The celebration dinner was a festive affair, with very well- aged wine taken from the dusty corners of the cellars. People became strange and giddy, red-faced and loud, and Calaerwen hated it. She hunched over her ragged nails, examining them uncomfortably. An awful voice started to sing a satirical and overly unpleasant song on the seven sons of Fëanor.
Reading on rainy days, and sunny ones too, Calaerwen had formed her own and much less judgmental opinion of them. They weren't that awful, just because they were prone to folly as all others. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an abrupt but fluid motion.
Eluréd made his way out of the room, and though he was good at hiding his emotions, Calaerwen saw the tight set of his jaw and a seed of anger in his eyes. She stood too, leaving much less politely.
She found Eluréd outside, staring up at the stars on a stone bench. "Are- are you okay?" She sat down next to him.
His voice was muffled when he spoke. "I think his fëa fled from shame that my brother died." There was only one son of Fëanor that could still be alive.
"You know Maglor?" The greatest musician, and her decided favorite of the brothers.
"I knew him," Eluréd whispered, a shining drop weaving down his cheek, at last a tear for everyone and everything he had lost. Calaerwen was awkward, everyone would attest to that, but she put an arm around him without speaking. Silence healed grief better than speaking with someone who didn't understand. That she knew for sure, a companion to sadness and silence.