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The boy was snacking on a little cake, and over the din of rushing waters, even as she ran through the pools of light sparked by the little star, screaming his name, she saw the boy’s golden head turn to face her, and he cried, “Momma!”

“Nâthān,” he said to the king (which is father in his ancient tongue), pointing to Izilba, “My momma has come to help me find my daddy, that’s her right there,” and the scene has seldom been repeated amid the innumerable miseries of your world, joy in purity to wash all sorrows and to heal everlasting, mother and child joined in the Lower Airs.

A place of rest was prepared for Miriam and Izilba, and their little boys to sleep in, with precious food and clean water for washing, amid lamps of a hundred varying hues to match the daylight unseen, violet to red and through every glimmering blue, through storm skies and grey fogs, slowly to mark the passing day, a clean-day, too few then, and seldom known now.

The tale of Dyacôm’s arrival to these halls will yet be told, in time, after his father’s story has been revealed. In the days of joy and recovery, the blessing of Eru being brought into the depths at the foot falls of Hell, Izilba called upon the king of (wandering) spirits, and he came to her quarters, and answered all that she asked.

His realm ruined after his death, Queen Melian departed west forever, Luthien and Beren whither he knew not to purpose, Thingol returned from wandering to Doriath’s Menegroth, and established here a castle of safekeeping, as custodian of grey-spirits that despairing, might otherwise stray into the holds of fire in the north, and never be released. Thus he mazed about stairs and halls of light perpetual, the carven halls to host waters singing as many birds in spring and fall, to keep the spirits that hold not the token to pass the bridge, nor would be ferried across to find Lothien, until each forgot his wandering course, and remained; lastly washed in the baths of lighted foam, blessed waters of forgetting, unto remembrance of the clean-day, before the stained days that rained upon our world under Satan-Melku; mirth and a measure of joy attained they here, contrary to the will of Udûn Northward, and perplexing but appreciated by the elves of Lothien sent forth to collect dead-men that would train upon their hidden light.

Here Thingol set up his new realm, for, he explained half in confession, “Nowhere else had I to go, and perhaps foster-son Turin might one day wander up the river, and follow a fool-fire of the elves into my courtyard.” At this the tall majesty, highest in Former Days upon all lands not undying, reached for something upon his hip, but nothing found it thither. Ah, he said with a wink, “It’s always on my other hip, now,” and he pulled forth Anguirel, holding it to dangle before Izilba’s face, before letting it drop from his hand.

The blade she caught at the hilt, but it cut her not, and Thingol committed it to her keeping. She thanked him, but explained by unfolding the torn remnant of Miriam’s dress, that her (own) sword desired her hand, though it be broken beyond re- forging. “I would wield a broken blade, in penance of much blood- shed, Blessed One,” and he took her hand, and held it, seeing in her mind the dead faces of men she had slain.

“Keep him with his brother, my daughter, until I can configure a better place for him,” and they spoke for many hours longer, of Izilba’s life, and the darkening of Westernesse, and all that happened since. Thingol departed after she and her boy did sleep, and Miriam too with Samuel.

After many clean-days, hearing all the lore Thingol would reveal, and receiving from his hand a blessing upon their lives and travels, and of memory of all that was told them, and of recalling at ease the baths of the spirit of light of Ancient Days of peace, he committed the throng to the skiffs well-stocked, graceful upon the Esgaldu-uin, even to the untrained hand and when badly oared.

Lost in thought and calling upon Eru and Ulmo in blessing, she noticed overlate that Dyacôm was oaring in earnest, using a black sword: Anguirel and Anglachel, purged of a dark-elf-malice, forgetting tribulation and delight in wickedness, at one.

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