Echoes of the Hidden Light in the Great Song

The Trees Bless the World

The year 1253 of the Trees in Valinor was a time of peace and prosperity for the Noldor. Alcaron stood on one of the many terraces of the royal palace in Tirion, his gaze sweeping over the glittering city below. The white stone buildings of Tirion, with their gleaming towers and intricate spires, reflected the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin, the Two Trees of Valinor. The city had grown since the early days of the Noldor's arrival, and the signs of their flourishing were everywhere. The streets were filled with the laughter of elves, the songs of artisans at work, and the hum of a culture thriving under the protection of the Valar.

Alcaron felt at peace here, in his home. He was over 800 years old in the count of the Sun, though they measured their years by the Trees in Aman. So much had changed in that time, and yet so much remained the same. His twin brother Fëanor, ever the more fiery and passionate of the two, had found some measure of contentment in recent years. Alcaron knew that much of this peace in Fëanor's heart came from Nerdanel, Fëanor's wife, who was expecting their first child. The anticipation of fatherhood had tempered his brother's restless spirit, at least for now.

Their family had also grown in other ways. In the last six hundred years, their father Finwë and stepmother Indis had given them three new siblings besids Findis: Fingolfin, Irimë, and Finarfin. They, too, were now grown, strong, and wise in their own ways, and Alcaron had come to love them as fiercely as he did Fëanor. Even Fëanor, whose initial resistance to Indis and her children had once burned bright, had softened over time, though Alcaron knew that his brother's acceptance was driven, in part, by his own growing family.

Alcaron smiled faintly as he recalled Fëanor's early days as a brother to their younger siblings. There had been tension, even anger, in the beginning. But now, the royal family of the Noldor felt whole. They were no longer just two brothers navigating their place in the world. They were part of something larger—a family that would shape the destiny of their people.

As he stood lost in thought, a familiar voice broke the quiet of the terrace.

"Á tulë sinomë, Alcaron," (Come here, Alcaron) called Fingolfin, stepping out onto the terrace to join him.

Alcaron turned, his serene expression softening at the sight of his younger brother. Fingolfin was taller than he had been as a boy, his dark hair, much like Finwë's, falling in waves over his shoulders. His eyes were bright with the wisdom he had gained over the years, though a spark of youthful eagerness still lingered there.

"Fingolfin," Alcaron greeted him warmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Manen nályë sina aurë?" (How are you this day?)

"Amanya lá silima," Fingolfin replied with a smile, "lúmë né samna ilya mallerna." (It is a glorious day, but I have spent too long indoors.) He glanced out over the city, where the streets were alive with activity. "I was thinking of visiting Aulë's forge later. Finarfin spoke to me about something new he was learning there."

Alcaron nodded, knowing Fingolfin's growing interest in the arts of smithing and crafting. Aulë, one of the Valar and the master of all things made from the earth, had taken great interest in teaching the Noldor. Their artisans had learned much from him, and in return, the Noldor honored Aulë by continuing to push the boundaries of their craft. Alcaron himself had spent many years learning from the Ainur, but his gifts were more in the realm of magic and lore than in the making of objects.

"It pleases me to see the Noldor grow in skill and knowledge," Alcaron said. "Aulë has been a great teacher to us all."

Fingolfin laughed lightly. "Indeed. Finarfin has been telling me of a new alloy Aulë showed him. He thinks it will be lighter than silver, but stronger than steel. He's been working day and night to perfect it."

"Finarfin is always chasing perfection," Alcaron replied, amused. "It seems to run in the family."

Fingolfin's smile faltered slightly, and Alcaron, sensing the change, raised an eyebrow. "What troubles you?"

Fingolfin hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "It is Fëanor. He has been... distant, even with Nerdanel. I know he is excited for the child, but there is something beneath it all. His mind seems always elsewhere, as if he is searching for something he cannot find."

Alcaron felt a familiar pang in his heart. Fëanor had always been restless, always driven by an inner fire that could not be easily soothed. Even now, with the joy of impending fatherhood, Fëanor's ambition and desire for creation were relentless.

