When the Shadow-singers Stir
Year 1400 of the Trees | Year 13414 in the Years of the Sun
The Hall of Runes lay hushed beneath the palace, a sanctuary carved into the white stone heart of Eärondë. Its vast chamber stretched outward in a sweeping half-circle, lit not by fire or flame but by the soft inner glow of carved runes pulsing gently on walls and columns. The floor was smooth obsidian, veined with threads of silver and starlight that shimmered faintly with each footstep.
Here, deep in silence, Alcaron labored alone beneath the dome of the Wall of Becoming.
The wall rose high and curved like the side of a globe, etched with thousands of runes—some ancient and remembered, others dreamed or rediscovered through whispered visions. A tapestry not woven with thread, but with light, memory, and prophecy.
Alcaron stood before it, sleeves rolled, a smooth chisel in one hand and a silver stylus in the other. Each stroke of his hand carried not only ink, but intent, humming in harmony with the great design.
He was etching a rune of Unfolding, guided by the cadence of the Great Music. It was the next note in a harmony he had been tracing for decades, a song unspooling like light through time. The rune curled beneath his hand, nearly complete, when—
A tremor.
Not in the stone—but in him.
His fingers stiffened. The stylus clattered to the floor. The air grew still, pressing inward.
All at once, the runes surrounding him—once gently aglow—flickered.
But it was not light that answered.
A pulse of shadow moved through the hall like a ripple across still water. The runes dimmed, not in fear, but as if listening—stunned—by something uninvited.
Alcaron felt it in his bones: a low, almost inaudible note that did not belong. It rang like the snapping of a harp string tuned too tight.
"A string cut," he whispered, staring at the trembling rune on the wall, "and yet not silent."
The Hall stilled. No tremor followed. No earthquake, no voice.
Just silence.
But in that silence, Alcaron knew something had changed. Not in the stone—but in the Song itself.
That night, he did not return to the upper chambers.
Instead, he laid down on the cool floor of the rune-hall, surrounded by the whispered traces of power older than the Eldar. He needed silence to think, to remember.
Sleep came reluctantly—uneasy and shallow, at first.
And then the dream came.
Not like the dreams gifted by Irmo or shaped by his own mind, but one unlike the others. Dark, foreign. Not in language, but in image:
A mountain, broken.
Chains falling—not in noise, but in the stillness after thunder.
And above it all, rising slow and vast, a black flame—silent, pulsing, alive. It moved without wind and danced without light.
Alcaron reached out in the dream, calling to it—not in hope, but in dread—and the flame turned to regard him.
And smiled.
He awoke with a ragged breath, heart thundering in his chest. Sweat clung to his brow. The runes on the wall were glowing again, steady and bright.
But he knew it had not been a dream alone.
He rose, slowly, and pressed a hand against the Wall of Becoming.
And there it was—new music, faint and thin, barely perceptible but undeniably wrong. A dissonance not in structure but in spirit. It wormed its way through the harmony like a black thread in white silk.
"Melkor..." he whispered.
The name filled the chamber like a wound reopening.
He stepped back, mind racing. The pulse of the flame, the broken chains, the note that didn't belong—it could only mean one thing:
Melkor had been released.
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically.
Set free by the Valar.
And the Song had changed.
The runes had felt it. The flame had known.
And now—so did he.
The bells of Eärondë rang not with alarm, but with summoning.
From the sea-cliffs to the pearl-domed halls, the sound echoed—clear, measured. A note reserved only for times of deep import. Not peril yet, but portent.
Within the Calondo, the city's central watchtower, the guardians of Eärondë assembled beneath the dome of stars.
The Calondo was unlike any other structure in Eärondë. Crafted of moon-polished stone and translucent crystal, it stood high upon the inner hill of the city, open to the heavens. The dome above was shaped of pure glass drawn from the sands of the Whispering Coast, a gift from Ulmo himself. It allowed the stars to pour their light unhindered into the chamber, as if Arda's ceiling had cracked open to let Eru himself peer through.
Around the circular space stood the gathered:
Nimloth, queen and singer, clad in robes of moon-silk, her voice always the first to still fear before it formed.
Elenel and Thandir, master rune-scholars and students of Alcaron since before the founding of the Hall.
Calraen, high priest of the Flame Imperishable and the Valar, whose sightless eyes still tracked movement like wind over water.
Ilvëar, captain of the Watch, whose sword had never been drawn but never dulled.
Alcaron stood in the center, tall in his simple dark robes. He looked older that day—not by time, but by gravity.
Behind him, the stars turned slowly above the dome, serene and watching.
He raised his hand, and silence fell.
"I have called you not because we are in danger," he began, his voice even, "but because we are in transition."
He did not pace, nor dramatize. He let the weight of each word carry its own clarity.
"Last night, I was in the Hall of Runes, tracing the line of Becoming. The notes shifted. Not a change in melody—but a dissonance. Something woven in where no hand should weave. The runes trembled. The Song flickered."
He let the silence after speak for itself. Those gathered had long studied with him—they knew what such a tremor meant.
"And then I dreamed," he continued. "A black flame rising. Chains broken. A voice behind the fire, silent but watching."
Before any could speak, a soft bell chimed again—this time from the east stair.
A messenger entered, clad in the colors of Valmar.
The gathered turned, quiet but tense. Alcaron nodded for him to speak.
The herald bowed. "From Valmar, word has come. After long deliberation… Melkor has been released from the Halls of Mandos."
Gasps did not rise, for none there were unused to history. But still the air thinned.
The herald continued. "Tulkas stood against it. Mandos spoke little. Manwë believes he may be healed. Varda… spoke no words."
