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The tapping of the hammer was by now almost musical; a music only the Noldor could understand and respond to. Had a Dwarf heard it, they would have spat and muttered about Elf nonsense, stamping their feet to ward off unease; had one of the Sindar or other Teleri been witnesses, they would have touched sprays of hawthorn to ward off evil; while Aftercomers would simply have fallen into contented sleep, and never woken up. But to the four Noldor, despite themselves, it would be as lively as the most haunting of dances, yet with more artistry added. This was the forging of their fathers that they witnessed, that had been sacred in Valinor, fell in Middle-Earth, but was always beautiful.
The sound seemed to make the light grow stronger, pushing back the shadows and half-blinding the sunstarved walkers.
Then the artist beyond the light laid the tiny hammer down, and a clear, proud, and, yes, almost breathless voice, filled with the anticipation of Ages, called out:
"Who visits the Armoury of the Lord Nelyafinwe, Guardian of Himring Hill and Head of the House of Fëanor? Step into the chamber if ye be true Noldor, as I surmise."
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