The news that Finrod had taken a lover came as something of a shock. Fingon turned the letter over in his hand, scrutinising front and back, but found no suspicious signs. It was written in his brother's scholarly hand and, as Turgon was by far too uninteresting to think of concocting a scheme, was therefore a reliable source. He would not joke about such matters. In fact, since he had taken the time to write Fingon and inform him in detail of Finrod's indiscretion, it could only mean that he had the utmost concern for the matter at hand.

Turgon had stated so much, and stated it plainly, in his opening line. He was never one for stating anything in any way other than plainly.

I regret to say that I must inform you, brother, that an unfortunate action has occurred, which I feel offers no alternative but that I immediately look upon it with the gravest of concern.

Turgon stated things plainly, though he preferred to do so in as many words as possible.

It pains me deeply to be in the delicate position of being the one to enlighten you as to the exact circumstances of the recent spate of events, but alas I fear there is no viable alternative at this time. Our dear cousin Finrod has, against all better judgement, fallen into a cycle of decadent sin and taken a lover, and a most highly inappropriate one at that. I do not wish to shock or alarm, or give this news harshly, but I deem it absolutely necessary that I inform you forthwith and without delay. It is best, after all, that you first hear such potentially embarrassing news from your own brother or, failing that, another close relative or family member (as I believe Aegnor has also written you a letter which you may have very well by now received).

At that, Fingon paused. "Hm." He set Turgon's letter aside and picked up a second, much smaller and less neatly-folded paper from the tray his messenger had delivered.

Cousin-
(It began in Aegnor's hastily slanted script.)

Finrod has taken a lover. Not a wise choice. Some Telerin fellow named Círdan in Eglarest. Think he'd listen if you went to intervene?

A.
Aegnor also liked to state things plainly, though he wrote as sparingly as if it caused him great pain to put ink to paper.

With a smile, Fingon took up his pen and wrote a short reply.

I will set things right.

F.

Then he closed the paper, stamping it with his own seal, and sent the messenger back into the east. It seemed a waste to spend a servant on only five words, but the task was important. Or, at the very least, something to do. Fingon sent very few messages.

"Compose a letter to my brother," Fingon said to his scribe. "Something very long. Three pages, at least, on the theme of 'I agree with you and am on my way to Eglarest'. Perhaps a 'meet me there' if you can work it in."

"Yes, sir," said the scribe, but Fingon was already out the door and halfway down the corridor.

By sunset, he had packed a small travel bag and was riding as quickly as practically possible across the plains of Dor-lómin. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that there was a lake in the way.

Turgon was already in Eglarest by the time Fingon arrived. How this was possible, Fingon was uncertain, unless Turgon had not bothered to wait for Fingon's reply (assuming there would be none, as per Fingon's usual pattern) and had left Nevrast of his own accord. Whatever the case, Turgon was waiting at the city gate when Fingon arrived. Clearly, he had once again forgotten that he and Fingon did not particularly like each other.

"Brother!" he shouted, and gathered Fingon in a crushing and somewhat embarrassing embrace. "How long has it been?"

"Twelve years," said Fingon. "Give or take."

"Really," said Turgon, "I could've sworn it felt closer to twenty-four, at least..." He finally let go and allowed Fingon to step back. "I see you got my letter?"

"Yes," said Fingon. "Did you get my return letter?"

Turgon stared back at him blankly.

"You know, a small bundle of paper with a wax seal on it?"

"I do know what a letter is," Turgon snapped. "I write you a good number of the things. I just never supposed you'd ever actually learn to reply."

"I am constantly improving myself," Fingon said.

"Of course you are," said Turgon, and he patted Fingon's shoulder. Turgon was only two hundred thirty four years old, but he had an infuriating tendency toward acting as if he were ten times that age.

Fingon swatted his hand away a little more roughly than was necessary. "Quit acting like a cretin."

"My dear brother," Turgon sighed, "this is hardly the time to be quarrelsome."

