Author's note: It has been a very long while since I have updated, but I have managed to finally get something written. Sorry for the delay and I hope this short chapter is satisfying enough. Please continue to give me your feedback!
Love is silver. Sometimes it is bright white silver, glimmering innocently like the stars. Sometimes it is dark silver, glowing red in the firelight, a passionate silver. It is a metal of less worth than gold, yet of no less beauty, when perceived from the right angle. It is abundant and precious at the same time. It is both everlasting and breakable. I like to tell myself that that is the reason the ring of betrothal is one of silver, not of gold, as is the ring of marriage.
Although I imagine in my mind a ring of silver upon my finger, I see now this ring upon the hand of another. The glint of light coming off the ring disappears as she places her hand into that of her betrothed. It truly is a beautiful sight. Indis, tall and fair, the golden hair of the Vanyar shimmering and blending with Laurelin shining high above her. And Finwë, proud, noble, Lord of the Noldor, his own dark hair in stark contrast with hers, yet still blending perfectly. Perhaps it is only the fact that they walk beneath the Trees, but they cause me to think of the blending of Laurelin and Telperion, at that time of day when both shine together, neither dimming the other.
A voice beside me reminds me why I am here. "I think it has been long enough. There is nothing to see here."
Fëanáro knew exactly what there is to see, although he was stubbornly trying to avoid it. At times like this I can almost find that stubbornness amusing, for it is so childish. It comforted me to know that even the greatest of the Noldor cannot avoid acting immaturely at times. I laughed lightly, and I even saw the corners of his mouth twitch, but he remained adamant in his decision to scowl.
"Look at them," I continued, and he reluctantly turned his gaze back towards them. "Can you not see how beautiful they are?"
"That is small wonder, seeing as they are walking in the light of the Trees." He tried to walk away, but I held his wrist, and he finally resigned himself to hearing me through.
"It is true that the Trees are beautiful, but can you not see how they carry a light of their own, that they are not put to shame beneath that holy light? Yavanna's creations are great indeed, but the power of love is greater still."
"He cannot love her." Despite his immediate denial, I could tell that my words had at least had some effect. Changing his mind would certainly be no simple task. Yet I still had one argument, which I had been saving until last.
"Curufinwë?"
"Why do you call me that? You have never used my father name before." He was trying to appear uninterested by making pictures on the bench with blades of grass.
"I do now, because I want you to think of your father." I gave him a moment, and he brushed his grass pattern off the bench and looked out to where Finwë still stood. "You love your father, do you not?" He blinked in agreement. "Then why do you begrudge him his happiness?"
He stood up abrubtly and looked at me angrily. I was afraid I had taken my persuasion too far. "Why does he begrudge me my happiness?" When he cut himself off suddenly, I realised he was just as startled by what he had said as I was. It was up to me to speak the truth, although we were both afraid to hear it.
"Do you truly believe your sorrow is of his doing?" He just stared unblinkingly at the bench, while his hands, forever restless, began weaving the blades of grass together. After a long silence, I spoke once more; "There is but one person you have to fear."
He finally looked up at me, and his eyes seemed to pierce though the thick air between us, finally making it thinner. Finwë and Indis passed beyond the hill and Laurelin's last beams began to fade. Although I had seen this site countless times, it was no less beautiful than it ever was. The two of us were content to sit in silence, simply absorbing the blessed light, shedding light not only on our skin, but on our minds.
"My father used to bring me here every evening." I realised he was speaking again, and I turned back to look at him. He ran his hand along the side of a small tree beside us. "I would often try to climb this tree, when he was not watching." He smiled, remembering the joyful days of childhood. "Then he would become terribly afraid that I was going to fall, even though I was hardly higher than his head. He would hold out his arms, insisting that I come down right away. And I would laugh, telling him that I would never fall. Then I would jump down the other side, and find his arms around me as he held me, assuring himself that he would never let anything happen to me." He looked at me, laughing slightly. "He did that every time. And I never fell."
I found myself nearly in tears to hear him speak of his childhood. I would have liked to have known him as a child. I could not believe I had not seen it before, at the festival, when Finwë had been so worried. Fëanáro was his only child, the only memory he had of Míriel. And no matter how much he loved Indis, it was plain that Míriel would never wholly depart from his memory, nor would he ever be able to love in the same way.
"Fëanáro," I said. "Your father loves you, above all others." And his reply was a surprising one, yet hardly something I did not expect: "I know." He smiled at me, and I had no choice but to agree to what was undoubtedly true.