Anairë sat, amidst a heap of dresses, in her and Nolofinwë's bedchamber. She was supposed to be packing. Downstairs, Nolofinwë was comforting Lalwen for the misfortune of being a destructive brat. Artelda was looking for her spare bow. Apparently, the future of their venture depended upon Artelda finding her spare bow.

Anairë sighed and listlessly picked up a gown. It was orange brocade, rather showy for her taste. Probably it had been given to her by Lalwen. That is to say, it was probably one of Lalwen's cast-offs. Anairë could not tell; she had no memory of ever having seen the thing before. Perhaps memory loss was a symptom of despair.

There was a knock on the door, such a timid and hesitant knock that Anairë readily recognised the visitor.

"Come in!" she called, her spirits brightening somewhat.

Eärwen came in. What seemed to have happened to her spirits could not be described as brightening. By the light of Anairë's single lamp, she looked like a ghost.

Anairë stood up to kiss her.

"Hello, darling!"

"Hello. Am I - am I interrupting you?"

"Never that. Here, sit down on the bed. Would you like a drink?"

Eärwen sat down, buried her silver head in her white hands and began to sob quietly.

"My dear! What's the matter? Come, you can tell me, you can tell your old Anairë..."

Anairë sat down on the bed and put her arms around her friend.

"Darling, what is it?"

"Arafinwë... Aro wants to go to Middle-earth without me!"

Anairë sat quite still.

"But my dear, you can go anyway, surely, if you want to. Arafinwë would not force you to stay!"

Eärwen sobbed out a few unintelligible sentences.

"Hush, my love", Anairë said, rocking her, "you can tell me in a moment..."

Eärwen looked up and into her eyes.

"I don't know how to make myself go", she said clearly. "I am too afraid!"

Then, with the intensity of a small burrowing mammal, as if to hide her shame from even the faint lamplight, she pressed her beautiful face into Anairë's shoulder. Her tears became more and more frenzied.

Anairë lightly stroked her friend's shoulders, crooning a little melody. Things were coming together in her head.

.~.~.~.~.

As Turukáno passed the door of the room that he shared with his wife, his right hand brushed one side of the doorframe. Automatically, he touched the other with his left, for symmetry.

"Better not let our darling Itarillë see you doing that - you know how it irritates her!"

Elenwë's lips curved sweetly into a smile. She was kneeling beside their bed, doing the same as Anairë, only more efficiently: putting clothes away in an open trunk.

Turukáno sat down beside her and leaned his head against her shoulder, for comfort.