Artanis does not sleep as easily as her brothers.
She does not understand, not yet, the dreams which fill her hours with disturbances. Many years will pass before she comes to recognise all that she has already seen.
Not yet, after all, has elven hand spilled elven blood on the silver-pearl shores of Alqualondë.
Not yet has Morgoth burnt his hands on the hallowed Silmarils, and sent his roars of pain rolling over the darkened lands of Valinor.
Not yet have Men awoken in the east, come unto the lands of the Elves, and set into motion that which will be all but the undoing of the world.
Not yet has the ring been placed upon her finger that will open up the darkness of her mind, unrolling like the void within her and through her, but at the same time letting her know how she might save them still.
Not yet have her people faded and been lost, relegated to nothing more than legend and song.
Not yet has the great, terrible, music come, the ending of the world and its completion, all together in sounds more glorious than ever could be contained within the world.
Not yet has the world trembled, and wept, and burned before her eyes.
Artanis does not sleep as easily as her brothers. Ëarwen cradles her crying daughter more tightly to her breast, and hushes her gently. After all, what has a babe to cry about?