Post-Credits Scene | Catch a Falling Star

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Fingon Ñolofinwion| The Valiant

Location: Forlond, Forlindon, Middle Earth, Arda

Time: November 2980 T.A

Fingon of the Noldor just fucking had it.

Just a month into settling in Forlond, they were still in chaos - which seemed to be an influx of elves and living beings in the ancient city. A city that had been abandoned almost three thousand years ago, back when the Noldor and Sindar of Lindon still occupied the west coast of Middle Earth. But since the death of Gil-Galad and the departure of former Queen Celebrían, almost all left for Valinor. Those who remained moved to Mithlond: a city under the protection of Lord Círdan.

And now they arrived, their boats landing ashore at the docks of Mithlond before they sought a meeting with Lord Círdan. The Ancient Teleri elf informed them that several of his sailors spotted them entering the mouth, travelling faster by land to prepare for what seemed to be dozens of Falmari boats at every spot they could find.

Fingon had been there, his own heart and mind worried during the entirety of the journey as he stood beside his parents at the front of the ships. Every second of their journey he kept looking back, seeing the sunset under the sea as they grew further away from what was supposed to be their home.

Their haven.

Now Eldamar was gone from them.

Even the Halls made him feel unwelcomed the moment word of their eradication was prominent in the minds and hearts of them all.

He didn't want to leave. Fingon refused at first the moment his father and uncle informed his siblings and cousins that they would be leaving the moment Lady Nerdanel would signal their departure. He even begged to stay, to help his niece and nephew instead, help to keep the people of Tirion safe under the watch of the Valar.

He only agreed to it because he was hoping he would see him again.

They promised each other they would see each other again in the Halls. To wander together. To be together once more. But Lady Nerdanel's orders and his father's eagerness for him to aid leading their people gave him no choice but to comply.

If he had the chance again to go back. To sail and check the Halls of Mandos again to see if he was there: he would.

But now he was here, the plaits in his hair almost knotting into a big ball as he tried to explain to her his very reasoning.

Fingon opened his mouth and began, "Sister..."

His younger sibling gave him the biggest glare.

Her grey eyes almost went to blind him with rage as she balled her hands into fists. The coldness in her voice had made the air in the room grow stagnant, which wasn't something of a surprise.

He forgot how much his sister was more like their father in all ways than one. Blame the blood of Finwë running through their veins.

She hissed at him, "I will not allow you to have my son on house arrest!"

He winced.

Perhaps he had worded his request a little too harshly for her sake.

But was he wrong?

It took him about five minutes before he even asked her the question, discussing the uproar of complaints and fears coming from all parts of the city. About how they didn't like the fact that a certain half-Noldorin and half-Avari elf had been ordering elves of potential plans that could put them at risk. Words about an ellon with magic laced in his words already had him knowing who they were talking about.

And when it came to magic: not all were pleased to have it shown in open eyes.

He stood up from his spot beside his desk, the creaking of the chair showing how old it was before he told her in a neutral tone, "Írissë, this for the sake for both of you." Fingon justified, "The elves who live in this city are wary of him. And if he is to be attacked—"

"And yet he should not be!" His sister snapped back, "He is a Prince of the Noldor and should be treated as such!"

Out of the corner of his eye, a figure rose from his own seat and walked over to them, standing between him and Aredhel. His brother, Turgon, overlooked them before he gave a blunt response to their sister.

"He is also someone who has been a traitor in the eyes of those who survived Ondolindë," Turgon informed, a tone like their mother whenever she told them off as children. "You may be upset about this, sister. But you must understand we are doing this for your safety."

Fingon already knew the moment his younger brother finished his words that his sister would lash back. Instead, Aredhel's lips trembled – almost wanting to bark back – but refused before she glared at each of them before swiftly gliding out of the room.

As the door slammed shut as he winced again.

Exhaling the breath he held all that time, Fingon looked back to his brother and frowned. "You did not need to be harsh on her, Turukáno."

