'Behold! Indis the fair shall be made glad and fruitful, who might else have been solitary. For not in death only hath the Shadow entered into Aman... [T]here are other sorrows, even if they be less. Long she hath loved Finwë, in patience and without bitterness.'

JRR Tolkien, 'Morgoth's Ring'

The next Day, Fëanáro had disappeared. This was not at all a rare occurrence. Indeed, it happened every few Days. The boy, in the monstrously cruel way of children, would escape from the palace before anyone else was up, leaving Finwë alone with his anxieties - and with the shade of Míriel.

When her son was not by to enliven the atmosphere, the remembered presence of Míriel became almost unbearable, in this place that she had come to and made beautiful. Her voice whispered in every sound. Her shape moved in every fluttering drapery woven by her small white hands.

Sometimes Finwë would himself leave the palace, taking up an old wandering habit to escape his memories. He would patrol the woods of Eldamar, where only scattered homesteads broke the solitude of the silent trees; or he would visit the fields of Valinor whose produce nourished all the inhabitants of Aman. So it was on this Day.

For Hours he walked through a sea of ripening grain. Sometimes the monotony of the surroundings and the rhythm of his steps would make his mind into a thoughtless blank: this was the desired effect. At other times he would wonder what Fëanáro was doing now. Finwë felt no bitterness at his son's desertion. Never having been a child himself, he nonetheless understood that such innocent thoughtlessness is only the nature of youth.

At last he came to a place where the cultivated fields came to an end. Beyond this point, there was only green grass before one came to the mound of Ezellohar. He could actually see the Two Trees as a bright spot on the margin of the horizon; but he was too weary to take that way now. It was time to return home. Fëanáro was probably there before him.

Later, he did not know why he had turned aside to climb the slopes of Taniquetil. It was by no means the quickest way to return to Tirion. He had simply looked up at the shapely cone of the great mountain and felt a powerful desire to come nearer; one of those urges that belongs to the time before words.

Finwë remembered this time, or remembered that such a time had been. He, above all others, had wantonly destroyed it. Impossible to ask whether he regretted this. It was a thing that had to be; but there had been wordless songs beneath the stars of Cuiviénen.

And were now, on the west face of Taniquetil.

It was a bubbling song, a sound and a promise of joy. It was the cry of a woman whose dreams fulfil themselves after long suffering. It was a solid golden sound; and it was infectious, for when Finwë looked up into the face of the singer, it was a like pleasure that he felt running through his body.

It was Indis. Indis, the golden child grown to a beautiful woman. Indis, robed in white, a slender tree rooted in Taniquetil, her eyes burning with emotion. Strange that he had never noticed before her beautiful eyes, so richly and evenly coloured!

And when he looked into those clear windows across twenty feet of snow, Finwë saw what the passion was that inflamed her song. What else could it have been but love?

Love for him.

Somehow, he arrived at her side, as if the space between had melted away. They looked at each other shyly; she blushed as she awoke from her trance and stammered some conventional words of greeting.

"My lord, this is an unexpected pleasure! Let me bring you to my uncle. It has been too long since you-"

"Indis," Finwë said. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you mean? What should I be talking about?"

"Do you think me blind? I have been so, but I see now what I should have seen before."

She looked at him dumbly.

"You love me!" He seized her arms, feeling the warm flesh beneath his hands. "Deny it, I defy you!"

"Lord, your great grief has disordered your senses!"

Stepping back, Indis freed herself from his touch. Two large tears had welled in her eyes.

"Why do you weep?"

"Because I never wished you to know. I would not bring sorrow to you. More sorrow."

"What sorrow? You bring more joy than I can tell."

"But you are married."

"Indis, listen to me! Often - if only you knew how often! -, through Mandos, I have begged Míriel to return to me. She has always refused me."

"And what of that? You are still married."

"Hear me out! Two Years ago, Míriel answered my plea in these words. 'I desire peace. Leave me in peace here! I will not return. That is my will.' And so I no longer wait in the gardens of Lórien for life to return to her body. I am free, if you will be my wife."

When he held out his arms to her, she clung to him immediately, as if she could no longer keep up any show of resistance. It was wonderfully sweet to feel a woman's shape and softness against his own body again. Her warm lips pressed against his; they were almost of a height.

"Behold!" he said, when at last they had come apart again. "There is indeed healing of grief in Aman!"