She was as beautiful as Pol had suggested, glowing in fact, forcing the sun into a position of obscene dimness. He did not know where such a thing could have come from, or how it could be that she would outshine the sun and the sky itself. Only that such thoughts were entirely inappropriate for a funeral. He gave her a bow as formal as the curtsy, but wondered how much she must resent such niceties. Especially given how much she probably resented this entire ceremony. Eibhear meant something different to all of them - flashes in time that could never be replicated. But he'd taught a young chevalier what it meant to be a knight, and in the service of the king. He would never forget what an immovable soul the elf had possessed. Aeotha seemed as though she were on the verge of tears. Best not to mention Eibhear for now.
"It's best," Pol told her with a reassuring smile. "You don't want to have too much time to spend with us, Aeotha. People might wonder why you were so aimless."
"Indeed," Ilúvatar agreed with the same smile. "Goddess forbid you should meet her, my mother would smother you with questions."
The hand he clapped on Flaithriaoh's shoulder was not the companionable sort of gesture that an adult would give a child - rather it was an acknowledgment, of the sort between soldiers, wordless because they needed no words to express such things. Words might have been used, and frequently were, but Flaithriaoh was the same as his father in at least one essential way. He did not compromise, and found he had no need to do so.
"The king has arrived," Ilúvatar said quietly. "To pay his respects. Have you met him before, Flaithriaoh?"
He knew - he remembered, rather - that Aeotha had met him once before. Their exchange was short but pleasant enough. And Ilúvatar had no reason to think that his king would be anything other than polite today, respectful in the vein of so many captains burying so many dead. It was right that it was so.