His brother was the bluntest and most serious out of all of them when it came to honesty. Wise he may be, but he was unmovable as Aredhel was. Perhaps equally stubborn to their cousins.

There was a creaking noise of wood before he turned his head to his right, spotting a trail of golden waves cascading over their shoulders. His brother's wife, Elenwë, rose from her spot where she had sat reading through scrolls of documents of Lindon along with Turgon. Fingon had never seen her without Turgon since Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He knew that Turgon never forgave himself since her death in crossing Helcaraxë. That was when he had truly changed. Gone was the wisdom-filled with deep love and out came the paranoia and sternness he wore to protect himself.

Fingon may not know how it felt to lose someone, but he knew how it felt to be apart from his other half.

Elenwë now stood next to Turgon, hand falling atop his upper arm before she soothed him: "Findekáno is right, my love. Írissë had not the best time spent in Aman and the Halls. And it is not her fault for her...for her son."

She gave Fingon a sympathetic look, her eyes momentarily looking at the door before they heard Turgon sigh heavily.

He murmured in a tight matter, "I could only hope this is not for long."

"It might be so," Fingon shared the same feeling. All of them did.

Tensions were still high. They might not be as violent nor as quick to anger as other beings of Arda, but they knew that their restlessness was due to their forced escape. No one knew what was going to happen if they all stayed. The Valar would have made them fight and none of them would comply if they were to be sung out of existence soon as Dagor Dagorath was completed.

And some of them: they were just tired of fighting wars for the sake of it now.

Fingon may be a fighter, a commander.

A leader.

But he was exhausted.

His time in Beleriand taught him the horrors of war. It affected his fëa and what he perceived the world and that was the destruction and pain it caused. And now he was swayed again to see to that.

All he could do was push through.

Turgon had asked him, "Have you discussed things with Atar?"

The mention of their father made him shake his head. "Merely for the sake of knowing our plans in rebuilding the former city." Fingon explained to the couple, "Lord Gil-Galad has offered to provide us with enough supplies and maps to know of the layout. But even a month in we would need to improve more on our weaponry and clothing. We would need to rebuild the defences laid around the city."

That was only the outline of the problems. There was also the matter of food and training. The people of Finarfin were very behind in their techniques through their time of peace in Valinor.

"Have you spoken with Tyelkormo?" Turgon added.

Fingon nodded, "Yes." He continued, "We are in agreement to join our armies and perhaps begin in training over the course before the council."

Their cousin and his brothers, despite their rather extreme views, were the only others he entrusted in keeping their armies in top shape before the war.

Though unlike him and their cousins, Turgon was not always the one with a sword. Ferocious in combat it may, his younger brother preferred the fight with words much like his wife.

And why Elenwë frowned slightly, worry filling her face as she asked them, "Why must you so?"

"Because war will come, if not across the sea, but here. Sauron may attack us from the East." Fingon told his sister-in-law. "Hopefully. A word from Lord Círdan suggests that those of Imladris shall be arriving."

He was not someone who often wondered what occurred over across the East back when they were all in the Halls and Tirion, but when news did arrive it was all but of war and Morgoth's lieutenant. He learnt from word of newer elves and Lord Gil-Galad of Imladris, the nearest elven kingdom in the east of Eriador.

Elenwë's eyes lit up as she smiled, "I wonder who shall it be? Oh! May it be our great-grandson. Elerondo, is it not?"

"Elrond, my love." Turgon glanced down to his wife, his hand over her shoulder.

"Ah yes. Itarillë's grandson," she smiled fondly, her eyes showing a painful glance out towards the window. Out where the west side of the building showed the coast.

"How is she?" Fingon looked at them with concern. "Have you received word from Arakáno of them?"

Their worried faces already hinted at something he knew.

But just as Elenwë seemed to speak, Turgon caught beforehand and revealed to him: "We have not received much from them through Uinen. We shall have to wait and see." He said with a grave tone, "None of the Valar nor the forces of Morgoth has acted yet."

