Summer. Maedhros steps out onto the balcony to catch the night breeze and sees Tirion, around and below, bathed by the light of a full moon. The moon, he knows, is old, the city older. But still the sight of the rooftops etched in silver and black seems rich and unfamiliar, reminding him of a time and a place when the moon was new.
Half singing, half speaking, he recalls a song in the speech of Mithrim: Who is it who comes sailing the sky, clad in white? Welcome! But where do you hail from, lord of the silver bow?
Another voice takes up the song, more clearly and firmly. He looks down and sees Fingon below.
‘Wait,’ says Fingon. ‘I'm coming up.’
He takes the direct route. Soon Maedhros is reaching out an arm to help haul him over the railing.
‘Why, love?’ he asks, smiling. ‘For once, I don't need rescuing, tonight. And what is wrong with the stairs?’
‘I just needed a bit of practice,’ says Fingon.
Practice climbing or rescuing? Maedhros does not ask. ‘I rather hope you're not planning to summon an eagle to carry us away...’
‘I'm not,’ says Fingon. 'Let's stay right here.’