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Outside the high winds screamed. Hailstones rattled the windows like handfuls of pebbles flung by the stone-giants of old. The scent of the sweet, warm wine curled through the room; over the mantelpiece, the fir-boughs gleamed in the candlelight.
“And he never told you how he did it?” Annatar asked.
Tyelpë shook his head, turning his goblet between the tips of his fingers. “I do not believe he told anyone. Not even my father.”
“A pity.”
“Is it?” Tyelpë's smile was resigned, and without humour. “I cannot think it entirely wise – to pour so much of oneself into an object, however precious, when it might easily be stolen or lost, or even destroyed.”
You know more than you let on, friend. Well, no matter. Annatar had waited for thousands of years for this secret. What were a few seasons more...?