His wife closed her eyes and gazed down with grief, "They should have come with us. She should have come with us."

"You know she would never, Elenwë," Turgon murmured, embracing his wife sideways. "And Arakáno..."

They understood their brother's choices in staying in Aman. His resentment in crossing the Helcaraxë and his death had drawn their younger brother in a miserable mood. Only the sake of Idril and their mother only had him adhere to spy for them. [1]

However, Fingon could only feel sympathy for them and their daughter. Idril Celebrindal stayed for the sake of their plans to make sure they were safe. She would divert the Valar's eyes from them for as long as she could whilst they make plans on how to tackle their issue. But most importantly, he respected Idril's decision to be with her husband.

Tuor was stuck in Aman. Forever immortal unless they would leave.

And they didn't know what would come to the Edain if he crossed through the barriers of the Valar.

He gave them some word of hope as he spoke, "At least for now we see Eärendil and Elwing safe." Fingon spoke, "I know it is not good, but for the sake of our fears. He does not possess it yet."

Their moment of silence was filled with worry.

Because even he knew and Turgon and Elenwë knew...

...That the Silmaril flying across the night will not be up in the sky very long.

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Mairon (Sauron) | Lord of Mordor

Location: Somewhere in Aman

Time: November 2980 T.A

He was not disappointed when Melkor told him what he saw in the Void.

Hearing words such as Earth and Avenger went through his mind, recalling various voices he also heard through his time learning with the ring on his finger. It may not be like the very one ring he created, which was in doubt also a part of him, but it was powerful nonetheless and caused him to experience what was truly out there in their world.

Through Arda and Aman and Ea itself, there was more than he could imagine. There were planes existing between the realms, layers that created Reality itself that for sure only beings such as himself and the Ainur could possess the ability to cross.

Manifesting a physical body after hundreds of years made him forget how it felt to be one of the beings who could physically touch the objects around him. His senses were concentrated in one singular form, tall and lilt much like Eru's stoic and weary children.

The Firstborn. Immortal beings who were better off in pursuing greater things than their precious long lives. They hide in their little kingdoms, too hesitant and filled with trauma and grief of their losses.

They may be immortal, but they are not strong-willed as such beings as him and of the Ainur to hold strength forever.

All except one.

An elf in which he struggled to understand and discover what made them more powerful than any other elf he came across throughout his time in this world. One who could not break despite his experimentations nor Melkor's darkness trying to damage their fëa.

Quite the opposite occurred.

It continued to grow...until it suddenly killed her.

Even after his banishment, he continued to search for ways. To find answers despite his lack of form whilst continuing to lead on what he had begun from his defeat in Barad-dûr. It was only now when he wore the ring, seeing what laid within the palm of a sorcerer's hand to which he knew more.

And it was how he now stood in one of the great chambers of Formenos, the fortress hidden in plain sight from the eyes of the Valar due to the ring and his own making. At first, it may seem ordinary, the odd shape and the scripture feeling foreign to his taste before he felt the hum of energy coursing through him. The power of realities and planes flowing through him.

He should thank the sorcerer he had encountered before. But unfortunately, he had disappeared the moment the Eternal escaped into the other world. Words of a duel that caused a cascading wave of power throughout Middle Earth, reaching even to the lands of Aman.

It was how the Valar knew the Oialëa was alive.

He flexed his fingers, accustomed to his physical form after four decades. He still felt empty. Something which he knew well since the creation of his own weapon. The Ring. A part of him was still in that golden band which he knew was in the hands of his enemies. Perhaps even under the hands of the Eternal.

However, he knew the elf didn't possess it. He would know the moment the Eternal touched his ring that a part of his soul would remind them both of the horrors she went through in Angband.

For now, the sorcerer's ring would do to keep his form stable.

Carefully, he held his arm out and drew circles with his other arm. Gradually, a spark of light began to form in the air. A crackle of magic growing in front of him before a golden ring appeared.