Alcaron bowed his head. Nimloth reached for his hand and found it trembling.
At last, Alcaron looked up, gaze sweeping the circle of faces. "You know what this means. This is not the end of peace. But it is a fracture. A faultline beneath us."
He stepped into the starlight pooling at the center of the room.
"The Valar see the Song in full. But I walk among the notes. And something in that harmony shudders."
He turned to Calraen. "Light must be made visible. We will strengthen the Flame-towers."
To Thandir and Elenel: "The rune-scripts must be extended through every foundation. The sigils for warding and witnessing. We will not close the city—we are not afraid. But the dark cannot step where it is not welcome."
To Ilvëar: "Drills for the watch. Not swords, but swiftness. Prepare to move with the wind, not after it."
Then he looked to Nimloth. Their eyes met, full of a bond older than the city itself.
"And we must speak to the children."
The council bowed—not with deference alone, but with conviction.
Alcaron did not rage. He did not doubt the wisdom of the Valar, but neither would he abandon his vigilance.
"Eärondë will stand," he said, voice rising like the dawn wind. "Not against shadow, but for light. Not as a bastion, but as a beacon."
And above, the stars shimmered—no longer serene, but listening.
For days and then weeks, Alcaron was seen only in passing—a shadow moving through light, robed in quiet intensity. At dawn he walked the cliffs in silence, listening to the changing wind. At dusk, he descended into the Hall of Runes, that vast chamber beneath the palace where the light of sun and moon reached only by mirrored crystal and design.
Here, stone hummed.
The Hall, already a wonder of Eärondë, grew stranger and more sacred with each passing hour. Along its curved walls, old runes of the Eldar and the Valar glowed faintly—not with heat, but with the memory of light. Alcaron had once etched the line of the Ainulindalë across its length, but now he returned to it with new eyes.
The tremor in the song still echoed in his bones.
The runes had shivered—and that had not happened since the founding of the city.
He took parchment woven from tree-flax, gifted by Yavanna, and began sketching. Not from language—but from intuition. From dreams.
Some symbols he saw in sleep, half-forgotten the moment he woke. Some he pulled from the ancient lexicons of Aulë and Oromë, kept sealed since his apprenticeship. And others… others came in dream and memory of those that lived longer than Alcaron had those that had awoken in Cuvien and made the journey west. Alcaron and his smiths and rune masters made new runes out of those, runes that should help them to be the light they wated to be.
From this union of memory, dream and craft, a new class of Light Runes was born—neither weapon nor ward, but resonance. When placed in the right space, they tuned the atmosphere. They dispelled the quiet fog of unrest before it formed.
They were not aggressive. They were affirmations.
Next came the Protection Runes.
Unlike the runes of the forge or the great lore-wards of Tirion, these were hidden. Alcaron and his rune-scholars embedded them into the city's bones—between paving stones, beneath murals, inside keystones of arches.
Wherever a wall stood, a rune of resistance to influence was placed behind its heart. These runes could not stop Melkor or any of his Maia outright—but they could disrupt the subtle weaving of lies, the turning of hearts, the poisoned whisper that might one day crawl through dreams.
No bell would ring. But those who listened closely might feel the shiver of warning in the soles of their feet.
"Let no hand be chained by charm," Alcaron said. "Let no tongue carry what the heart has not sung."
And then, in the public spaces, he did something unexpected.
He carved Listening Stones.
Simple things—smooth, egg-shaped stones placed in gardens and gathering spaces. They did not glow or speak. But when one stood near them, one felt... known. They were tuned to the city's mood—resonating with joy, sorrow, unrest, calm.
If a shadow passed through Eärondë, the stones would not scream—but they would ache.
They would listen, and remember.
Finally, Alcaron raised three towers—his Sentinel Spires. Not to command war, but to guard wonder.
Each was tuned to a pillar of the city's soul.
Flameward
Built beside the great forge-hall, where Almirion worked his metal and where fires burned at all hours. It was square and strong, with red-veined marble and copper veins.
The walls bore fire-runes that danced only when true creation occurred—not when greed or pride twisted the forge.
At its peak burned a flame of rune-fire, drawn from Aulë's teachings. It cast no heat, but its light turned pale when corruption came near.
"Let creation be kindled by vision, not vanity," Alcaron inscribed on its door.
Seabright
Rising on the eastern edge of the city, carved into the cliffside overlooking the harbor, Seabright watched the sea-winds and the horizon.
Its spire bent slightly with the wind, and wind-runes along its arches shifted like sails. The air around it was always clear, tuned to detect foul mists or unnatural stillness.
Alcaron asked Ulmo for a single drop of water from Cuiviénen's first spring, which he placed in the heart of the tower.
"Let memory flow through the waves, and warning with it," he wrote beneath the high bell.
Seabright could sing, when danger approached. But only to those with ears tuned to loss.
Starhall
Set high upon the inner ring, where the public equivalent of the Hall of Runes rose like a crown, Starhall looked not to land or sea, but to sky.
Its floor was a mirror—perfect and circular, aligned with the constellations known to come from Varda's hand.
It housed the Omens Table, where Elenwëa and Alcaron studied dreams, runes, and distant signs.
Alcaron placed the ancient rune of Unbreaking Vigil at its center, first taught to him by Nienna during the quiet years of his grief.
"A city that sings in truth," he told Nimloth as they stood there one evening, "cannot be conquered by silence."
And above them, the stars did not blink.
And so the city changed—not with banners or horns, but with music.
Eärondë did not build walls. It tuned itself to the truth. It whispered to itself in runes, stone, and wind. And it waited—not in fear, but in clarity.
Because sometimes, the best defense is to remember the first note in the song.
And not let it be drowned.