"I know that!" Fingon hissed. "So, as I said, quit acting like a cretin, and tell me what's going on. You've obviously been here for some time. Logic demands that you be slightly more knowledgeable than I on the situation."

"Yes, the goings-on," said Turgon. He cleared his throat to better launch into a lengthy account of his time in Eglarest, and his knowledge of the Finrod-lover fiasco. "Apparently," he started, "the goings-on have been going on, on an ongoing basis, going on four years now."

Fingon blinked. He placed both hands firmly on Turgon's shoulders. "Turgon," he said. "Brother. I know this might pain you, but please try to speak in a remotely normal fashion from now on. I am not one to be impressed by your ability to cleverly use the tired phrase 'going on' four times in one sentence. Save that for your poncy lore-masters."

Nodding slowly, Turgon seemed to agree, but he did look rather put-out. "Anyhow... I first heard the news by way of Ecthelion, who overheard two laundry maids speaking about something quite hush-hush when he took some time off to visit his brother on Tol Sirion. The two maids were in the middle of a deep discussion about fabric types. Namely, the fabric type of a strange pair of breeches that had appeared in Finrod's laundry hamper earlier that morning. The morning, I might mention, immediately following his return from a visit to the south. These breeches, it would seem, were not Finrod's. Then how did they happen to wind up in his laundry hamper, you might very well ask? The two maids found it exceedingly suspicious. So, I might add, did Ecthelion, who took care to write down as much of the conversation as he could. From now on I dare say none of us will be chiding him for always carrying paper and pen in his pack! Really, such things come in useful at the most unexpected of times."

"Uh-huh," said Fingon. His eyes looked a bit glazed and distant.

"From Ecthelion's report, it seems that the breeches found that morning in Finrod's laundry hamper were not only the wrong size, but also entirely the wrong fabric! If there's one thing laundry maids are veritable experts on, it's fabric. And they can spot the difference between wool and linen in the blink of an eye. These breeches were a good two inches too short for Finrod, and made of very sheer linen, a fabric that is simply not widely available! Especially not in winter in Tol Sirion, and you know as well as I do that Tol Sirion has ghastly winters. Now the maids were quite naïve and eventually decided between the two of them that the short sheer breeches must be some newfangled fashion Finrod picked up on his trip, and that seemed to clear up all confusion, at least to their satisfaction. But Ecthelion was wise enough to know better. He has some experience in that field. From his point of view, there was only one clear answer; that Finrod had mistakenly scooped up his lover's breeches along with his own clothing, possibly in haste to avoid being detected."

"Ecthelion makes an awful lot of suppositions," said Fingon. "How could you be sure the breeches did belong to Finrod's lover, and weren't simply a new fashion as the maids thought?"

"Ah... well, it seems that Ecthelion was so distraught over the possibility of Finrod, whom he has fancied since Varda knows when, having taken a lover that he drank an entire carafe of claret and passed out in the dining room. He awoke to Finrod shaking his shoulders. Finrod said, 'Are you well?' and called him that adorable name he uses for people he's fond of. You know that name he uses?"

"No, I honestly don't," said Fingon.

"Well he called Ecthelion that name, in any case, which of course made Ecthelion even more upset. Then, fuelled by the claret, he blurted out to Finrod that he loved him. Well! That just set things off. You know how Finrod is, never wanting to hurt anyone's feelings..."

Fingon grunted and rubbed at his eyes in frustration. "Look, Turgon, this is all very fascinating, but I have to ask you to get to the bleeding point."

Turgon nodded. "Right, right. Where was I?"

"I don't care!" Fingon shouted. "Just tell me how you found out Finrod had a lover named Círdan."

"Oh... Finrod told Ecthelion."

"Good," said Fingon. "Now we're getting somewhere. How did you get involved?"

