Fëanor, newly apprenticed in Mahtan’s halls, does not care that Nerdanel does not like him. Her statues are nice enough, but he has far more important things to concern himself with than her approval. And he doesn’t think she’s pretty. 

A story about art, mythology, and learning what exactly you were made for.

After Fingon's encounter with Glaurung, Maedhros comes to Barad Eithel.

Fingon survives the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and waits for news of Maedhros.

Heledhel of Balar, formerly of Nargothrond, is going to the market in the Havens of Sirion to sell her wares, and only to sell her wares.

"Would it irk you less," Maedhros asks, his eyes glinting with infuriating amusement, "if it did not rhyme?"

Fingon, and the songs they write about him.

Elwing was her name — an odd name, to go with certainly the oddest person we had ever met. The tower she dwelt in was tall and white, and lay some miles to the north of our village: barely more than an hour’s walk, for two bored children in search of adventure, and yet certainly more isolated than anyone else we knew. We liked to stand one at each end of the narrow, winding staircase, and listen to the echoes of our voices ringing against the stone. At the top of the tower the stairs opened up into a little turret room, bare and simple, with a neatly made bed tucked against one wall and a small clay oven beside the other. That was, at first, the main draw: for Elwing was a prodigious baker, and generous with the fruits of her labour. When first she sighted us playing on the cliffside she gave us warm sweet pastries flecked with nuts, and many times after a loaf or two of fresh bread — to carry home to our mother, she said, although more often than not it had disappeared by the time we arrived.

In the Second Age, Elwing tells two Telerin children a fairytale.