As it grew large enough: he stepped through.

He could feel the temperature grow ten times colder, wind whipping across his face as he stepped onto the wooden deck. As his eyes panned around, he noticed the dark skies around him. The stars appeared larger from this height.

Of course, they would be larger. That is what happens when you fly above the skies of Arda.

"Who are you?"

The portal shut as soon as he whipped his head around and found the voice calling to him.

In front of him was an elf, obvious by their clothing and the long gentle waves of hair braided back. There were about five more others, all whom with faces drawn with hostility toward him as he simply stood there – looking at them like they were a prize.

Unfortunately, he was not there for any of them.

He took a step forward, and soon they froze in their spot and demanded him once more.

Nobody demanded over him.

(No less his own master.)

"State your name and how you came upon our ship," A voice called front behind him.

A voice he knew once many years ago.

Raising his chin, he didn't turn as he replied to him: "I am rather insulted that you did not remember me, young elf." He could already sense the dread forming in the ellon's face as his voice echoed around them.

As he turned, he did all he could not be blinded at the sudden light entering his eyes.

The jewel shone like a hundred stars, perched upon the captain's head as he stared up to it. Something inside him stirred and all he could think was to draw his hands up to the jewel and snatch it.

But before the jewel was its keeper. The blonde elf, face like his own sons, scrunched into hatred as he quickly drew back and brought his hand upon the pommel of his sword. Oh, how he remembered that sword. The moment when it pierced through the body of Ancalagon in the ancient war.

He should have killed that elf years ago.

Then the Oialëa showed up before he could stop the Eagles and blinded them all with her own light. Equally as bright as the Silmaril now before the son of Idril and Tuor.

"Sauron." He growled.

He coolly returned the gesture, "Eärendil Ardamírë."

Drawing his sword, the elf brought his stance prepared whilst the rest had drawn their own weapons. Eärendil commanded, "You shall not have the jewel, servant of Morgoth and neither will he!"

As those words echoed on the ship of Vingilótë, all Mairon did was unexpected to them.

He laughed.

Confusion and anger were brought around the elves as he died down and questioned him: "You state of me as a servant and yet what are you?" Mairon questioned the ellon.

That had caught the blonde elf. Off-guard at the sudden accusation back towards him.

Mairon may have been called many things, but he would never call himself a liar.

"Your words will not sway me," Eärendil boldly stated, raising his chin upwards. "Even if you kill me, you know you cannot hold it. None at the hands of evil could."

Mairon rose his eyebrow slightly.

The sudden move of elves and weapons brought him to draw his own weapon, unsheathing a mace similar to the one he once wielded in Mordor an age ago. His eyes grew into slits, sensing a flame of heat run through him as he spun about, allowing no weapon to hit his own form.

Each elf attempted to throw a hit and an arrow and yet none could go close.

All except Eärendil, who drew the Silmaril to cause a light to burst into his eyes. Mairon shut his eyes, roaring mentally as its power tried to burn through him until he blinked them away. His physical form was not accustomed to the jewel, giving enough time for Eärendil to take a blow at his head.

However: Mairon was swifter.

Just as the blade was about to touch his torso, he used the sling ring to form a portal upon the ground. There was a large gasp coming from the elf before the portal shut before him and he brought the rest upon their own demise.

Mairon left the ship flying, red spilt over the white wooden deck as the bodies were laid before him. He quickly looked around to check if there was anybody left alive before he summoned the same portal and stepped through.

When he arrived back at the chamber, he was pleased that already a few of the werewolves he prepared were already keeping an eye on the elf now standing, sword still drawn out but with confusion and frustration resting upon his expression.

He brought to brush his hands down his robes, pretending to remove dirt and blood from the fabric and his hands as he walked over to him. The werewolves growled as Eärendil looked ready to fight for his life. But as soon as Mairon rose his palm up, the creatures grew silent thought kept their eyes trained upon the elf.

