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Her husband is not yet old, but he stoops like an old man when Feanor is gone with a door slammed achingly behind him.
“Mother, he doesn’t like me,” Fingolfin says, snuffling into his hands. Indis puts her arms around him, and lies.
(She’s seen it too, the way that Feanor looks at him.)
She really does think that Finarfin is serious about that Earwen girl, for all that he’s only eighteen.
Nerdanel always smiles, and always looks tired, and Indis loves her—and she believes Nerdanel would love her too, if she could.
The burial plot is too small for her, with Miriel there.
Someone is drinking down Finwe’s decanters. Maedhros has bloodshot eyes. Indis says, “My dear—” one afternoon, and he startles away from her like some half-wild thing. He is only sixteen; she must be mistaken.
Maglor takes the slippers home with him.
“You like to be called Galadriel, don’t you, my love?”
These two boys who are not her grandsons are not equally happy here. One wants to go home, and one wants to make a new home, and she was much the same, when she left England for love. She can understand them both.
The man Bauglir has a foul, wretched heart, and Indis thinks he is the only person she has ever truly hated.