“Andreth adaneth, the life and love of the Eldar dwells much in memory; and we (if not ye) would rather have a memory that is fair but unfinished than one that goes on to a grevious end. Now will he ever remember thee in the sun of morning, and that last evening by the water of Aeluin in which he saw thy face mirrored with a star caught in thy hair - ever, until the North-wind brings the night of his flame. Yea, and after that, sitting in the House of Mandos in the halls of Awaiting until the end of Arda.”
“And what shall I remember?” said she. “And when I go to what halls shall I come? To a darkness in which even the memory of the sharp flame shall be quenched? Even the memory of rejection. That at least.”
Finrod sighed and stood up. “The Eldar have no healing words for such thoughts, Adaneth; he said. “But would you wish that Elves and Men had never met? Is the light of the flame, which otherwise you would never have seen, of no worth even now? You believe yourself scorned? Put away at least that thought, which comes out of darkness, and then our speech together will not have been wholly in vain. Farewell!
Darkness fell in the room. He took her hand in the light of the fire.
“Whither go you?” she said.
”North away” he said: “to the swords, and the siege, and the walls of defence - that yet for a while in Beleriand rivers may run clean, leaves spring, and birds build their nests, ere Night comes.”
“Will he be there, bright and tall, and the wind in his hair? Tell him. Tell him not to be reckless. Not to seek danger beyond need!”
“I will tell him,” said Finrod. “But I might as well tell thee not to weep. He is a warrior, Andreth, and a spirit of wrath. In every stroke that he deals he sees the Enemy who long ago did thee this hurt. But you are not for Arda. Whither you go may you find light. Await us there, my brother - and me.”