Before the Sundering
Year 1400-1490 of the Trees | Year 13414-14277 in the Years of the Sun
Long had the city of Eärondë dwelt in peace and song beneath the mingled light of the Trees, where the golden breath of Laurelin and the silver sigh of Telperion wove upon its towers and streets a living glory, subtle as the laughter of stars on still waters. The winds that passed through its arches carried no taint, only the perfumes of gardens and the murmur of elven voices in learned joy. Its spires were crowned with runes that hummed in soft accord with the Great Song, and within its hearts, the people held no dread, nor even the memory of dread.
But in that year, the one called Fourteen-Hundred by the reckoners of Valinor and later known as 958 before the first age, a change began—a change not born in fire or war, nor yet in word or deed, but in the quiet dark behind bright curtains, in the space between notes, in the silence before the echo returns.
Eärondë did not sleep less easily. The birds still sang, and the sea still shone in the west. But beneath the serenity, a subtle string had tightened. None could name it at first, for the light had not dimmed, nor had any evil come plainly. Yet to the wise, it was as though the shadow of a shadow had fallen—unseen, yet palpable, like the hush before a storm that has not yet broken.
It was then that Melkor came.
He came not in majesty, nor in wrath, but veiled in courtesy. No longer bound in the Chains of Angainor, he walked again under the Trees, a guest forgiven by decree of the Valar.
To the city of Tirion he went first, and then to Valmar, and thence, after a time, to Eärondë.
There, in the high courts of the Rune-Lords, he stood clad not in black but in garments of moon-grey and sea-blue, and his voice was deep and low and smooth as flowing water. To Alcaron he spoke first, calling him "High-Builder of Harmony," and to Almirion he gave strange praise, naming him "Flame-Singer and Secret-Star." He marveled aloud at the walls that shone with wards unseen, and at the gardens where stones whispered to the roots of trees.
But in his words was a thread of poison, too fine for the ear but not for the heart.
"Why should Tirion hold the title of the greatest city of the Noldor," he said, as he stood beside the Flameward Spire, "when its finest smiths reside not within its gates, nor serve beneath its towers? Why should a crown be worn by those who turn from the forge and the song?"
He smiled when he spoke, and his tone was gentle, almost sorrowful. He compared not with fury, but with soft derision; he planted doubt not as fire, but as seed.
Always, he praised one by the shadow of another.
"Your skill exceeds even that of Fëanor," he whispered to Almirion beneath the boughs of the Whispergrove. "Yet where he would take the flame and make it his, you coax it into blossom. You shape, where others hoard."
To Alcaron he said, "Your wisdom surpasses the minds of Tirion, for you dwell not only in memory, but in foresight. It is you who truly carry the legacy of the Noldor."
He spoke thus often, in private walks and councils, never loudly, never openly. And never once did he speak falsehood in form—but only in essence, in suggestion, in the unspoken conclusions his words invited.
But Alcaron, though courteous, was not blind; and Almirion, though young in flame, was not unguarded.
Each time Melkor spoke with such honeyed tongue, they would feel it: a subtle prickling at the edge of thought, as though a net were drawn softly across the surface of the mind. It was not pain, nor was it fear, but a wrongness—a dissonance in the harmony of being.
It came like nettles brushing the skin in moonlight—just enough to notice, just enough to awaken doubt not in others, but in themselves.
At first, they did not understand. They nodded, they listened, and when Melkor turned and departed down the marble paths, they would find themselves stirred, strangely convinced, flattered and inspired—and yet uneasy.
But as the years passed, they began to see it.
The feeling only came when Melkor spoke thus. Never when Nimloth sang. Never when the stones whispered true. Never when the city rang with clear thought and unfettered speech.
It came only when he praised too highly. Only when he turned brother against brother with velvet tone. Only when he placed pride in their hands like a gift.
And it was then that Alcaron understood.
"He does not lie," he told Nimloth, "but his truth is bent, as water through cracked glass. He sees greatness, and praises it, but turns it against the Song."
And they gave thanks then for the Runes.
For before Melkor's coming, Alcaron and Nimloth and their carvers and smiths had wrought protections—subtle wardings placed not to keep enemies out, but to harmonize thought within. The Sentinel Spires and gardens held stones attuned to mood and melody. The walls bore listening runes that echoed not words but intentions. These protections had not been set for Melkor—for who could have known?—but now they revealed their worth.
The strange tingling, the warning of the fëa, came not from within alone. It was the echo of the stones, the whisper of the wards, the chorus of the city's own soul.
And thus, each time Melkor left, the spell lifted. His suggestions, so bright and alluring in the moment, seemed pale and brittle in hindsight. What had seemed rightful then felt false now.
And they remembered their peace. Their joy. Their kinship.
Alcaron did not rebuke Melkor. He did not argue how could he with the strongest of the Ainur. He simply listened, watched, and remembered.
And Almirion, though he yearned to prove himself, to rise and burn like a comet, turned instead to his sister, and to his city.
For though Melkor never lied, the Song itself stirred against him.
And its rhythm yet remained in Eärondë.