Turgon paused to think. "After Ecthelion learned about the Telerin lover, he tried to suppress the knowledge. But he has no willpower, and within two days of returning to Nevrast he'd already written a massive letter to Aegnor, detailing the entire situation down to the very smallest detail of what the laundry maids were wearing. Very unfashionable red frocks, by the way. Afterward, he told me. And probably half of the royal guard as well, but the important thing is that he told me. I told him not to worry. But when I received a note from Finrod some weeks later saying that he was in Eglarest, I knew then and there that something had to be done. So I informed Ecthelion that he could now officially worry, wrote to you, and set out to set things right. That brings me to here. I have spent the last few weeks in this glorious paradise. Did you know they have over five different kinds of fruit?"

"That's wonderful," said Fingon, "but it's hardly relevant. Where's Finrod now?"

"Ah," said Turgon. He paused, smiling hopefully, as if his single vague syllable would be answer enough for Fingon.

Fingon smiled back, equally hopeful, though he tried to at least look somewhat intimidating.

Turgon coughed. "Well. This seems to be, as they say, the proverbial rock in our path."

Finrod was gone. As far as anyone in Eglarest knew, he had returned to Tol Sirion some days before Turgon's arrival. No-one knew why, or if or when he would be returning, though a considerable number of rumours abounded. The most popular opinion asserted that Finrod had a secret wife back home who surely grew jealous of his long and frequent visits to Eglarest. A less popular opinion was that he traded valuable Falathren secrets to spies from Angband, though as the Falathrim had no valuable secrets, only three or four individuals truly believed this.

On the other hand, Fingon had considerably better luck tracking down "some Telerin fellow named Círdan". Círdan happened to be the figurehead of the entire civilisation, as Aegnor had neglected to mention. This much was likely pointed out in Turgon's letter, which Fingon had to admit he should have read all the way through. But that was hardly important now. What was important was speaking with Círdan at the earliest opportunity. Really, he figured, he only needed to convince one of the lovers to break it off with the other. The specifics of who left whom were nothing to worry about. So long as he could sabotage the affair from Círdan's end, Finrod's whereabouts could afford to remain irrelevant. As could Turgon's. Turgon had left for Vinyamar shortly after Fingon's arrival, being very easily convinced that Fingon could handle things on his own. Fingon also suspected that Turgon's retreat was fuelled by a strong desire to read his letter, as in the few minutes prior to his departure he talked about it incessantly with the distinct air of one who writes vast quantities of mail but never receives any.

Thus, free of his brother, Fingon was allowed to wander the streets and beaches freely as he searched for anyone officious-looking enough to be Círdan. To his dismay, all he found were sailors, fishers, and many scruffy, dawdling Elves that he would have taken for vagrants in any place other than irritatingly unstructured Eglarest. He just knew that somehow, these Elves had to have jobs. They were simply not doing them at the moment. Eglarest thrived on that sort of lazy efficiency, where no-one worried about productivity and everyone was confident in the abilities of everyone else to get the job done, eventually, and vaguely on time, if time were even a factor. Fingon suspected it wasn't. He struggled, and failed, to find a single time piece in the entire city. He made a mental note that, should he ever be required to send a gift of goodwill to the people of Eglarest, it would be a sun dial so large as to be unavoidable.

It took him the better part of the day (he guessed) to find the Elf he was seeking. Círdan was not in the centre of town, as might be expected, nor was he anywhere a revered leader ought to be. Círdan was sitting on a rock. He didn't appear to be doing anything other than sitting, unless one counted staring outward at nothing in particular. In fact, Fingon was hesitant to believe the Elf on the rock could be Círdan. But several of the vagrant-like citizens, all of whom looked too lazy to lie, assured him this was indeed Círdan. He approached cautiously.

"Excuse me," he said, "Círdan?"

The Elf on the rock turned to look at him.

"Are you Círdan?"

Círdan nodded. "Yes."

"Finally," Fingon muttered. He sat down on the rock at Círdan's side, slightly perturbed that his rock was smaller. "I have come to request something of you."

A small smile crossed Círdan's lips. "Oh?"

"I wish you to cease all personal relations with my cousin Finrod."

