Rain is dancing on Gondolin's high towers. It drips from architraves and streaks down the lancet windows. The climbing flowers that wind around the high balustrades and volutes gather the rains in their trumpet-shaped blossoms.
Iridescent in the shower, hummingbird wings quiver ruby red and gold in the misty air, flashes of dancing color.
Rain sings on the fountains and in the marble-paved courtyards. It flutters at the panes like timorous wings, a song afraid to be heard, lest it be ruined by hardened hearts.
Only one child of Ondolindë lets the melody wash over her. The rain falls softly upon her bare face and arms, as if it knows the joy of the present and the sorrow of the future. Each droplet lights gently upon her skin and bejewels her golden hair. It drips from her lashes and into the deep mystery of her blue eyes.
With light feet, she drifts through the silent city, heeding the song of the rain. There is grace in her movements, and she treads upon the tips of her toes, each slender foot placed a measured distance in front of the other. Her eyes shine.
High up on the walls, she finds a man in the city of the Elves.
No greetings are spoken between them, as they stand on the ramparts and watch the mists gather.
All grows still. The stones are silent, crooned to sleep by the sound of a rain that has slowly died. Cradled in the city, a slumbering silence lies and is not broken.
Then trees bestir themselves with the call of the wind. A wind blows Idril's hair back into a veil of gold and her glittering crown is taken from her on the fresh breeze.
"Speak to me, Ulmondil," she says at last.
"Of what shall I speak, Princess?"
"You listen for the sea," she replies, not a question but an answer.
His eyes are sky-hue, keen with the flash of lightning, lit with the gleam of Vàsa on the surface of the sea. They meet hers, unabashed, unfaltering. "Do you?"
The wind pulls her silks about her knees. "When do I not? Every night, I pray to the Sea to take me home. Even now, does it not touch upon the shores of Eldamar?"
"Yea, but it also touches upon these shores, the shores where men are bound. I must be satisfied with this side of the Sea."
"But you are not satisfied, are you?" She turns her eyes upon him. "Are you? If not satisfied, Ulmondil, why not sail other seas? Why not sail the other side?"
"I would if I could."
"Ulmondil, you have the friendship of the Sea itself. Be not faint-hearted, who were formerly so valiant. Do as your heart calls."
He raised his eyes. She stands beside him, poised like a bird, listening for the sea call as well. Her hair was wind, her eyes the sea. In the depths that had called him, he found the longing they both shared. "Shall I sail alone?"
Her eyes did not falter. "Look, Ulmondil," she commanded. "Look into this gem."
She raises a clear jewel from her breast and holds it upon her palm.
"What shall I see?"
Her eyes defy him.
Thrice slave, unfortunate man, cries his heart. Thrall to Lorgan, thrall to the Sea, and thrall to heart's desire.
She nods her head, once.
So he bends his golden head over the gem. It is uncarved, unadorned, hung about with a simple golden chain. Oft had he wondered why the jewel of Gondolin should go with this as her only ornament when she could have the wealth of the kingdom about her neck.
For a long while he beholds it. Every time he thinks to look away, a flicker in the gem catches his eye. And at last, the gem seems to stir, as a still pool when a raindrop falls. It ripples, and the ripples spread to the confinements of the jewel and change. Idril looks not at the stone, nor did she see what he saw, but his eyes hold hers as he straightens.
"You shall not sail alone," she whispers and unclasps the gem. The gold chain falls shimmering into his hand, the gem heavy and cold in his sword-worn palm.
Water falls. It drips from the stones, from the branches, from the buds. It flows out into Tumladen, the green valley.
It sings, running through many channels. Some dry up, some are diverted into waysides and grow stagnant.
But the Sea calls many. And one day, the boom of the surf would be greatened by countless voices.
But today, clouds hover over Gondolin. Through their soft grey, muted rays of sun break, for it is day's end. The City shines white and fresh, a pale lily in the Vale of Tumladen.
Ondolindë sings.
Within Tùor's embrace, Idril sings.