The soft lapping of the sea that sprayed upon the rocks of Lindon’s shore—that same sea that caressed the white sands of Elveness in the gleaming West—that was what she loved. In the silence of the night, the stillness of the sea carried yet the echo of the echo of the music that rang before the world.
But the seas were not so when she bore her second son. Then they crashed in anger and pain, and the storms blew weeping for the loss of the West. None of them had dared the ocean, but they all felt it. The world had changed.
So it was no name of prophecy she gave her son, but a name of her hope for the past, a name for the lost peace of the ocean she loved. Dínfalver, friend of the silent sea.
But it was no name of prophecy, and oft she wondered at her ill-foresight. For the turmoil of the winds and storms seemed a part of him. He was a child of this strange new world, yearning for the distant West, but a lover of the wild sea, untamed and unrestrained.
Yet the years went on, and her firstborn, Súldil watched his brother. To him the name now seemed a portent of sorrow. For if his brother seemed himself the free song of the wind on the waves, the grave Númenorean who sailed with them seemed its stillness. Now he feared Dinfalver, the Piper of the Falathrim, entranced by the seeming silent sea-woman—but Súldil did not forget when the seas roared and crashed for reason of Númenor’s fall.