The smile faded. "Oh."

"Furthermore," Fingon said, "I wish you to act as if your liaison had never happened. It is a rather embarrassing point for the family."

Círdan seemed to consider this, weighing the options and hemming and hawing in his mind, but all he said was, "Erm... no."

"I'm not here to compromise with you," said Fingon. "I'm here to get you to agree with me. Finrod is spending entirely too much time away from Tol Sirion, where he belongs. And since this is your fault, enticing him here to be with you and engage in your inappropriate romance, I want you to set it right."

"You think Finrod keeps coming to Eglarest for my sake?" Círdan asked.

Looking around at the bright golden beaches and sparkling ocean, Fingon said, "I can't see any other reason for him to continuously visit this place." That was a blatant lie, but he hardly cared.

Círdan shook his head. "I think we have a misunderstanding. Finrod isn't coming here for me. He's here to build." From his pocket, he pulled a small scrap of paper, on which was a crude drawing of a tower along the coastline. Finrod never was much of an artist. "You see," he continued, "Finrod believes that an attack from the sea could come at any time. So he's building us a tower. Isn't that kind? I hear that's what Noldor do."

"Usually towers, sometimes gates," Fingon said.

"He built a gate on his first visit."

"Oh." Fingon scratched his neck awkwardly and shuffled in place. "I see. He came to build things for you underprivileged Teleri.. That's... very kind of him." He should have guessed, really. Finrod was always doing irritatingly charitable things like building towers for underprivileged Teleri.

"Yes! So really, you have the whole thing mixed up!" said Círdan. He laughed in a forcibly light-hearted sort of way. "Isn't that funny."

Fingon sighed, "I'm sorry," and he shook his head. "Clearly somebody along the way has relayed false information. You see, an acquaintance of my brother's recently overheard a discussion regarding a pair of short, sheer linen breeches found in Finrod's laundry hamper-"

"Oh, so he was wearing them!" Círdan said happily, clapping his hands together. "His own woollen breeches were hardly practical to wear on the beach, so I had those made for him. He was a little hesitant about the style at first, but I think he warmed up. They're the latest fashion around these parts."

"I'll be sure to mention that to my brother's thick-headed acquaintance," said Fingon, who could feel the urge to throttle Ecthelion rising steadily by the second. If he left now and rode quickly, he might just be able to beat Turgon back to Nevrast so as to throttle Ecthelion undisturbed.

"Does that solve your trouble?" Círdan asked.

"Yes," Fingon said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. Now if you'll excuse me, I must leave for Nevrast straight away."

"Very well. It was lovely to meet you, ... emmm..."

"Finrod's cousin," Fingon said. If he could weasel out of the ridiculous situation without giving his name, so much the better. He hastily shook Círdan's hand before turning and walking away as quickly as he could without looking like he was in too much of a hurry.

He was nearly at the tree-line when, saying something akin to, "Hang on..." he remembered one rather important fact. He turned back around, marched back to Círdan, and said, "But Finrod told Ecthelion explicitly that you were his lover!"

Círdan suddenly looked very interested in the sand. Which was clearly not the case, as the entire city of Eglarest was built on sand and surely he must've been sick of the stuff after so long. "IneversaidIwasn't," he eventually muttered.

"You were untruthful and tried to lead me to believe that you and Finrod were merely friends!" Fingon shouted. "And that he only visits on a mission of typical Finrodish goodwill!"

"I was telling the truth," Círdan said. "Finrod comes here to oversee the building of his tower. But you really can't expect him to have no fun at all while he's here."

"So you are lovers!" Suddenly, it was no longer Ecthelion whom Fingon felt deserved a throttling.

"Yes," Círdan said defensively, "but it was an accident. We had just spent the day chatting and wandering the beach, and even sharing a bottle of wine, so naturally when he said he wanted to erect a tower for me..." He coughed and blushed pinkish. "It was a good few hours before I realised he'd meant an actual stone tower-type tower."

