She gets a few of her own.

There is a numbness, in her fingertips. A casual clumsiness that isn't there in life. She tries to compensate for it, but every now and then something slips through her fingers when it shouldn't. It's subtly upsetting, casually annoying. Few things are as aggravating as seeing what should be done and then failing to be able to do them. She would expect a flash of anger at her own little failings, a muttered curse or a hiss of breath. Instead, there's just sorrow. Sorrow and a deep, aching loneliness.

She feels useless. Or - not useless. Held back, perhaps. Like there is more that she could be doing, but there's some reason she isn't doing it. In her mind she knows it to be true. In her heart, she feels like she's not doing enough. Like she's never done enough.

Even so, she works fanatically. It's like when she was lamenting her lost almost-love - she shuns people by choice, skips sleep by nature. Works and works and works until all she wants to do is slide to the ground and sob from frustration and exhaustion. She doesn't. Perhaps she can't. Perhaps she's become like Fëanáro, trying so hard to prove herself worthy, and destroying herself in the process.

With a choked sob, she wakes from the all-too-real nightmare. She can't help but cry, but she can keep it very, very quiet.

They depart for Tirion.

Calassúrë is glad to be going home. Even if home won't look the same.

She doesn't talk about her nightmares to anyone. What would be the point? They're clearly the result of her current situation, her uncle's fragility mirrored to herself. A magnification of her own clumsiness in the dark, her own subtle feeling of helplessness. Everyone else has so much to deal with already, she can handle these on her own. They're just nightmares.

Aren't they?

It's a solemn trip.

Tirion is lit by torches. It's cold and smoky and quiet.

It barely even looks like home, now. The layout's the same, but everything looks smaller, emptier. The streets are empty, the gardens have withered, and she has to quietly excuse herself from the main group to quietly hum a calming song to herself to keep from openly sobbing. She wants to hold herself together until she's at home with her parents. Something about the emotional vulnerability in publicly crying bothers her. So she won't, and she'll walk very quickly to her home and call out to her parents and sob there, instead.

Mother, Father, she sends, I'm okay, I'm here - are you okay -?

A bit shaken, but everything's mostly calmed down, now, says her father. We're working on a better light option than the torches, enchanting's possible but takes a bit too long to work city-wide, we think we might be onto something with -

Are you near the house? interrupts her mother, gently cutting off the technical ramble before it properly begins.

Yeah, I'm coming home right now, are you both free, I kind of want to hug you both and then cry.

I'm at the forge, but I'll put this down, be there presently, her father says, a little distractedly. Calassúrë is briefly overcome by a moment of fondness. Nerdanel's sister had somewhat similar taste.

She returns to a home that is dark and dismal and a welcome sight despite both, and she falls into her mother's arms and she lets herself cry.