This - all of it - was wrong. Oh, there was pain. A great deal of it. But Fingolfin knew he was alive. He'd felt Morgoth's pain just as surely as his own, and known he would soon die.

Then a chill, and then here. Wherever here was. Escorted to rooms by strangely formed beings - Men, the High King presumed - and helped to wash and redress in fresh clothing. His armor was beyond any hope of repair, but it had served him well. Strange clothing to go with the rest of the new.

Then he set out to search, pulling at the short hem of the dark blue shirt he'd been offered before taking on an air of calm tranquility that did not reach the fire within his soul.

The world felt muted and cold, but he refused to give in until he knew anything - anything at all about it. More than what little he'd been told. So he listened as he walked, occasionally, cautiously, accepting offerings here and there, much as he had in court.

Then he saw him. From behind, it didn't matter. He knew his son when he saw him. Nothing mattered then but to silently step up to stand just barely out of Fingon's sight. And wait, fighting mirth.

How long before Fingon turned and saw him?