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“You wished to see me, Lúthien?”
She stood before the throne, tall and proud, dark eyes glittering. “You
will
return Beren to me, my lord.” Her voice was a coldly furious whisper.
“Or else what?” Námo’s amaranthine gaze met her grey.
“I have sung one Vala to sleep to get what I want. I could do it again.”
Námo snorted indelicately. “Yes, about that. No doubt my Fallen Brother is still furious. If you must sing for me, do try not to weave any sleeping spells. I do have a job, you know.”
She curtseyed sardonically. “I shall remember, Uncle.”