The days following the Year of the Silmarils were strange and quiet in Eärondë, as if a breath had been drawn and not yet released. For after long years of slow encroachment and veiled flatteries, Melkor came no more. It was not a sudden absence—rather, like the withering of a leaf on a hidden bough, he ceased to appear. The roads once trodden by his steps remained untouched. The sea-winds brought no word of him. Only once after that year did he return, and it was then that the light within the city held its breath.
He came alone, beneath a sky veiled by mingled shadow and light. The Trees shone still, but in their radiance there flickered something of uncertainty, like a candle reflected in glass. He came not in silence, but with less of his former grandeur; his voice did not rise like a great river overflowing its banks. Instead, it was as a stone rolled into a well—deep, slow, and heavy with weight unspoken.
He sought Alcaron.
The Prince of Eärondë received him in the Starhall, where runes of old glimmered faintly upon the floor, and windows shaped like the eyes of stars opened to the mingled sky. Alcaron stood by the great mosaic—the Wheel of the Song—and said no words of welcome, but bowed with grave courtesy.
And so they spoke—but not as they once had. There was no warmth now, only a strange tension in the space between their voices. Melkor, once full of coaxing and subtle mirth, now bore a restlessness beneath his form, like a fire that cannot find air. His compliments were fewer. His flattery fell flat, striking no chord in the soul of the elf-lord before him.
"Long have you dwelt apart from Tirion," Melkor said, his voice low, as if he stood not among kin, but before an accusation. "Long have you kept your light hidden here, behind walls of stone and runes."
"What is hidden is not always hoarded," said Alcaron, his face calm as still water. "Some light is meant to heal, not burn."
Melkor did not smile. His dark eyes lingered long on the great Tree of Runes behind Alcaron's seat, and on the harp of Nimloth, which hung upon the wall though its strings were still.
"You speak with the voice of patience," Melkor said at last. "But even patience has its end. The world is changing, Alcaron. Will you stand idle while it does?"
"I will stand where the Song is clearest," Alcaron replied, and his voice was neither proud nor soft, but certain. "And that is not always the place where it is loudest."
No more was said that day. Melkor turned and departed, his cloak catching on the edge of the mosaic as though the floor itself had tried to hold him a moment longer. The echo of his steps did not linger. He passed through the gates of Eärondë and did not return. And with him, the tension he had carried began to ease.
But peace did not fully return. For though the shadow departed, the mark it left behind had not faded, and the runes upon the towers still hummed with caution.
In the days that followed, the people of Eärondë looked not to the west, but to the east—to the towers of Tirion.
The tale came first upon the sea-winds, carried by swan-ships from Alqualondë, and then upon the lips of wandering loremasters: that Fëanor, eldest son of Finwë and twin-brother to Alcaron, had at last completed the labor of his heart—the Silmarils, and thus Alcaron knew why Melkor didn't come to bother them in Eärondë anymore. He had found a new target one far less protected from his manipulations.
Three jewels there were, and in them burned the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin before it was sundered by time. They were clear as crystal, yet kindled within by a fire of living memory. The Eldar said that the light of Aman itself was caught within their facets, and that even the stars looked pale beside them.
All Valinor marveled. But Alcaron, upon hearing of them, did not rejoice.
For even as the words were spoken, his heart stirred with unease, and a shadow fell over the bond that had always tied his spirit to that of his twin. The Song between them—stronger than time, swifter than any messenger—now came faintly, like a strain played from behind a closed door. There was power still, fierce and radiant. But the warmth was gone.
"His fire still burns," Alcaron murmured to Nimloth as they stood beneath the silvered arches of the East Gate, "but it no longer warms."
He turned then to the scriptorium, and with swift hand and heavy heart, he wrote. He wrote not only letters, but laments and runes, poems woven of longing and memory, and songs without harmony—fragments of sorrow seeking an answer. He wrote as a brother, a craftsman, a twin. His ink bore the marks of love and pain alike.
"Fëanáro, my fire-born," he wrote, "what have you made of your heart, that the light within it now blinds instead of binds? What have you wrought that the voice of our kin fades in your hearing, and only your own remains?"
He sent these words with trusted messengers—friends, sages, even one of the dolphin-kind who bore messages across the western sea. He sent them to Tirion, again and again. But no answer came.
None returned.
Unknown to Alcaron, some were turned aside by the weight of Fëanor's new pride. Others vanished between road and gate, caught perhaps by chance, or silenced by design. A few letters arrived at their destination, but were never read; sealed still in wax, they were placed aside with other scrolls deemed unworthy of the prince's ear.
And so Alcaron stood often upon the highest tower of Eärondë, where the stars first rose and the wind from Tirion might be felt, though faintly. He stood in silence, listening not with his ears but with his spirit, hoping that the Song might yet return.
But it did not. Not clearly.
Only sometimes, in dreams, he felt it—his brother's fëa burning like a forge untended, too hot, too bright. In those dreams, he wept not for what had been done, but for what might yet come, for he knew that either his brother is choosing to exclude Alcaron from his fëa or he had damaged it perhaps in the making of his new jewels. And deep down Alcaron knew or at least suspected that it was both.