She was born, a storm came in from the north. Lightning flashed as dark clouds rolled across the land.
Her mother's cries echoed through the halls of their home, accompanied by thunder. Her father, Dathoridan, paced in front of the door his wife was locked behind.
"Let me see her!" He barked.
The girl he directed his fire towards shook her head, ducking back into the room.
Dathoridan leaned against one of the marble walls of his home. His long fingers brushed the cold patterns in the stone as he prayed for the safety of his wife and child.
His wife stopped crying.
Pushing himself off the wall, he flung the doors open and rushed into the room. His wife laid in the bed, her body still. Dathoridan ran to her, grabbing her hand.
"My love, my love," he repeated, tears welling in his eyes. She was still warm.
It was then, he realised, he heard no crying. A newborn should be crying. He spun around.
"Where is my child?" He asked, his tone dark as the skies above.
The midwife looked mournfully to her right. There, wrapped in a blanket, laid the lifeless form of a child.
Dathoridan's heart broke.
He walked toward his child, tears trailing down his cheeks. As he reached out to hold his child, lightning arched through the window and struck where his child lay, electrifying the silver strands woven into the basket.
Those remaining in the room stood silent, staring.
The baby began to cry.
"It's a girl," whispered the thingy, tears streaming from her eyes.
Dathoridan walked over to his daughter, lifting her gently into his arms. Her wails ceased as her father looked upon her.
"Duvaineth," he called her."Don't worry, everything will be alright."