Fingon was not given to doing impulsive things. His sudden bursts of love or temper might seem like the waves of Osse, wild upon the sea, but were rather signs of deep, abiding currents. His emotions were slow to form, yet strong.

Fingon was not given to doing impuslive things. And yet -

He had just stalked off in the midst of a formal greeting, the first he had had with his grandfather in many years. What kind of impresion would that make on Aredhel? How often would he be reminded of it when she wanted to act out to get her own way? More importantly, what kind of elf would Finwe think his second son had raised? What would Feanor say about him, how would he compare Fingon to his more reasonable and steadfast sons? How had he managed to turn things sour so quickly?

Fingon laughed bitterly. He wasn't given to doing impulsive things? Who was he trying to decieve?

In another abrupt burst of passion, this time colored by shame, he thrust his hand into the bushes beside him and crunched the leaves beneath his fingers. He jerked his hand out and threw the twigs and petals to the ground.

He wished he had something firmer to grip, some gem that would not be broken. His father had often given him such stones when his temper was amiss, and he had used up his energy and anger clutching them. Now he reached back in to grab another handful of leaves, pitiful though they were as a balm to his emotions.

"I'm not quite sure what caused that incident," said a voice quietly from behind him, "but I'm pretty sure it wasn't these poor flowers."

Fingon paused a moment, his body still coiled in guilty anger, then relaxed. "No, 'twas my own stubborness. I am a fool elf, it's widely known. Fingolfin's eldest is prone to mistakes not worthy of a king's grandson. Ah, that I could take back so many of the things I've done."

"Do not say such things of yourself," Maedhros said. Hesitating, he placed a hand on Fingon's shoulder.

Fingon, vexed as he was, seemed not to even notice the touch. "I had meant to confront him on it another time. When we had gotten to know eachother again. To ask him to come back to the city, if only for a little while. What must he think of me now?"

"Nothing shameful," Maedhros assured him. "No one could."

"Ah, but don't you see?" Fingon insisted, coming back to himself. He glanced at Maedhros' hand where it warmed him, then looked up to meet his eyes. "This is why my father sent me with you - one of the reasons, at least."

"One of the reasons?" Maedhros echoed, before he could stop himself.

"Yes. To watch out for my sister, as well. And - and." Fingon bit of what he had been about to say. His gaze at once hardened and became pleading. How can I trust you, if you won't trust me?

At least now they both knew that the secrets were out there. They were even, then, on that score. Maedhros paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Perhaps you might take up your other duty, before it escapes from you as well?"

"What mean you?"

"Your sister has gone with the others into the house."

Fingon held back a look of dismay. Honesty was one thing. Letting Maedhros know exactly how little he liked and trusted his father was another. He turned at once to the exit, hiding his face.

Maedhros saw his reaction, anyway. He added it to the ever-growing list of reasons why he must not act upon his desires. Fingon's friendship might be hard enough to hold onto, let alone his love.

He followed him out of the garden.

*

Aredhel entered the greatest House of the Noldor on Finwe's arm, feeling for once the grace of her sex and station, yet even as she basked in the glow of the love of her family and the reflected light of a thousand perfect gems set into the walls, she peered eagerly ahead. Greater than this masterful home must be its head and creator.

She percieved from the way Finwe followed her gaze from creation to creation, his eyes full of fatherly pride, that even he was a guest here. She longed to meet the host.

And yet she feared it. She wished she had Galadriel by her side - Galadriel, who had once met the Spirit of Fire before, who had even denied him a lock of her hair. Galadriel would know what to say, what to do.

The further they walked, though, it seemed that Aredhel would not have to do or say anything. Feanor waited not around any corner, nor in any of the recieving rooms they passed, and Aredhel at last realized that it was not that Feanor had wanted to give his father and king the honors of recieving them. It was that he was truly too busy at his forge to bother to meet his niece, or greet his newphew, or even with a warm embrace to welcome home his sons.

