“Heru Aran,” she whispered, stepping forward slowly with head bowed, “Meldornyar nar umistaimar,” inch by inch up the steps and throne her eyes rose as she spoke, “Umhanante sina nore, hya lielya,” meeting the Elven King’s gaze, she shook her head slowly, “Narnte – narmme – la umea. Er umistaimar. Merimme an mai an ilya.”

“I-“ she continued, looking down at her hands and spreading them as if in search of something they could not hold, “I know I do not speak your tongue well, great King. I know I do not understand as well as I could, or perhaps as well as I ought. But I do know, through my own half-ignorance, that the ignorance of my friends has not been for malicious reasons,” she glanced back up, her eyes moving from the Elven King’s face to his Queen’s and back again, “We are children, and so weak and small even our greatest efforts are crude and pitiful things. We can but try, and failing, try again,” she licked her lips, “But we try to do well, and must only hope that our poor tries are not seen as wilful errors.”

“I know I am in no position to speak before you,” she said, half-smiling, “But I hope you will lend an ear to this . . . my poor cry.” And she lowered her eyes, saying no more.

For a long, long moment the court and throne-room were silent. At last, like a wind through summer leaves, King Thingol’s voice was heard.

“You speak of things which you understand but little, child,” he said, regarding her with something half-stern, half-pitying, “You say that you, and your friends, cannot understand us. That you are weak, ignorant and small. Compared with us, this is true. But child,” and he rose, walking slowly down the steps until he stood but an arm’s-length before her, “Who – or what – are we to you?”

She gazed into his eyes, and saw there a depth of age, wisdom, knowledge, power and grace so deep that she felt lost in it. The further she looked, the more she realized she did not understand what she was seeing. Slowly, as of their own accord, her knees bent beneath her and she knelt on the stone floor.

Shaking her head as if in a dream, she murmured, “I do not know what you are. I do not know who you are, for my mind cannot grasp you, nor the deepest, highest, most glorious thoughts of this poor being reach far enough to comprehend,” she lowered her eyes and gazing far away into the floor between her knees again shook her head, “I don’t know how to describe – to say . . .”

“Then how would you tell it?” the King’s voice said softly.

Her eyes flickered and she almost smiled.

Then she spoke: “I would tell it, great King, in the form of a tale. For once there was a spark newly struck from flint and stone, which falling among long grasses, lay in a daze under the starry sky. At last, looking up, the spark beheld the great canopy above, with all the flickering, shining, singing stars spread in a vast symphony of color and light up the arch and down to the very horizon. And the spark marveled in the beauty of the stars, then looking down upon itself, said ‘Yet I am of like make, though small and weak. Perhaps I shall reach the stars.’ But after that a great cloud came over the sky, covering the stars in a cloak of deep night. The spark mourned at their passing, and as other sparks came into being around it, the first who had seen the great sparks of the sky tried to describe to its fellows the wonder of the heavenly sparks. As it spoke the little spark would glimmer and flash with colors and different grades of light. Yet there were times when it tried so hard to describe the stars and it worked so much to make them real, and to showcase their brilliance, that it itself would smoke and then snuff out. For the spark could not capture the stars in its own form. Many days and nights passed until, at last, the cloud lifted. Then a breeze blew through the long grass, and picking up the spark, bore it aloft. As it ascended, the spark gazed above in new wonder and rapture at the stars around it. Higher and higher it floated on the wind, and it wondered to itself ‘Perhaps I shall reach the stars!’ But just as it flew past the highest mountain-top, a cold wind swept across the sky, snuffing the spark’s little light.

For though it longed for, loved and appeared as like the stars as it could, that little spark could never be a star.”

Another long silence as the elves gazed in wonder at the bent form of the mortal maid before them. Her long brown hair hid a face streaked with tears, for she knew the heart of the spark. That heart was her own.

Looking down upon her bowed head, King Thingol reached a hand and touched her shoulder.

“Rise, elf-friend,” he said, his voice carrying across the hall, “The tale is not ended yet. You may yet, for a little while, fly among the stars.”

She looked up and stood slowly, an expression of wonder and joy leaping like flame from her eyes.

“Thank you,” her lips said, though she had no voice to speak.

And the Elven King smiled, “I name you Tintalla,” he said, “The Little Spark. Welcome, Tintalla, to the sky.”