butchery: or, the closest we will get to love (джен)

“So you come to gloat,” she found her voice to say. Indis knew what she must look like, her hair down and uncombed, lank rather than brushed to shining gold. She had sent away her cousins, her sisters, who would fold her into their arms and offer comfort. She did not want comfort. She wanted to scream, she wanted to howl in fury rather than shed soulful tears into the night.
Indis was past fear, past shame. Let Fëanáro see her like this – what did it matter now?