Preamble/notes:

I present this work as a sort of 'Alternate History' take on Tolkien's world; a manner of quasi-AU, perhaps. I've taken liberties in order to tell this story. Character progression and outcomes may vary from canon as a result. But hey, this is all in the pursuit of fun, so please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Included herein are non-canon emendations to the family tree of the Noldor to permit new, non-canon OCs. It is assumed that Irimë (one of two seldom remembered daughters of Indis and Finwë) was younger sister to Fingolfin, and whose children and children's children dwelt both in Valinor and Beleriand.

The throne room was unusually hushed for the time of day (after lunch) - to say nothing of the occasion: the imminent return of his twin cousins.

Turgon Turukano Fingolfion, King of Gondolin, had expected there to be a little more life in the place. It was odd to see his court so subdued, especially considering the rapturous response he'd received when announcing the return of his long-absent kin some weeks previously.

Turgon shifted his weight, re-crossed his legs and considered the scene before him once again. Pale sunlight streamed in through high stained-glass windows, some of which had been thrown open from the vaulted galleries to let the cool sweet wind of spring rush through the chamber. Birdsong and the scent of plum blossom permeated the air. The carven marble veritably glowed. Altogether, it was a lovely day - a High Day - so why was everyone so quiet?

Glorfindel was standing nearby with Ecthelion and Duilin, speaking in low tones. All were arrayed in their House colours, of course, yet even they seemed to be taking things slow this morning. He beckoned Glorfindel to approach. The Scion of the House of the Golden Flower stepped up to the King's dais and bent his head in deference. He looked a little fuzzy around the edges.

"Glorfindel. I must say I'm overwhelmed with the general air of joviality this morning,"

He grinned sheepishly at the King's deadpan approach to the matter and masterfully adopted his most innocent expression.

"My Lord?"

Turgon shot the golden Captain a wry look. Glorfindel cleared his throat and leaned forward until his mouth was level with the King's ear.

"'Tis not a lack of enthusiasm that lends the crowd their…delicacy this morning, sire. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"...Delicacy?"

"Yes, my Lord. So enthusiastic were they yester-eve, in anticipation of the ceremony, that I think they spent their excitement for the event a little...prematurely."

Turgon frowned, regarded the crowd, then turned back to Glorfindel. "They over-indulged, you mean?"

"Yes, sire."

"In all things?"

"Indeed, sire."

"...At the expense of the Lord of the Heavenly Arch, I assume?"

"Egalmoth was most generous with his cellars last night. Too generous, perhaps, my King."

"Of course. Well, why change the habit of several lifetimes?"

Behind Glorfindel, Ecthelion was attempting to stifle a laugh. Egalmoth was studying his boots, apparently caught between embarrassment and nausea. Turgon sighed and tried to suppress his own mild amusement, schooling his features into stern disapproval.

"'Tis clear to me now, Glorfindel, that the court is in fact in the process of drying out. Thank you. I am delighted to learn that at the very least they have not been stricken by food poisoning. And I thank you all, my Lords," he said in a louder voice, directing his words toward a melange of slightly queasy looking Captains, "For taking it upon yourselves to entertain the masses without any need of prompting."

Several elves shuffled their feet. Turgon lowered his tone and turned back to Laurefindë.

"Glorfindel."

"My King."

"My cousin. Conspicuously absent. Where is he?"

"Ah. Lord Voronwë was spotted fishing in the eastern terraces but two hours ago, sire. I imagine he wants to avoid any awkwardness..."

Turgon moaned and rubbed his temples. He'd foolishly hoped that Voronwë - as father of the twins whose return was so universally and imminently anticipated - would forego the business of feeling wretchedly alienated from his children and just turn up smiling. Perhaps with gifts. But no. that was not Voronwë Aronwion's style. He would go hunting. Or sparring. Or...fishing...

Turgon pulled a face.

"Fishing, Glorfindel? Really?"

Glorfindel merely shrugged and quirked a smile of mild bafflement: your guess is as good as mine, it said. And with a disarming flourish, the golden Lord rejoined the ranks of his peers.

Turgon arched an eyebrow and sank back into a watchful reverie.

This rift between Voronwë and his offspring had been a thorn in the side of familial relations for decades, and Valar knew they needed no more of that sort of business. Family melodrama was a favourite pass-time of the Noldor - resulting in food-fights at best, and soul-sundering Oaths at worst. Or so the Sindar liked to say (derogotavely, of course).

Turgon reached for his teacup and gazed at the swirling contents disinterestedly. Voronwë would resolve this - he had to, now that the twins were finally to be reunited with him after so many seasons apart. Besides, a High Day such as this was cause for a much-needed collective lightness of spirit. And of late it had been rare indeed to see the nobility of Gondolin in such a state of...how did Laurefindë describe it? Ah, yes: delicacy.

Turgon chuckled to himself a little wistfully. There had been so little to celebrate since the travesty that was Dagor Bragollach. He missed Fingon terribly, and the lump in his throat was testament to the brothers' shared grief over the loss of their father. Of Elenwë he dared not think overlong even now. He missed, too, his idiotic Feanorion half-cousins whom Aredhel had never ceased reminiscing over: all their youthful, Golden Days in Valinor when they would hunt and laugh and spar together in careless ease.

He was losing them all, he knew, one by one...season by season. Losing even those who were still by his side or residing yet in some secreted part of this wild and beauteous Eastern land - if not to violence then to the melancholy of an unforgotten past. Sorrow was as deadly an ailment to Elvenkind as war, Turgon knew, though it was more insidious, more subtle, and whetted keen by the steady march of their immortal years. Yet such was the life they had chosen when they followed their father into exile.

So. It was entirely understandable that there should be elation upon the return of their own; a homecoming in days of loss and uncertainty was indeed a joy to be celebrated. Yet still Turgon felt the pang of something else within him - something akin to..what? Regret? Envy? Since the founding of fair Gondolin (and if he was being honest, for many decades prior) Turgon had become subject to the increasing isolation of his station. It made him feel an elfling to admit it, but often he felt quite alone. Idril and Aredhel were the only kin he was able to truly speak with - and even then there were limitations of role and differences in temperament. With his daughter he must ever be a strong father. With his deceased sister, Turgon had waged an eternal battle of wills. Oh, he'd loved her dearly, but if there ever lived a more stubborn elf than Aredhel he had yet to meet her. he smiled to himself: Findarato oft said the very same of Artanis.

Ah, Finrod! Dearest Finrod. Turgon felt the absence of his closest cousin most keenly at times of great joy or great melancholy - for Ingoldo's intimate humour, steadfast mind and sparkling wit were a balm to the weary at heart. Finrod was his equal. His constant. He understood Turgon as Turgon understood him, even now after the years had sped past them like shoals of fish fleeing before the tide. He would have to write to Ingoldo again. Soon. If for no reason other than to impart his deepest inner ramblings...for none other could countenance them, after all.

But of course he now had another cause to write; for all at once he heard the distant, clear note of a heralding trumpet borne high upon the morning breeze.

The anticipated visitors had arrived.