Her liege's voice rang in her ears, again and again and she could do nothing but obey, not even his sons dared say no except Nelyafinwe. She looked along the beach, trying to spot them through blurry, teary vision. She spotted Makalaure, looking like a ghost and she was sure the same expression was painted on her own face. She saw him reaching for the flute in his sleeve, then shaking his head, arms falling, limp. No lament was enough to soothe the ache of the ships burning, of betrayal and guilt.

Narturme, quelled but not quenched, there is ever fire waiting to be ignited in the hearts of the Exiled, like the heath of a forge, the brightness of flames, a reflection of light. Did you inherit such spark, young Eärcalië?