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"Three hundred and fifty years. <i>Three hundred and fifty</i>-"

"-six, technically," Fingon's younger brother corrects him, "if we're going by the count of Sun-years." Beneath his shining, still unbattered armor (the delight at seeing his brother again does not quite dull Fingon's frustration a the sight) Turgon looks a little sheepish.

"I'm sorry, Findekano; I never thought you would be alone. But Ulmo called me to follow him to a hidden place, and I couldn't disobey. Not with my people on the line. I though- I thought I could save more people this way."

It is still frustrating, just as Turgon's unused armor and new-forged sword are, just as the presumption that the people of Wherever-He-Ended-Up might be less easily sacrificed than his brave people of Hithlum, but it has been so many years since he's seen his brother that Fingon might forgive him anything at the moment.

"You're here now, it doesn't matter-"

"Yes. Yes it does," Turgon has looked serious since the day he slipped from the womb, but now his face is grimmer than usual. "And... there's someone I'd like you to meet, actually." He turns, calling outside the tent. "Lomion!"

One of his followers slips in, a bemused frown on his face. This one's young, not part of the half- remembered gaggle that had once followed his brother-

"Findekano," Turgon coughs, "I would like you to meet Lomion Irission. Our nephew."