After Finarfin and his family left, Fingolfin’s household began to settle down for the night. Argon, who had fallen asleep on the floor next to the dog, was carried off to bed by his mother, while Turgon disappeared into the washroom to take his bath. Aredhel and Fingon washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, and Fingolfin took the opportunity to sit down in the parlor with a book.

Sometime later, his daughter and eldest son joined him, each selecting something from the expansive collection of tomes that lined one wall. Aredhel was laughing lightly, and Fingon was finishing a discussion they had most likely held with her in the kitchen. “Anyhow, say what you will about our red-headed cousins, but I think Uncle Finarfin’s children are much more of a nuisance.”

“I would agree, but I think Caranthir makes up for it on the other side.”

“Good point,” acknowledged Fingon. “But Caranthir... Caranthir just has anger management issues. Now Finrod? He and Orodreth are just downright annoying... and do not even get me started on Galadriel.”

Fingolfin looked up from his book. “Are you saying that your cousins are annoying, while you are not?”

“Uhm... I suppose so,” admitted Fingon.

“So, neither of you think you are annoying?” Fingolfin was on the verge of laughter, with his children staring at him in disbelief. “Because, I can attest to the fact that both of you are an annoyance at times.”

“What? Us?” Aredhel scrunched up her little nose. “Maybe Fingon is, but I am most certainly not.”

As Fingon protested this, Fingolfin laughed heartily. Fingon closed the book he had yet to start reading and used it to hit his sister gently on the shoulder. “You are much more annoying than I am.”

“Me?! What about you? Ada, honestly, Fingon is far more annoying than I am!” whined Aredhel. “Tell him, Ada.”

“Yes, Ada, I would love to hear how it is that I am more annoying than my sister… what reason would you give?” asked Fingon, fairly certain that Aredhel was going to surpass him as more annoying.

“The reason? You make it sound as if there is only one annoying thing each of you does.”

Aredhel was looking less confident. “You have a list?”

“Oh, let me count the ways...” Fingolfin turned the page of his book, and it took persistence from his children for him to continue. “If you really want to know, I will tell you, but I will not have you angry at me. Your mother and I came to an agreement not to bring up irritating things that were not harmful, but you are asking my opinion, and I shall give it.”

“Yes, Ada, tell us,” begged Aredhel. Fingon nodded in agreement.

“Alright.” Fingolfin marked his page and set the book down in his lap. “Ladies first. I have a very beautiful daughter, who insists upon returning home caked in mud and hauling dead deer with her. Instead of using her charms to attract a proper husband, she spends her time riding off with her cousins for weeks on end, without giving her parents any indication of where she is going, or when she will return. The fact that you try to deny the entire thing is irksome as well.”

“But I love riding,” interrupted Aredhel.

“There are riding clubs for young ladies,” said Fingolfin.

Aredhel pouted. “Stupid little riding clubs with stupid, stuffy ladies who do not really even ride their horses. They sit sideways in fancy dresses and do not even mount their horses themselves! They always have someone else lift them up or the horse kneels and they sit down and worry they might fall as the horse stands. I am NOT going to one of those. It would be a boring waste of time.”

“You wanted my opinion; do not fault a father for wanting to see his daughter safe and taken care of.”

“So you are trying to get rid of me, too.”

Fingolfin patted the arm of his chair, and Aredhel walked over and perched upon it. “I am happy to have you stay here as long as you wish. The same holds true for your brothers. I would even happily house your husband and children here, too, when time comes for that. I am a father; I worry. It is what I do best.”

“And what does our father worry about when it comes to me?” wondered Fingon.

“I was not done with your sister yet, but if you are so impatient to move on, let me see...” Fingolfin ignored the indignant look Aredhel was giving him, and said, “Is there some reason you are so restless?”

Fingon, whose right leg was bouncing up and down with nervous energy, shrugged. “What are you talking about?”

“That,” pointed Fingolfin. “Do you know how hard it is to eat dinner when the table is constantly shaking?”

Fingon scowled and crossed his legs at the ankle to keep the one from fidgeting. This set in motion a slightly less annoying drumming of his fingers on the arm of the couch. “Anything else?”

“I think we would all be happier if you would learn to chew with your mouth closed,” stated Fingolfin.

