Not yet weary are my feet by Quente

Around the corner, we may meet...

Andreth twined a bit of greying hair around her fingers while she thought. The fire burned lower, and the fey creature on the other side of her hearth should have been cast into darkness, but was not. 

All the stray light in the room collected around him and highlighted his (certain) beauty and his (undoubted) wisdom.

“So your point,” Andreth said at last, “Is that I would see Aegnor remaining with me out of pity, and as a result, I would feel ashamed.”

“Due to your Hröa’s slow withering and detachment from your Fëa, and –”

“No,” Andreth said. 

“No?” Finrod asked, tilting his head.

“No, I would not feel ashamed.”

“You – would not? Even when your body shrinks and becomes feeble –”

“No. I would not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart. Indeed, I would honor him the more for it.” Andreth smiled and stood up. “I am not too old to ride. If you are ready, we shall go to him now.”

“Wait – I –”

“You were wrong.”

The light collected around the Elvenking’s beautiful face, highlighting the perplexity therein. 

Andreth waited a moment longer, then shrugged and turned, heading to her stable. She had waited long enough, and the best part about her Hröa's slow detachment from her Fëa – or, as she called it, being in middle-age – was that she no longer suffered fools.