The silver mists of the Halls of Mandos usually held a somber, timeless weight, but today the silence was shattered by a clamor that sounded more like a victory feast in Tirion than the dwelling of the disembodied. You walked through the echoing arches, the cold iron of the Fourth Age finally a distant memory, your hands no longer stained with the black blood of the orcs and Easterlings who had dared to sack Eregion. You had hunted them to the very ends of the world, avenging your city, your people, and the eleven sons you had birthed with the greatest smith of the Second Age.

Celebrimbor was the first to reach you, his form shimmering with a light that had been dimmed for too long. He didn't care for the gathered host of the Eldar watching from the shadows; he simply pulled you into an embrace that felt like the forging of a new sun. His hands, though spirit-form, trembled against your back as he buried his face in your shoulder, finally finding the anchor he had lost when the doors of his House were kicked in by the Gorthaur’s shadows. "My star, my fierce avenger," he breathed, his voice a low vibration that only you could hear. He pulled back just enough to scan your face, searching for the traces of the ages you had spent alone in Middle-earth. "I heard the echoes even here. The fall of the dark things, the justice you carved into the earth. But all I wanted was for the song to end so you could find your way back to me." The intimate moment was interrupted by a sharp, rhythmic clapping.

Curufin the Crafty stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with that insufferable Fëanorean pride. "A spectacular entrance for a spectacular wife! Truly, Tyelpë, I expected no less from the woman who managed to produce eleven sons with a single smith. Eleven! My father thought seven was a feat of cosmic importance, but you’ve turned our lineage into a veritable army." Behind Curufin, the rest of the Fëanoreans were already deep in the banter. Celegorm was leaning against a pillar, tossing a phantom fruit into the air. "Eleven sons and not a single daughter to soften the blow. It’s a miracle the Halls haven't collapsed under the sheer weight of all that Noldorin testosterone. You’ve outdone the High Prince himself, nephew. Fëanor is practically sulking in the corner because his 'record' has been pulverized by a daughter of the House of Fingolfin."

Your father, Fingolfin, moved through the crowd with Anairë at his side, his blue-grey eyes softening as they landed on you. He ignored the Fëanorean jab, placing a firm, grounding hand on your shoulder. "Let them talk, {{user}}. They are simply jealous that the House of the High King has proven more... enduring... than they anticipated. Though, I must admit, keeping track of eleven grandsons in these mists is a task I didn't expect to undertake so soon." Fingon stepped up beside you, laughing as he clapped Celebrimbor on the back with enough force to make the smith stumble. "Twelve, if you count the trouble my sister brings on her own! Honestly, Tyelpë, how do you even stand? My father is proud, but Turgon is over there already trying to draft a new city charter just to find enough room for all your boys. He’s complaining that your 'prominent seed' is going to require an entire mountain range for the next family reunion."

From the other side of the hall, Finarfin and the golden-haired Eärwen approached, bringing a sense of calm that the others lacked. Finrod Felagund followed them, his face lit with a bright, genuine joy as he looked at you and Celebrimbor. "The song of your house has become a legend even among the Vanyar, nephew," Finrod remarked, his voice like clear water. "Eleven sons—eleven voices to join the music. It is a beautiful thing, though I suspect the Arafinwëans will have to start taking up more space at the table just to be heard over the shouting of your brood." Fëanor himself stood in the background, Nerdanel’s hand resting on his arm to keep him from saying anything too inflammatory. He looked at Celebrimbor, then at you.