The girl is saying something, words Fëanáro does not recognise, the words full of vowels and other sounds that should be flowing, and yet somehow short and distinct-- He halts that train of thought for the moment, now is not the time. The girl's words are unfamiliar, but her tone is not: questioning, softly commanding, the wariness evident in the way she reaches for her staff.

He holds up a hand to halt her, a gesture he has so far found to be universal.

"Hold," he says, the word spoken in Þindarin, as he supposes it might be more likely to be understood.