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They were all children once, and played as children do. Cousins played games with cousins without the undercurrents of discontent between their fathers ruining the golden days spent in their grandfather's garden. There were secrets, though, even then but they did not care about them.

Of course those days are as dead as that much beloved grandfather and Finrod barely thinks of the time he was little Finda in a child's frock, clinging to Tyelkormo's skirt with Carnistir's hand stuck to his, as they braved the "wilderness" of Míriel's garden.

It seems though that there are some final lessons to be learnt, some final games to be played and a secret or two to discover that should have been left alone. 

In Nargothrond Finrod Felagund is both the unwitting architect and witness to the final, dying gasp of Fëanorian innocence.