Little Fëanaro has been raised by an understanding elven couple who are firm in their belief that they can help him become a well-balanced adult - it helps that neither of them has died yet and they aren’t about to divorce, honestly. Fëanaro knows that he has been reborn, that they weren’t his orignal birth parents, but he doesn’t remember his previous life yet. He is happy; he is living the childhood that Míriel’s death ruined. But in the market one day, he feels a little tug on his heart, and he turns to see an older lady, dressed in working clothes and picking a fish to put in her basket. He may only be twenty, but he is old enough to wander the market on his own, so he tugs his mother’s sleeve and informs her that he is going across the way. She nods and goes back to her shopping, and Fëanaro wanders, keeping a child’s eye on the red lady. She is pretty, but worn. He doesn’t know why his heart is telling him he should know her. She turns and walks to the next stall, and he ducks under a table so that she won’t see him. Up close, he notices that her eyes are bright, but her soul seems tired. As she selects her apples and moves away, he gets out from under the table, shrugs when the shopkeep eyes him, and moves back towards where he left his mother.
He is walking along the river several months later, and sees red hair over the top of a chair. He knows it’s her. She is talking to a lady with silver hair, who seems animated and is very beautiful, in Fëanaro’s estimation. He keeps walking, because there is no reason to stop even though his heart tells him he should. His eyes stay on the red hair, though, and so he sees clearly when she flinches, pausing in her discussion. He wonders if it was his fault, if she can feel his heart, but she doesn’t look behind her and so does not see him. He continues along the river, and the women fade out of sight behind him.
Today marks the middle of the largest and longest festival in Tirion for the year, and the ball has just started. His parents are not royalty, of course, but his mother bakes for a friend of lady Anaire’s, and they got an invitation. His father borrowed a little outfit in Fëanaro’s size from a neighbor, and his mother thinks he is just the cutest. Fëanaro thinks he looks rather nice, and he does not mind following his parents around as they smile and talk to various guests. He sees the red haired lady, though, and his heart beats just a little faster. He decides to listen to it, today, and gives a tug on his mother’s sleeve before walking towards the lady. Her hair is down today, and he eyes it, knowing it should be longer but not understanding why he knows it. She is in a little cape and a long flowing dress, and he edges around the hem as he reaches for her sleeve. Tug, tug. She straightens up and turns around, frowning. He looks up at her, and his heart tugs too.
He can tell that her heart recognizes him, just as his knows her. She brings her hands to cover her mouth, eyes widening. She looks like she is about to cry. He does not understand why, because his heart is happy and warm. But when she whirls around, almost tripping in her dress, and runs away, squeezing between partygoers and quickly disappearing, he stands there and his heart starts crying, too.
A few people stare at him, but soon lose interest. It takes almost thirty minutes for his parents to make their way over to him, and he has been standing still the whole time. They ask another guest if he knows what occurred, and he simply says, “Lady Nerdanel got spooked. You know how she can be. Or you’ve heard, at least.” He eyes the slightly ill-fitting clothes on Fëanaro’s mother. “I don’t know about your boy there, though.” He walks away, towards the drinks.
Feanaro knows his mother is there, hugging him and asking him if he’s alright, but his mind is distant. His heart is still sad, but now his mind has something to hold on to. A name.