The mood in the city varies - by person, by moment - from ebullient to vindictively gleeful to bleakly despairing. The Feanorians are coming. The Feanorians are coming and either the horrors of the last few decades will be avenged or a new one will join the tale, if anyone remains alive to tell it. Perhaps the Feanorians are keeping track.
The King of Sirion is one of the optimistic ones. He wears the Silmaril around his neck and watches from the towers by the shoreline and waits for the people who murdered his sisters, his parents, his whole people, to come and to die. The Silmaril bathes Sirion in stunning, sparkling, light.