Things Nedhlam shall never forget: Climbing stairways of crystal to the gates of Tirion, carrying baskets of flowers and ripen fruit whilst holding her mother’s hand. 

Hearing the great speech of Fëanor in the great square, as he stood in shining armour beneath the White tree Galathilion, crafted from Telperion and gifted to the Noldor by Yavanna.

Pulling on her twin brother’s arm at that speech, as his spirit soured upon Fëanor‘s words and his courage swelled like the breast of a singing bird. She shook her head at him in warning, but he just stroked her face and smiled with such excitement and pride that she could do no more than return his smile in obedience. Her father also heard the call-to-arms, their weeping mother and oldest brother remaining in Aman.

Singing in the streets, a great swell of bodies stirring like an armour-clad serpent glinting in the gloam. Raised banners flapping in the breeze and horns piercing the air thick with tears and joy, as the great host of Fëanor shifted through Tirion and down the green hill of Túna, slipping between the Calacirya and turning eastward towards the Bay of Eldarmar. 

The terrible events that ran rivers of blood across the streets of pearl at Alqualondë. A sensory overload leaves Nedhlam’s actions blurry on this fateful night. She remembers clinging to her brother’s side, his shield protecting her from singing arrows raining down from the city walls. Behind her, the sound of lashing water against the Teleri ships moored in rows, the street lamps reflected in the harbour’s depths like a watery string of pearls. She can recall the clamour and clash of swords that is the dreadful harbinger of fates sealed to doom, that soak her memories evermore with the smell of sweat and blood against the salty ocean breeze.

The cries of those victorious and defeated churning like an ever present sickness in her gut from that day til this, whilst the sound that begins a terrible fire returns to her whenever she closes her eyes. Regardless of time passed, of battles since or yet to come, regardless of feelings or choices made to weave her fate into a tapestry of undoing, Nedhlam knows too well the sound that starts a fire: a single rush of air that smacks against the night and turned silver sails to brilliant flame.