He stared at Eärendil and asked, "And when did I say I shall be holding it?"

Eärendil ignored him and gritted his teeth. He spat out, "They will come for you!" He declared, "The moment they all know the Silmaril is gone from my ship – they will know!"

He was getting tired by this elf's voice.

Was this how annoying the line of Finwë was? Awfully reminded him of the other one.

Finrod Felagund. The Finarfinian who dared to trick him whilst aiding that  Adan to obtain the Silmarils.

With a nonchalant tone, Mairon answered: "They already know it is the end, young elf." He smirked slightly as he continued, "Not even the Valar you so protect can save you. Tell me, when do you think they will allow you to return to Aman again?"

The elf's face faltered

"Or perhaps to see your precious wife?"

Eärendil grew silent.

"Or perhaps your mother who is unfortunately stuck under the eyes of the Valar due to your father's confinement in Valinor?" Mairon questioned, his voice growing louder as it echoed in the chamber. "Or your child who is now at risk of being sung out of existence?"

Squeezing his eyes, Eärendil's lips trembled before he screamed back.

"Stop with the lies!" He cried out with a growl. "Nothing will sway me!"

The stubbornness of elves.

The Mariner was definitely the relative of Fëanor.

At least he wasn't boring like most of the hostages he once had in the past. That Fëanorian, Celebrimbor of Eregion, was perhaps one of his more pleasing guests during his time in Middle Earth.

(Not that he would admit having a soft spot for the young Fëanorian.)

Eärendil the Mariner could have been worst. It was already a risk to speak right up close when a Silmaril hummed with power just before his physical form.

He merely stared at him, and calmly replied: "I may have been called many names. Accused of many things. But I am no liar, Eärendil Ardamirë, son of Tuor." Mairon's eyes moved to the glowing gem on Eärendil's head. "And this jewel shall help finally bring peace to Ea under the rule of Morgoth."

"Peace!" The elf scoffed before he stated: "You will never gain peace."

"Not immediately." Mairon grinned, but it was not the smile that held happiness in them. There was a fire in his words. A promise he had kept as he thought of his plans beginning. With his eyes now upon the Silmaril: he knew the possibilities of it.

More specifically: what it could really do.

He then turned around, bringing his hands behind his back as he walked away and had Eärendil kept at his spot. He looked upon the chamber, seeing the great doors that would lead into the great hall where his master resided.

The Silmaril was going to make their plans much easier now. "To do so, we shall have to start somewhere." Mairon spoke, "And that shall be somewhere unlike this world."

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Varda Elentári | The Queen of the Valar

Location: Taniquetil, Aman

Time: November 2980 T.A

In her private chambers, a Vala sat watching the night skies.

It was what Varda Elentári had predicted.

Seeing the sun fall. The moon to move at such a risk now constantly against the forces of darkness as Tilion guided it across the lower regions of Ilmen, just before the Girdle of Arda for the light descend upon the world. [2]

And now, the barriers between their realms are slowly falling apart.

Elves crossing the straight back to Arda.

Unknown forces entering Ea itself.

Melkor returning from the Void.

For the first time in her life: she was frustrated.

And never would she – the Queen of the Valar – would show frustration and anger for she could not control the very forces that were happening right now. Even if she predicted it. Or more likely saw it in a flash of light. This was the very prophecy their father, the One, had shown them. Only her and no one else. Not even her husband: who saw only briefly what the end would come in the eyes of Namo.

Namo knew another. A prophecy of his own which he foresaw in what he saw in the visions Eru Ilúvatar gave them in the Timeless Halls. His had been vague as well, even more vague than Manwë's. Only she had the truth written in her very memory as a spirit.

And it was why she only entrusted one being the truth of the prophecy.

The true prophecy of Arda.

A being who was dead and hopefully living the best of their life free from the chains of this world. Free to float in every world beyond this space and time and reality. She only hoped they had the time to give it to the right person. The person whom she knew would bring this destruction to the end.

