The touch had his eyes narrow a little, thoughtful. He hadn't thought his son had been injured. Had it happened here? No. He was sure he'd have heard fighting. But Fingon moved well, confident and comfortable as he should. Forever curious - that was his eldest son all over.

Fingolfin set that aside when Fingon finally turned to meet his gaze, watching the change of expression. Only reflex honed by fatherhood had his arms wrap firmly around Fingon, gathering him close for a tight embrace.

A hand smoothed over his son's hair but he pulled back after a moment, though kept an arm around the smaller elf's waist. "You should not be wounded." A feather-light touch to Fingon's head-wound, pale eyes fixed on his son's.