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Your majesty King Ñoldóran,
A thousand sentences I penned for you, and thousands more I never sent. I know I am not her, won’t be her, can’t be her, but can’t you just see me, my love? Your children do not know you, they write reports for their tutors on all you have done for your people, and still they do not know you. Arafinwë asked me the other day if he and his siblings are not worthy of your love, for everyone states what a good parent the high king is, and yet you speak only to them in passing. Your son looks upon my children with jealousy, and yet he has your undivided attention. Ñolofinwë asked me if he took up linguistics and Smithing, if then you would love him. I must confess, I do not know. I wonder, sometimes, if I were old enough to remember Cuiviénen, would you love me more?
Yours, Indis.