He hadn’t known she was sailing, hadn’t known a ship was even arriving until one of the children he’s been teaching had tugged on his sleeve and pointed excitedly across the bay.

And so it was that Findárato – because that’s who he was now, not Finrod Felagund, not anymore – found himself clinging to the railings by the docks, waving frantically like an elfling.

She looked different, but not older. Her hair had grown – she wore it down, framing her face like silk – and there was a grace to her steps that had certainly not been in those of the elleth who had run amok on the sands of Alqualondë. But she was still Artanis, and he could not help but grin widely as his eyes met hers over the crowd.