At that, Fingon started shouting. Not particular words, but rather lots of frustrated-sounding loud noises. He grabbed Círdan about the collar, which was a difficult task given that Círdan's clothing was all loose and drapey and had no discernable collar area, and yelled, "You are by far the most despicable Elf I have encountered all day! Possibly in the last three days! You infuriate me! And to think I wanted to give you a sun dial!"

Círdan's eyebrows shot up. "Sun dial?" He clapped his hands over Fingon's, which were clasped around the waist of his shirt, which was lifted up to his throat. "Really?"

"I had considered it," Fingon said with a sneer. "But you've ruined your chances." He tried to turn his sneer into an all-out scowl, but the way Círdan was petting his hands was distracting. Also the way Círdan was looking at him. A fear suddenly crossed his mind that 'sun dial' might be a strange Telerin euphemism for a particularly complicated sexual act. He hastily let go of Círdan's shirt and stepped back.

Círdan still stared at him, looking rather impressed. "I wouldn't have guessed that. I mean, from you. Finrod's cousin. What is your name, anyhow?"

"Look," said Fingon, "I really need to know if, when I say 'sun dial', you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking, or if you're thinking something that really should never be thought of, even in the privacy of one's own home. Because I certainly don't want to incite another 'erecting the tower' catastrophe. I'm not that sort of Elf."

Shrugging vaguely, Círdan said, "I think that depends on what you're thinking, then."

"I am thinking of a sun dial!" Fingon shouted. "You know, large round stone object with a rod in the centre, used for telling time! What in Varda's name are you thinking!"

"Large object with rod in centre sounds about right."

Until that moment, Fingon had never wanted so badly to be back in the safety of his fortress in Dor-lómin. Dor-lómin, where Elves wore respectable clothes, where they had the decency never to talk about obscene matters, where erecting a tower really did mean building a tower, and where a sun dial was simply an innocent and highly useful device. True it was cold and miserable most of the time, and only had three different kinds of fruit, but at least it was predictable. He sat down on a rock, dropped his head into his hands, and tried to convince himself that if he shut his eyes hard enough, when he opened them again he'd be back in his own bedroom. He needed to get back home; he was starting to feel funny. The same sort of funny he felt that time he accidentally saw Celegorm naked. The worst part was he didn't know if it was a good sort of funny or bad.

"Are you alright?" he heard Círdan ask. There was a bit of shuffling and a nudge against his knee as Círdan sat on the next rock over. Círdan always took the bigger rock. "You look a bit distraught. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Go away."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

For the briefest instant, a vivid image of Círdan lounging seductively atop an enormous sun dial popped into Fingon's head. He quickly banished it with a noise of disgust. "No!"

"Really, I feel terrible. Anything you need or want..."

The Círdan atop the sun dial started to remove his shirt. "No! Nothing."

"I could give you a backrub."

Sun dial Círdan's distractingly sheer breeches looked poised to fall off at any moment. "Please go away and stop talking to me," Fingon whimpered.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Círdan rubbed his hand over Fingon's shoulders sympathetically. Fingon cringed. "But you did say 'sun dial', and... you really are very attractive..."

Fingon lifted his head enough to stare at Círdan. "...Really?" He had never been called attractive before. Everyone knew that Turgon was the pretty one. Fingon had to make do with being the smart one.

"Oh yes," said Círdan. "Your sandy wind-whipped and tangled hair, oily like duck feathers... the colour of mussel shells broken on the beach... your eyes like grey barnacles on rocks... your long pointy nose like the beak of the seagull that drops the mussel shells onto the barnacled rocks..."

"Those are hardly compliments," Fingon growled, and he dropped his head back into this hands.

"They are to me!" Círdan stroked Fingon's dirty duck-featherish hair. "You remind me of water birds."

Fingon made a disgusted growling noise and swiped Círdan's hand away. "I remind you of water birds. How romantic. You could at least try a few better similes, like if I were to describe your silver hair, shining like... um, silver. And bright eyes like well-polished granite, and skin flawless as fine marble."

