[Anguirel]

And as the long toil of the day and eve finally approached its setting, the company of Elves found themselves scattered. Malris and Tasa were sunk, isolated even from each other by sharp despair, against the unyielding granite that had been the male Elf's home so long ago. The twins, and Lindir, cured of wounds to his spirit and his heart, watched the boats separating in such symbolic directions; one to the west and the Deeps, the other to the fish-markets of Forochel, harsh lands of the tough survivors, Men, wrongly called Sickly Ones! Lomwe, his own struggle with memory and guilt subsided, now joined them.

All of the six would hear the music which now called out for the third time. It passed even the defeated stupor of the two Elves in Giledhel's old bed-chamber. Hearing this song, you knew you would have heard it from across a cataract, or amidst the cacophony of the wildest storm. Yet it had no empty bombast about it; it was not a strain to inspire marching bands, nor even to tell of melancholy decline. It was like a lullaby sung by a strong, confident, and deeply loving father. Or perhaps a brother; a brother in a large family, perpetually having to look to the needs of his younger siblings.

The words, however, would seem different for the Elves grouped on the beach from how they reached Malris and Tasa. The singer and harper, wherever he was hidden, could see all, would tell all, would sing all. So it was that each of the parties heard, to some extent, of the doings of the other.

On the beach the mighty voice sang:

Oh, how much love is there in friendship?
Does friendship blaze on passion's pyre?
What can a night's quarrel pull down
Or joining hands in motion set?

A friend had I right long ago, a loyal Elf was he
He clove unto his own and to my fierce family.
From race on grass to race on sea we travelled-oh, then see!
He got a wife and lost a wife and lived apart from me.

This friend of mine had a friend too
But she e'er thought of more
Apart from him she knew not who
Could her heart move so sore.

Among ye here they both have come
They travelled to the first's lady.
But she had borne strange childer
In a heart too long left lone.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel
Though her brave lord yet lives;
He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve.

Thus to the four Elves. But to Malris and Tasareni, a shorter song, with longer intervals of music:

Why so forlorn on Himring's point?
The quest ye strove on is fulfilled.
The parts of witch and knight are done:
The smith can breathe again.

The door that laid ye both so low
Do not regard much longer. Nay:
Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

A choice to part full dec'rously
Or yet to overcome heart's ice
Is come: Mandos takes Giledhel
And never will take me.

Look from the window of the gard
For Earendil's Silmaril.
'Twas Maitimo first sighted it
But I who bore it no ill-will.

The same realisation would come upon all the listeners. On the previous nights, what seemed to be Maglor himself, lost heir to Himring, had sung to the isle in general; but this time, for whatever reason, he was addressing his enchantingly lovely riddles to the travellers in a startingly particular manner...

Now it was only left to decipher them...