"Mother, what do I do?" I wept into the coverlet of my bed. "I – I love them both! How can I choose?"
She sighed, stroking my hair, and did not speak for some time. At last she said, "It is not wise to love one of the Secondborn." In a lower voice she added, "Especially one who calls himself Bloodstained."
Gwindor told me the same thing. I ran a finger over an embroidered crown of elanor on my coverlet, and mumbled, "Lúthien loved one of them."
Mother caught my hand. "It was her doom, Finduilas! And you know what befell her. It is not wise."
I sat up. "But she lives again, though as a mortal, and she is happy, for she is with Beren." I paused. "Perhaps it is my doom as well." Even if he was not Beren, perhaps some good could come of it.
Mother made a little sound, like a hurt foal. "I hope not, daughter." She looked away. "Gwindor may be broken in body, but he loves you still."
"I know."
Eyes like a night of Varda's stars, dark curls I was fond of pulling. A gentle hand on my shoulder, soft lips against mine. A careless, defiant laugh. "I'll be back, little one," he told me before he rode away.
Mother spoke again. "He is noble, noblest of the lords of the House of Finarfin. Do not push him aside so swiftly for that man." She said man like the word was poison.
I shook my head. "I know. I know. But Túrin is equally noble. He carries himself like a lord among the Eldar."
Mother gave me a questioning look. "Who is Túrin?"
I blushed. "Gwindor said that is him name aright."
Mother stood. "I do not know what else to tell you."
"It does not matter," I whispered, "for Túrin does not love me."
"All the better." She bent down and kissed my forehead before leaving my room.