It was in the blessed Years of the Trees, when Valinor yet knew no shadow, that Fëanora labored alone in her deep-forged halls at Tirion. For long ages she had studied the mingled light of Telperion and Laurelin, watching how silver and gold crossed and deepened at the hour of dawn. Now the forge lay silent, the fires banked low, the air trembling as if it dared not disturb her work. Upon the anvil before her rested three crystal forms, still dim, awaiting their final awakening.

At last she lifted them, one by one, and the light of the Trees leapt within, captured and undying. The walls caught fire with reflected brilliance, and even Fëanora’s fierce spirit stilled for a breath, as if she herself were seeing something beyond her own making.