She may love and respect her peers. The Valar and the Maiar whom she called as family. But she knew they all had different opinions of the Children of Ilúvatar. Some did not care about their lives and happily allowed them to live. Others truly loved their kind as well as the beings which they created under the watchful eyes of the One.

And some – much like her to her own secrecy – knew some were a danger of their world.

Of course, Varda would never reveal her true intentions. No less someone would accuse it. She loved the firstborn, the Eldar who worshipped her for she gave them the light. The very stars they lived under. Without her stars: they would be engulfed in darkness. And their love which she gave back had some of them defy her. Defy the Valar just because of one house.

The House of Fëanor were the very Quendi she thought were the stain of their people. That and those of the Avari. Elves that refused their light and their call to Aman. They had given them a home. They made them safe.

Instead, they refused it and exiled themselves.

It was only when Curufinwë Fëanaro refused to give one of the Silmarils to them was when Varda truly saw the danger Fëanor could potentially have on them all. The spirit of fire who brought an entire portion of the Eldar to move under his command.

Fëanor - Son of Finwë - may be a threat to her: but she knew he was more of a threat towards Melkor and Namo's plans. Namo's plans had been thorough, wanting to keep Fëanor caged in his halls until the final battle.

But for her, it was not the Son of Finwë but his wife.

Nerdanel Mahtaniel.

The red-haired elleth whom Varda could tell that she knew more than what others perceived.

There was a danger when she stared down at her. Eyes that looked calculating and deadly and unlike the sculptor whom others knew her by. How her models appeared uncanny and unfamiliar – almost mannish.

And when she first appeared before her under the secrecy of her plans with Ulmo: Varda knew that she had to watch her carefully. Her allegiance with her alliance with Ulmo was unknown and uncertain. And Varda knew that Ulmo had entrusted the elleth to be the one to bargain with her of the plans with her own secret.

Only a few knew the other secret she kept from them all. Those who she believed could be sworn not to reveal until it was the right time. For thousands of years, she had kept it away, locked tightly from her mind that she almost felt guilty whenever her husband was beside her. But Manwë could not know what she had done those aeons ago.

Not until the tide has swayed to their side and Melkor was gone for good.

"My queen."

Her thoughts were brought back to the present, slowly bringing her gaze to appear upon her handmaiden.

Ilmarë entered her chambers, her spirit floating towards her as she brought herself to slowly turn into her usual elven form. Her hair reflected the night skies, twinkling rays of silver and gold as she brought her head to bow down before her. [3]

Despite being her handmaiden, Ilmarë had become the only Maia that she may presume to call a dear friend. Yavanna and Nienna may be Queens whom she ruled beside, but there was a risk of truly confining worries and fears to those in the spotlight. Ilmarë was trustworthy and deeply loyal. Perhaps even more loyal to her than anyone she had met. Even Eönwë, Manwë's herald, could not match truly the stakes her handmaiden took all these years.

She had been there at the moment she needed her at the lowest point of their time in Arda.

Varda gave her a small smile and asked softly, "My dear, do you bear news?"

With a curt nod, Ilmarë replied: "Lady Nerdanel along with an Atan has been taken from the Halls." Her thinned lips spoke dozens of emotions. "Where to, we do not know. Lord Namo insists in a meeting along with the hearings of those who betrayed the Eldar."

She hid the hiss that almost came out of her mouth.

Varda knew this was expected. She knew about the escape of the Noldor and some of the Sindar. Nerdanel had told her very bluntly about her plans in making sure their bargain was agreed to. And that was to not harm any of her kin until the final battle where they shall be judging them if they were worthy to truly stay in Arda Unmarred.

However: there was no promises in having Namo have his own hand at them.

And unlike the others, Namo was a harsh and strict judge against all fëar. He hadn't been pleased to know that Melkor out of everyone would break into the Halls to take several fëar.

But Lady Nerdanel? That was not the name she expected to be taken.

Perhaps Varda should have kept a better eye on the elleth.