Círdan looked thoroughly offended. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard!" he said. "What sort of person would want stone skin and metal hair?"

Fingon had to pause and consider this. "You're right," he eventually said. "We are both ludicrous."

"But the important thing is that we find each other attractive." With a bright smile, Círdan stood up and offered Fingon his hand. "I propose we go back to my place and get drunk."

"Well..." said Fingon. He knew very well what would eventually happen if he went to get drunk with Círdan. He knew that getting drunk was never just getting drunk. Something always happened. He knew that he really ought to leave and get a head start on his way back to Dor-lómin. He also knew that since he'd eaten next to nothing all day, he would be very susceptible to alcohol-induced silliness. In all, going to Círdan's to get drunk sounded like an excellent plan. "It's not far, is it?"

Círdan shook his head. "No, just down the shore a ways."

Standing, Fingon nodded. "Good," he said. "Lead the way."

Círdan smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way and motioned for Fingon to follow.

"By the way," Fingon asked, "whatever did you say to Finrod by way of compliments?"

"I told him he had hair the colour of sand at sunset, and eyes like the early-morning sea."

"Oh," said Fingon. He tried not to sound envious. Of course Finrod would never be described in terms of duck feathers and barnacles. "That sounds nice."

Generally Fingon preferred drinking wine, but all Círdan had was rum. However, he had lots of it. Much to his embarrassment, Fingon found himself drinking a fifth glass. To his greater embarrassment, he found himself telling Círdan every family secret he could remember, including the one about Orodreth and the dogs and the other one about Maglor's pillow. Círdan was doing absolutely nothing to discourage him. Halfway through the tale of Finwë's homemade sausage he briefly considered shutting up, but Círdan poured more rum and quashed that idea.

On his seventh glass, he started to feel a bit sick. "Círdan..." he said, "I... I don't feel so well..." He clutched at the armrests to keep from slipping out of his chair, which had suddenly become rather unstable.

Círdan clicked his tongue and petted Fingon's hair. "Poor Finrod's cousin. Too much rum! Imagine. We need to get you into bed."

"Uh-hummnn," said Fingon. He managed to stand, but only with Círdan's help. He seemed unable to avoid leaning heavily to the left.

"Just come with me, Finrod's cousin," Círdan said as he helped Fingon stagger toward the bedroom. "I'll take good care of you."

Fingon nodded pathetically, trusting Círdan to do whatever was necessary, without any shenanigans. He flopped down onto the bed, face first, which he immediately regretted. All the rum in his stomach threatened to come out upon impact. "Círdan..." he moaned. "I think I'm going to-"

Some niggling tidbit of etiquette in the back of his mind told him he should be mortified at sicking up on Círdan's floor, but he was too tired and dizzy and nauseated to care. And Círdan didn't seem to mind very much. He simply covered it with sand. There was an abnormal amount of sand in Círdan's house.

Círdan helped Fingon out of his numerous bulky Noldorin clothes, and even gave him another sip of rum to get the taste of sick out of his mouth. Then he lay down on the bed and rubbed Fingon's back in a soothing circular pattern that also claimed to induce lustfulness. From Círdan's point of view, the evening was going very well. In a short time frame he had managed to get Fingon home, get him drunk, show him to the bed, and undress him. In fact, from Círdan's point of view, the evening would have been a whopping success, if not for one small factor. Fingon had passed out cold.

Fingon awoke the next morning in the state of alarm common to those who had consumed too much alcohol the night before and had very little recollection of what they did. As best he could tell, he was extremely hung over. Worse yet, he was naked. And possibly worst of all, he was in a strange bed with a strange Elf. As he tried desperately to decide whether it would be better to run screaming or stay where he was and hope for the best, the strange Elf rolled over with a lazy smile.

"Morning, Finrod's cousin," Círdan said.

Fingon made no answer. He was too busy staring frozenly down at his ill-concealed body, a look of terror on his face.