She repressed a sigh of disappointment, and reasoned to herself that at least now she had time to collect herself and would not be gawking like an elfling at her uncle's treasures under his eye.

Soon Finwe engaged her in easy conversation, and she began to tell him of her accomplishments, of the birds and horses and elves at home, of her interests in riding and hunting and gem-making. Finwe offered to take her out to the stables later, and to help her at the forges. Aredhel gladly accepted.

As they talked, the others waited, with varying degrees of tranquility. Amrod and Amras were by far the most carefree, though among the least patient. Each wanted to take Feanor aside and describe in full detail the wonders of their trip south. Finwe would have made a tolerable substitute, but he was otherwise engaged.

"I get to tell him about the Mansions of Aule," Amrod was insisting.

"If you wish," Amras replied coyly, "but then I get to tell him about Aule himself."

Amrod opened his mouth, tried to find something to contradict, failed, and shut it again.

Meanwhile Caranthir sat near a window, outwardly complacent. His thoughts, however, raced. How best to tell his father of his love? Nay, it were better not to at all, not yet. If he remained quiet, his news would not be missed in the excitement. This decision saddened Caranthir, though once made he held firmly to it. He found his father made a better confidante than any of his brothers, but not even Feanor would take this news well.

Celegorm and Curufin were both watching Aredhel intently, for different reasons. Celegorm was admiring the way she looked, animated in conversation. Her lips pursed and relaxed, her eyes widened in sudden laughter, the shadow of the treelight that fell fading into the room landed on her pale cheeks and made her even more alluring.

Curufin could admit she was beautiful, but freed from the pretences of a lover he also realized that neither was she in love. Feanor would know that neither he nor any of his brothers had captured her heart - and he would not be pleased.

Maglor perched on the age of a chair, humming a tune absentmindedly. He looked forward to Feanor's arrival with neither haste nor worry. When the time was right, he would take out his harp or his lyre and sing for his father a song he had learned on the trip. Then Feanor would smile and kiss his forehead and tell him it had been a journey worth taking. Perhaps his father might also inquire whether Maglor had seen any pretty maidens. But then Maglor would say no, and that would be the end of it. Maglor's fingers traced a tune along the thin wood bars of his chair. His trust in his father was complete.

Footsteps sounded near the doorway, and they all looked up, but it was merely Fingon and Maedhros returning to the group. Maedhros found himself a spot by Maglor, but Fingon walked over to his grandfather, bowed his head, and began to apologize.

"It is not necessary, my dear grandson," Finwe said. "I would have none of this awkwardness between us."

Fingon looked as though he wished to continue, but obeying the elder elf's request, he fell silent. He sat himself on Aredhel's other side.

They waited for Feanor.

*

The task that had been set for Glorfindel was not one that the goldern-haired elf was eager to perform. Thus, he was glad to spot a familiar face as he made his way to the storehouses of Fingolfin and Finarfin. He readily hailed Amarie of the Vanyar.

Finrod was so often at Turgon's house that Glorfindel knew him as well as he knew Turgon's sister and brother. He thought that Finrod and Amarie seemed well suited to eachother. They both had great worth, hidden by modesty, that needed encouragement to show through. If Turgon's affection brought a sparkle to Finrod's eye, then no doubt Amarie's love would fully light his face.

And how would Finrod's tender regard for Amarie affect the maiden? Glorfindel was curious to find out. Increasing his pace, he came up beside her.

"'Tis not so often that that you see two golden-haired elves at once on the streets of Tirion."

"True," agreed Amarie, greeting him pleasantly, "yet I have better reason for it than you. I am a visiting Vanya, no more. Yet you are a Noldo. From whence comes your lustrious hair?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "In truth, I do not know. When I was born the races were not as far seperate as they are now, and Vanya and Noldo often wed with eachother, and sometimes even Elda and Avari."

"You come from so far back as that?" Amarie asked, her eyes wide and her voice startled and high.