Standing up from her spot, she glided towards her balcony allowing Ilmarë to trail behind her as she told the handmaiden: "The Noldor shall be interrogated along with some of the Sindar and Avari."

With a cleared throat, Ilmarë spoke, "It is heard by the Eagles that The Oialëa has returned."

Varda froze.

Turning her eyes back to her, she saw the glint in Ilmarë's eyes.

In the eyes of the Valar, that name was supposed to be a danger for them. An anomaly out of all of them.

But for her and Ilmarë: they knew another side of the story.

"That is good news," Varda said neutrally. "Perhaps she is here to aid the coming wars."

Ilmarë then continued, "However, she had brought a Fëanorian with her. The very one that has been missing in millennia." She gulped and added, "It is also said that Laurefindelë has been calling to you."

Her eyes looked over beyond her balcony, seeing the range of the Pelóri Mountains stretch over the landscape. Beyond them was the line of the eastern sea. A large shimmer of the barrier between Aman and Arda cleared from her eyesight. Somewhere in her soul, she felt it lift at the mention of his name. One of her secrets which she knew Ilmarë would easily know.

"I know." Varda smiled kindly to her and said, "And I know you do, as well."

Ilmarë was not one of sympathy, but her love for her son was unconditional to a fault. It was a shame and unfortunate that the beauty of Ainur was hidden under the gaze of the world. No one truly knew the extent they had done to keep it at bay. Children created by an Ainu was a risk. And it was something none knew of other than Melian and her offspring: Lúthien.

She may not be able to see her own son, but Varda did all she could to treat him much like one. Ilmarë did not mind it. Their bond as friends had extended so closely that Ilmarë was glad that Varda loved her son equally as her.

"My lady, I do not suppose we should inform Ulmo of the decision." Her handmaiden informed her with a slight frown, "Or for Laurefindelë in that matter."

With a sigh, she shook her head and answered. "We cannot." Varda justified, "It is dangerous at it is."

Ilmarë appeared a little hesitant – predicted by how much her son was also tied to their other secret. But Varda knew that she would accept the reasonings of her response.

"And of her? What if there is a misunderstanding?" She questioned, "He cannot speak of it."

"Then we will have to do what we can," Varda replied, her voice growing a little harsher as she brought her eyes to gaze across to the East.

Somewhere out there: Varda could sense she was already with them. With a Fëanorian no less.

With a determined voice, the Queen of the Valar murmured under her breath: "The Oialëa and the Noldor must be split up before the Second Song begins."

Her eyes looked upon the skies.

Sensing the Star of Eärendil beginning to dim.

It was time.

The war has begun.

"Or else, all shall be a waste in our plans." Varda called out, "Arda will not be healed until the Silmarils have been returned to its rightful hands."

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- Varda, Sauron and Fingon will return in The Changing of The Song -

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[1] - Arakáno: Argon in Sindar was the youngest son of Fingolfin who died during the crossing of the Helcaraxe.
[2] - Tilion, Ilmen and the Girdle of Arda. Tilion is the Maia who guides the moon across the sky in a realm called Ilmen which is the area above Arda where all the stars are and where the sun and moon move. This is also where the Silmaril is with Earendil. The Girdle of Arda is basically the barrier between these as well as Aman.
[3] - Ilmarë: the Handmaiden of Varda and the chief of the Maiar. And in this story, the true mother of Glorfindel is unfortunately unknown to Glorfindel because of the 'secret'.

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A/N: It's time for the Noldor and all the previous names that are technically a legend to men. We also get a reveal of who's Glorfindel's true parent is which is going to play quite a big part in the future along with Illyria's.

Not only that, the playing field has now leveled as Sauron now obtains a Silmaril. How does this change things? We will see...

As I said, please look out for the Part 2 announcement which should come out straight after this or perhaps the day after. (I'm currently writing this the night before and posting this in the future so it depends how future me is vibing.)

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Edited: 15/03/2022