"You look a bit tense," said Círdan. He cupped Fingon's cheek, turned his head, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. "That ought to help."

Fingon gaped in shock. Círdan was smiling at him encouragingly, as if trying to coax a witty response. He tried to think of something intelligent to say. "You taste of rum." A complete failure.

"You taste of... well, it's not important," said Círdan. "Incidentally, mind you don't step in that pile of sand when you get out of bed."

A few decidedly unpleasant memories from the previous night began trickling back. Fingon looked at the sand on the floor. "Oh no..." He was halfway tempted to cry. Not just for the sand pile, but also because of the terrible pain in his head. Or so he told himself.

Círdan put an arm around his shoulders. "There there," he said. "No need to look so down, Finrod's cousin. It wasn't so bad, for your first time."

"First time?" Fingon said. "What do you mean, first time? Only time, more like it! I'm leaving for Dor-lómin as soon as possible. You expect me to come back?"

"They always do," said Círdan. He leaned against the headboard and stared dreamily up at the ceiling.

Fingon huffed. "Wishful thinking, I assure you. I am never leaving my fortress again. Well, maybe never leaving Dor-lómin again. At the very least, never leaving Hithlum! At least not for forty-eight years. Maybe twenty-four. And only then if the weather is right, and the politics, and you know how volatile those can be. I likely won't be able to get away for at least six years. Possibly three if I start planning soon. Though I also need to be assured that Finrod won't be here. Would it be too soon if I came next summer? I still want to give you that sun dial."

Círdan grinned.

"A proper stone time-telling sun dial," Fingon said. "Honestly, you must understand. When any Noldorin fellow says he wants to give you something as a token of intercultural goodwill, it is invariably going to be very large and made out of stone or metal."

"I'll try to remember that," said Círdan.

"Thank you. Now where are my clothes?"

Círdan pointed across the room, then dutifully covered his eyes as Fingon climbed out of bed and got dressed. He only peeked partially.

After dressing, Fingon gathered his things. He was especially careful not to pick up any of Círdan's clothing as he stuffed various items into his pack, to avoid any possible suspicion should Ecthelion come to visit. Truly the last thing he needed was for Turgon to attempt to break things off with Círdan on his behalf. In fact, having Turgon involved in anything was more or less a bad idea.

Travelling pack in hand he turned to look at Círdan, feeling the slightest twinge of regret. "Well..." he said, "I guess I'm off. Will you come to see me to the city gate?"

"Do I have to get dressed?"

"Yes."

Círdan shook his head. "Then no, I'll stay here."

"Alright." He waved sadly. Círdan waved back. "I'll be back sometime," he said.

"I know," said Círdan. He still had that dreamy look.

After that, Fingon didn't dare look back again. He left quickly, stopping only to purchase adequate provisions for the journey on his way to the city gate. Then he found his horse in the exact same place he left it, tied to a post near a water trough. It was chewing on a decorative shrub and looking somewhat cross. He blamed the entire uncooperative ride back to Dor-lómin on whichever slow-witted stable boy had ignored his request that the horse be properly lodged for the night.

He tried not to think of Círdan every day once he was back home. Every second day was more than enough, he insisted. The more he told himself this, the more realistic the goal became, until, some weeks later, he was down to thinking about Círdan only every third day. He was quite pleased with this accomplishment. And he was quite pleased with himself, too, until a letter from Turgon arrived.

Immediately upon opening it he could tell that something was wrong. Instead of Turgon's usual massive volume of words, the letter contained only one sparse page. He read it with dread.

Dear Brother-

I have recently returned to Eglarest on personal business. You needn't join me this time. In fact, I think you'd better stay up north to guard our lands in case an impromptu battle breaks out. But I had such a fine time on my last visit here that I felt compelled to return. I will likely spend the summer. Don't tell father; he'd only worry.

Cordially yours,
Turgon

PS) I have decided to give Círdan a sun dial as a token of good will.