Glorfindel was not surprised that she did not know - the Vanyar prefered not to teach history and politics, but rather the ways of nature and nature's music. Yet her reaction took him by surprise - it was altogether too childish than he had thought her capable of. Had romance taken away the image of years that the stress of Galadriel's sickness had put upon her? Glorfindel was curious.

"How old are you, Amarie, if I might ask?" Glorfindel said. His deference to her higher station put Amarie more at ease than a moment ago she had been.

"I number in my years just thirty, not nearly so great a gathering as yours," Amarie smiled, a merry blush of a thing, having forgotten her shyness. "I don't suppose you might be prevailed upon to wait a while, 'til I catch up?"

Glorfindel smiled back. As they continued on, he thought to himself that he must ask Ecthelion what he thought of young Amarie. It was true that the Lord of the Fountain's judgement in women was at times suspect: he had picked Neredhel of the Teleri for Turgon - a flightly, silver-haired girl - when Elenwe was by far the obvious choice. Still, Glorfindel enjoyed discussing such things with him. They were by far more pleasant than the other topics they had recently talked upon.

Glorfindel was heading towards the storehouses and was glad when Amarie found her destination before then. As she turned to bid him a sweet goodbye, Glorfindel reflected that it was well she knew nothing of it. Even the most highly born must not always bear burdens upon their shoulders.

As he reached the storehouses Glorfindel saw a shock of gold hair not unlike his own. Pushing back his surprise and panic, he rushed to where Galadriel stood gazing at the door and asked, "My lady?

Galadriel turned to him. "What do you come here for, Lord Glorfindel?"

"I might ask you the same thing myself," Glorfindel replied. It was an unusual thing to say, but Galadriel did not notice - she had turned back to the storehouse door and was staring at its handle, absorbed. "My lady? This place is far from our dwellings. What draws you here?"

"I sense a thing of import. Indeed, many things, kept hidden behind these walls."

"But you know not what?" Glorfindel did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved.

"No." Galadriel's eyes were suddenly piercing. "Do you?"

"Some supplies of your father's, or your uncle's, I would believe." Glorfindel tried not to sound too evasive.

"'Tis not in your nature to lie, Glorfindel," she replied evenly. "But do not worry. I won't press you on it. I shall find out the truth myself."

And with that she spun and left.

*

It was at the waning of the trees that Galadriel returned, when she was assured that Glorfindel had gone and that none would question her on her way. She strode across the streets of Tirion with unwavering purpose, drawn to the storehouses. She breathed heavily, but not from hurring - rather from the emotions that swirled within her. She reached the stairs before the storehouses and began to climb.

Many miles away, Feanor too made his way up steps of polished stone. His hands were still warm from the fires of his forges, and he pressed them against the walls of the stairwell. He closed his eyes for a moment.

He was so tired. It seemed as though even the walls could not hold him up.

As she ascended the stairs, Galadriel took the time to wonder how she had come to this point. After releasing her mind from the sorrow that had plagued her, she found herself irresistably drawn, to people, to places, to things. It called to her now, almost as strong as the call of the Silmarils to the North. But these were here. This urge she could satisfy.

Upon reaching the end of the staircase, Feanor turned toward his rooms. He needed to immerse himself in water, and then in the sheets of his bed. He heaved a long sigh.

Then, echoing down the hallway came the voices of his youngest sons. Feanor stood still for a moment, savoring the sound and recovering from the surprise. Then he ran towards the origin of their music-like laughter , slowing only as he neared the door, trying to keep his pride as he reflected that fatigue was nothing compared to loneliness.

Galadriel pulled out the key she had stolen from her father, and slid it into the door. She hesitated, then with resolve turned the key and swung the door open.

Before her were stacks and stacks of glistening metal swords.

When he reached the room at last, seven elves leaped up, overjoyed. He held out his arms, and they embraced him, each forgetting their worries. He kissed their cheeks fondly.

"My sons," he said. "Welcome home."

*