Artelda said to Findekáno: "I'm not disappointed, you know!"

Not knowing whether he himself were disappointed to see Fëanáro alone at the Feast of First Fruits, he truly envied her conviction.

Indis, on the other hand, made no secret of her grief, going over to Ingwë and resting her head against his shoulder. Nolofinwë was vaguely annoyed by this undignified gesture. He himself was not especially concerned by the absence of his father and nephews. Fëanáro had been very late; for some time he had dared to hope that the little exiled community at Formenos would be wholly unrepresented among the harvest celebrants. That had been cowardly of him, for such would have nullified the plan of action that he had formed, but when had he ever looked forward to seeing his half-brother?

As for the rest of the family, Turukáno was relieved not to encounter Curufinwë, whom he disliked. Elenwë was happy because he was and because the Feast was an opportunity for her to see her relations. She was a fair-haired Vanya, gifted with an incurable tendency to laughter and looking on the bright side. Joy bubbled up eternally from some deep well of her spirit.

Lalwen was cast into the depths of depression and retired behind a pillar to weep over her own lack of courage, which made it impossible for her to march up to Fëanáro and offer him the hand of friendship. Arakáno, distressed by these tangled emotions in his loved ones, wandered off to seek solace with his great-grandmother Ingië, who was holding court at the south end of Manwë's great hall.

Itaril was delighted, as was Anairë, who fell into a long conversation with Eärwen. It revolved mainly around Nolofinwë and His Virtues, a subject which had given her great pleasure over the Years and continued to do so now, at least until she became aware that her friend's attention had wavered. Eärwen's silver eyes were now focused on a point somewhere behind Anairë's shoulder.

"Yes, what is it?" she demanded with some irritation.

Eärwen blinked, slowly.

"I think it's Nolo," she said.

Sure enough, Nolofinwë was making his way toward the royal dais where Manwë and Varda were enthroned. They would have resembled nothing more than a great king and queen of the Eldar, if it had not been for the subtle radiance, almost a glow, that emanated from their bodies, which were themselves seemingly built on a slightly larger scale than those around them. It was impossible to mistake a Vala.

Nolofinwë bowed before Manwë and Varda, in the manner of a petitioner. His voice rang out through the hall.

"Great ones, only five Years have passed since the banishment of my brother, Curufinwë Fëanáro; but all of Tirion is diminished without the Noldóran and his firstborn son. I beg your permission to release my brother from his sentence before the due time."

Suddenly Anairë was conscious of another presence than Eärwen's at her side, of a golden gown and a mass of honey-coloured hair. Without turning, she emitted a malevolent hiss:

"How did you persuade him to this?"

But Lalwen, wordless with happiness, only shook her head; she had had no idea of Nolofinwë's intent. As Manwë inclined his head, summoning Fëanáro to come before him, his acquiescence increased her joy to undreamt-of levels. She would have liked to kiss Anairë.

.~.~.~.~.

Having, before the Valar and in the company of Fëanáro, to make some kind of public speech was for Nolofinwë the stuff of nightmares. Even as his half-brother approached, there was a part of him that did not quite believe that he was really going to do this thing. But then Fëanáro looked at him. And he was suddenly a rabbit transfixed by the glittering eyes of a snake.

"As I promised, so I do now."

Nolofinwë extended his hand to Fëanáro, who was silent with that silence of his that was more than silence, in the burning heart of which Nolofinwë would not have been surprised if Manwë and himself and all his own puny plans had turned out to be inside Fëanáro's mind.

"I release thee," he faltered, "and remember no grievance. Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be."

Fëanáro had taken his hand.

Nolofinwë's tongue clove to his mouth. He wondered, with a sort of dreadful detachment, what foolish thing he was going to say next. Fëanáro would not speak before his brother had made himself ridiculous in the eyes of the world and of himself: this he knew from experience. But no new horror could be more unbearable than this fierce silence.

He resorted to his ancient tactic of blurting out the first thing that came into his head:

"Thou shalt lead and I will follow! May no new grief divide us!"

"I hear thee," Fëanáro returned at last. "So be it!"

He did not release Nolofinwë's hand for several moments of agony.

.~.~.~.~.

As Lalwen flung her arms around her brother's neck, sobbing for joy against his shoulder; as the dazed look cleared from his eye, a pure child's voice pierced through the ordinary clamour and echoed from the dome of the hall. Beautiful little Meril, Ingwë's great-granddaughter, was singing a song of praise before Manwë.

Indis holds this last feast in memory as a shining jewel of movement and colour and sweet music. Even now, she can still recall every tiny detail of the clothes and the food and the pure light of Telperion, mingling in that place on the edge of Valinor with the softer gleam of the stars. She can see Malwë and Ilmarien, clad in matching dresses of silvery gauze, and envision the brooding half-amused look on Fëanáro's face as he passes close by her in the crowd.

After that strange scene, there was the oddest feeling of happiness abroad, as if Lalwen's innocent joy had somehow infected the rest of the company: even Indis. She can still taste the bubbles of it in her mouth. She can feel, too, that strange transmutation of joy to fear, as the shadows creep across the blue and white floor. She can hear and she will always hear the sweet voice of Meril, cracking and faltering and grinding to a final halt.