Rain is dancing on Gondolin’s high towers. It drips from architraves and streaks down the lancet windows. The climbing flowers that wind around the high balustrades and volutes gather the rains in their trumpet-shaped blossoms.
Iridescent in the rain, hummingbird wings quiver ruby red and gold in the misty air, flashes of dancing color.
Rain sings on the fountains and in the marble-paved courtyards. It flutters at the panes like timorous wings, a song afraid to be heard, lest it be ruined by hardened hearts.
Only one child of Ondolindë lets the melody wash over her. The rain falls softly upon her bare face and arms, as if it knows the joy of the present and the sorrow of the future. Each droplet lights gently upon her skin and bejewels her
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“What shall I see?”
Her eyes defy him.
Thrice slave, unfortunate man, cries his heart. Thrall to Lorgan, thrall to the Sea, and thrall to heart 's desire.
She nods her head, once.
So he bends his golden head over the gem. It is uncarved, unadorned, hung about with a simple golden chain. Often had he wondered why the jewel of Gondolin should go with this as her only jewel when she could have the wealth of the kingdom about her neck.
For a long while he beheld it. Every time he thought to look away, a flicker in the gem caught his eye. And at last, the gem seemed to stir, as a still pool when a raindrop falls. It rippled, and the ripples spread out to the confinements of the jewel and changed. Idril looked not at the gem, nor did she see what he saw, but his eyes held hers as he straightened.
“You shall not sail alone,” she whispers and unclasps the gem. The golden chain falls shimmering into his hand, the gem heavy and cold in his sword-worn palm.
Water falls. It drips from the stones, from the branches, from the buds. It flows out into Tumladen, the green vale.
It sings, running through many channels. Some dried up, some were diverted into waysides and grew