In Silence And In Song by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 1

When twenty years of the Sun had passed, Fingolfin King of the Noldor made a great feast; and it was held in the spring near to the pools of Ivrin, whence the swift river Narog rose, for there the lands were green and fair at the feet of the Mountains of Shadow that shielded them from the north. The joy of that feast was long remembered in later days of sorrow; and it was called Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. 

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, XIII - Of the return of the Noldor

Ivrin in spring was a land of birds and water. Tranquil silver pools lay bordered by garlands of sky-blue flag lilies and a yellow riot of fragrant kingcup. Herons waded, solemn as little lords, and bejewelled kingfishers darted for minnow in the shallows. 

The angled light of sunrise glittering off the waters held a unique enchantment, a grace reminding of lost Valinor. Ulmo’s blessing was not easily captured in ink and paper, but today’s attempt was a promising one.

“Mother!” Glorfindel seemed strangely breathless, as if he had come running. “Would you please attend the king? A delegation - no, a message has arrived. ”

Lalwen failed to hide her annoyance when she looked up from the nesting pair of cranes she had been sketching. Another interruption and this dratted Ennorëan oak-gall ink would dry out beyond salvaging. 

“Which is it?” she asked, “And why does Fingolfin send for me, with Fingon already in attendance?”

Glorfindel had become a clever courtier under Fingolfin’s tutelage, and he chose his words with care. “The king did not send for you, as such. But perhaps it is for the better if you attend this … arrival. Whatever it should be called.”

Only now did Lalwen notice how pale her son seemed, his face waxen beneath the golden halo of his half-braided hair. The movement was subtle, but she could see his hand shake as he took a white-knuckled grip on the back of her easel. 

“Stars and Powers, child! You look as if Morgoth himself sent a delegation!”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No. But Elu Thingol did.”

“The Iathrim have arrived? Why did they not announce themselves? The camp is silent as the Ice, where are the musicians?! Is the reception hall set in order?”

“We did not use the reception hall.” Glorfindel answered, carefully. “To do so seemed … unwise.”

Lalwen froze. “Why is that?”

Glorfindel brought his ill tidings with the candid gentleness of a healer tending an amputee. “There are only two of them.”

At first Lalwen was baffled. “Is this a Sindarin custom? Who of his House did Elu send, with only one retainer? Surely not Lúthien! Is it that kinsman of his, Celeborn?”

Glorfindel took a deep breath, folded his long-fingered swordsman’s hands together before delivering the blow. “Mother, I regret to inform you that the King of Doriath saw fit to be represented here by his harpist and the captain of his guard.”

Thither came many of the chieftains and people of Fingolfin and Finrod; and of the sons of Fëanor Maedhros and Maglor, with warriors of the eastern March; and there came also great numbers of the Grey-elves, wanderers of the woods of Beleriand and folk of the Havens, with Círdan their lord. There came even Green-elves from Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, far off under the walls of the Blue Mountains; but out of Doriath there came but two messengers, Mablung and Daeron, bearing greetings from the King.

The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, XIII - Of the return of the Noldor