Disclaimer: I don’t own Middle-earth, however much I’d like to live there.
Eärendil came running from the shore, flushed, salt-crusted, and dripping, but smiling triumphantly. "For you, Elwing!" he announced, holding out his hand. In his palm sat a pearl, round and white and gleaming in the sunshine.
Nimloth had worn pearls, ancient gifts from Círdan’s people, woven in her hair and strung with emeralds around her neck. Elwing could remember them glinting red in the torchlight the night Doriath had fallen.
She pulled a face to hide her sudden tears. "You reek of fish," she said, and fled over the grassy dunes, startling a flock of pale grey gulls into flight.