Nerdanel looks away for a moment, and shadow crosses her face. Across the room, scattered throughout the whole house, are sculptures. Boys, young and carefree, young men, pretending to be older. Feanor, in anger, and in joy. So alive that in poorer light one might almost expect them to breathe.
But they're only statues. Cold stone. The reminders of the price Feanor's wife has paid.
Some of them are broken. Especially the ones of her husband.
"It can be."
She rallies to smile at Syeira again. "It does. Thank you for bringing me my son."
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But they're only statues. Cold stone. The reminders of the price Feanor's wife has paid.
Some of them are broken. Especially the ones of her husband.
"It can be."
She rallies to smile at Syeira again. "It does. Thank you for bringing me my son."