"I have noticed it too," Alcaron admitted. "He has grown quieter in recent days, but I do not think it is a sign of unhappiness. Fëanor's mind is always seeking new challenges, new ways to shape the world around him."

"Álaqua," (Perhaps), Fingolfin replied, though he still seemed troubled. "But I fear that his thoughts wander too far. He speaks less of the joy in life and more of what he desires to create. I wonder... can he ever be truly content?"

Alcaron remained silent for a moment, considering his brother's words. Fëanor's nature was as complicated as it was brilliant. His passion had always been a double-edged sword, capable of creating wonders but also of fueling his darker impulses.

"I do not know if Fëanor can ever be fully content," Alcaron said softly. "But he is our brother, and we must trust him to find his own way. We cannot shape him, only be there for him when he needs us."

Fingolfin nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his expression. Alcaron gave him a reassuring smile and clasped his shoulder again. "Come," he said, changing the subject. "Let us see what Finarfin has been working on. I am curious to hear more of this new metal."

They left the terrace together, making their way through the palace. The halls of the royal residence were grand, their walls adorned with intricate carvings and tapestries that told the history of the Noldor. Alcaron's heart swelled with pride every time he walked through these halls, for they were a testament to the Noldor's creativity and perseverance. The palace was not just a place of power, but a living symbol of their culture and unity.

As they passed through one of the larger corridors, they encountered Irimë, their sister, who was engaged in conversation with several artisans from the city. She greeted them with a bright smile, her golden hair catching the light of the Trees.

"Man lómë, híniya?" (What news, little sister?) Alcaron asked as they approached.

"Ilyë áva ná sírë," (All is flowing smoothly), Irimë replied, gesturing to the artisans. "We are discussing a new mural for the city square. It will depict the arrival of the Noldor in Valinor."

"Ah, a fitting subject," Fingolfin said with a smile. "You have always had a gift for storytelling, Irimë. I look forward to seeing the mural completed."

"Do not flatter me too much, or I will make you pose for one of the scenes," Irimë teased, laughing.

Alcaron chuckled, but before he could reply, a familiar voice echoed down the corridor.

"Ah, there you are!"

Fëanor appeared from around the corner, his face alight with energy. There was a gleam in his eyes that Alcaron recognized all too well—the gleam that signaled Fëanor had some grand idea or creation in mind.

"I have been looking for you both," Fëanor said as he approached. "There is something I must show you. Something I have been working on for some time."

Alcaron exchanged a quick glance with Fingolfin, who looked both intrigued and wary. Fëanor's 'projects' were often grand and ambitious, but they could also be unpredictable.

"What is it this time, brother?" Alcaron asked, though there was a smile on his lips. Fëanor's enthusiasm was contagious, even if it sometimes led to trouble.

Fëanor grinned, the fire in his eyes burning brighter. "Come, I will show you. It is in my workshop."

The three brothers followed Fëanor through the palace and into the sprawling city of Tirion. The streets were busy with activity, elves going about their work and play, and as they walked, many of the Noldor greeted the royal brothers with warmth and respect. The city had grown significantly over the centuries, its artisans and scholars creating wonders that even the Valar admired.

Fëanor's workshop was located near the base of one of Tirion's great towers. It was a place he had crafted with his own hands, a space where his most ambitious creations were born. Alcaron and Fingolfin had both visited it many times before, but every time they entered, there was something new to behold.

Inside, the workshop was filled with tools and materials—metals, gems, and strange artifacts from all corners of Aman. At the center of the room stood a large workbench, and upon it lay an object draped in cloth.

Fëanor approached it with reverence, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of the cloth. "I have been working on this for many years now," he said quietly, his voice full of emotion. "It is not yet complete, but it will be soon I hope. And when it is..."

He pulled the cloth away, revealing a stunning creation—a large gem, it seemed to glow faintly, but nothing significant.

"What is this?" he asked.

Fëanor smiled, the pride in his heart evident. "I think I will call it the Silmaril when it is finished."