lovely jewel-smith.
Not wanting to interrupt them, Liltarë moved to the corner, where the tall spear she’d finally finished, lay against the wall. She usually put more detail into her swords, but this was different. The seven stars of the Valacirca were inlayed in gold on the head, and she'd inscribed runes on the socket, so that it gleamed in steel and gold. It stood just a little taller than her own height, and her head already swam with ideas for a shield.
“Pairemo I name thee,” she said softly as she lifted the spear. “First of my weapons forged for my own hands, avenger may you be for King Felagund, and for all those who have bravely died while we hide here.”
She thrust the spear, feeling its weight and, trying some of the moves the scouts had shown her, though with a few impractical dancing twirls thrown in. She’d made spears before, but this one, this one would be hers, to wield against the darkness. Her blood ran hot as rumours ran through Nargothrond, words of the young Edain who had lately arrived. He’d stood, an impressive though grave figure, watching as the master smiths reforged the sword he’d named Gurthang. Its edges shone with fire, and it seemed so fitting to the intense young man that they called him the Black Sword, Mormegil.
Some said that King Orodreth listened to Mormegil’s urging to fight openly against the enemy. Liltarë found herself hoping that the rumours were true, though the rest of her family believed their hope lay in secrecy. What would secrecy get them, but to ultimately die cowards' deaths? It had to be a good omen that once again a man dwelt in Nargothrond, as in the days when the people of Bëor dwelt there. Their king had died for one of the Edain, so should they not listen when one came to shake them out of their fearful inaction? Especially one bringing Lord Gwindor who they had thought lost?
She startled from her thoughts at Inwistion’s low chuckle, and she playfully pointed the spear in his direction, “Ah, Liltarë, it is as well you stick to smithing weapons, and not wielding them! You are so distracted with the steps of your dance, that you forget the purpose of a weapon!”
Liltarë laughed in response, “Do you think my testing the weight of a weapon, and my behaviour on the battlefield shall be the same?”
“Shall be?” Inwistion’s brow furrows, “I would have thought you would have the sense not to have your head turned by the fickle moods of popular opinion, spread by the words of one who understands not our ways, nor the enemy as we do. We have tried to face Morgoth in open battle before, and it has not gone in our favour. And neither of us are warriors.”
“Not yet. But it can only help my craft if I know how to use weapons. And you underestimate us—there seems little enough courage in Nargothrond it is true, but it could be roused, there is might in the Elves.”
Liltarë continued softening her voice, “Would you have me follow the example of our mother, in regret and sorrow looking back over the sea and refusing to take to the task of loving this land? I see in her face that she wishes she had stayed with her mother’s people among the Vanyar. But we see also our father’s desire to defend and protect our works and realms in Middle Earth, his hatred for Morgoth and all his servants. I would follow his example.”
Inwistion was quiet for a long moment, before responding, “Amil left Aman for love of her husband, and lost her father on the Helcaraxë. And now she would protect what home she has here by keeping it hidden from the enemy’s eyes. She has not your love for Middle Earth and it's people, but she does love Nargothrond. Try to understand her.”
Liltarë sighed and set down the spear, anger flashed in her dark grey eyes, though directed at neither her brother nor her mother, “And I hope that she will try to understand that I cannot sit by while Morgoth seeks the destruction of all we have built here, and heaps suffering upon our allies. Our best chance at preserving Nargothrond is to destroy the enemy.”
“If the king calls for war, I shall go as a healer. But it is not our decision to make, Liltarë.” He paused and silence hung in the air until he spoke again in a lighter tone, “Elmiror and I are going home for dinner. I believe our cousins will be there as well. The spear will still await you tomorrow, for now come join us. For there is still cause to be merry—let not politics cloud your mind.”
Liltarë smiled, “I shall take it with me. Amil may not love the idea of my fighting, but I think she will be glad that at least I use a spear. And I am sure my cousin will be full of critiques about the shaft.”
“Ah yes,” Inwistion laughed, “Though you’ve reinforced it with enough metal to perhaps evade the critical eyes of a woodworker, I don't doubt he'll have some advice all the same!”
