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Foresight has never visited Anairë, not even when her children were but tiny babes quickening inside her. Her husband’s mind, too, has long been a shut door. When he took the children and fled with Fëanáro, took with him also any hope of sensing how they fared without her. Were they yet alive? Were they slain? She could not know.
Or so she thought.
The herald of Mandos comes to the gates of Tirion with an ancient whistle made from an animal’s skull, its call a haunting scream that summons the people to the square. A familiar ritual, now, many years after the Trees went dark. Somewhere, someone has been slain, by weapon or torment or grief; their houseless spirit flies to Mandos, where they will be well imprisoned without pity.
The herald comes again to the gates and blows his whistle, after the first rising of the silver Moon.