“I second that motion.” Turgon, drying off his hair and wrapped in an oversized bathrobe that had been passed down from Fingon, strolled into the room. “What is all this? Open season on Fingon, listing his personal flaws? For I am more than willing to aid in that endeavor.”

“Not just me, little brother. Out father is kindly pointing out all of our annoying traits. You have arrived in time to discover yours,” said Fingon.

Turgon glanced warily at his father. “I can hardly wait.”

“It was really your brother and sister who insisted upon hearing these things,” explained Fingolfin.

“Oh?”

“They believed they were less annoying than their cousins.”

“We are,” announced Aredhel with conviction.

Turgon snickered as Blong, the youngest of the hunting dogs, trotted over to him. “I agree. We are.” He draped his towel around his shoulders and leaned down to scratch behind Blong’s long ears.

“In that case... explain to us why you are as yet unmarried to the poor girl you have been courting for over a decade.”

“It has not been an entire decade. A few years, at most,” guessed Turgon. “We do not want to rush things. It will happen, in time.”

“Why wait?” prodded Fingolfin.

“Someone is in a rush to have grandchildren,” muttered Fingon. He was back to tapping his foot again as Turgon sat down beside him.

Aredhel nodded as she crossed her arms. “He was trying to marry me off earlier,” said she to Turgon. “Although... you should really be pestering Fingon, as he is the eldest.”

“He has to stop doing that thing with his leg before I am going to try to find a wife for him,” replied Fingolfin. Immediately, Fingon stayed his leg, and began the finger tapping. “Besides, Turgon is practically married to that girl... what is her name again?”

“Her name is Elenwe. Can we say what is annoying about you, such as, the fact you can never remember anyone’s name?” asked Turgon.

“No, whichever one you are, only I am allowed to point out shortcomings this evening. As long as we are on the topic, does your future wife know of your penchant for hiding things?” Fingolfin smiled broadly as Turgon stared up at the ceiling with a smirk. “Do you know,” he said to Aredhel, “when he was a baby, I used to turn the mattress in his crib over, and do you know what I would find? He would be hoarding things... half-eaten biscuits and dried up pieces of bread. Once I came in and saw him eating half a sausage, and only took it away after your mother told me she had given him the sausage three days prior. It was a wonder we did not have an infestation in the house due to your brother.”

“By brother, he means that one, not me,” said Fingon, tapping on Turgon’s shoulder.

“Stop poking me,” grumbled Turgon, shifting over.

Fingolfin chuckled. “At least he was quiet. You... no amount of brandy in your bottle kept you asleep. You were standing at three months, holding onto the railing of the crib. Every time your mother or I put you down, we would crawl into bed, and just as we were about to fall asleep… ‘Creak! Creak! Creak!’ We would light a candle and go see what was the matter. You would be standing up, holding the rail, jumping up and down with the biggest grin on your toothless little face.”

Aredhel giggled as she imagined it, while Fingon scrutinized his father. “You were giving me brandy as a baby?”

“You never complained about it then,” said Fingolfin in his defense.

“What about Argon?” asked Turgon. “What annoying things has he done thus far?”

“Argon’s not old enough to be annoying yet,” replied Fingolfin as his three eldest children disputed this with looks of bewilderment and side comments.

“Did you see what he did to the cat? She did not paint herself blue on her own!”

“Argon is no innocent, Ada.”

“When I was his age, I most certainly did not throw the tantrums he does!”

Fingolfin waved his hand for them to stop. “No matter what, I love you all. Besides, I do believe it is far too late to throw any of you back, so we will all just have to make the best of the situation.”

From the doorway, Anaire, who had been listening to most of the conversation, now stepped into the room. “Your father also neglects to mention how many of your bad habits are hereditary.”

“Oh?” Aredhel looked delighted at this news. “Which ones came from Ada?”

“Bedtime!” announced Fingolfin abruptly, standing up to shoo his adult children out of the room.

“Ada, none of us have had a bedtime in years,” argued Fingon. “And I do not think Nana was done yet.”

“Oh, I think she was quite done for now. Off to bed, sweet dreams and pleasant rest,” he called to them as they filed down the hallway, unwilling to protest.

Aredhel stuck her head back around the corner after she reached the end of the hallway. “I still think we are less annoying than our cousins are!” she called out before heading to her room.

Fingolfin sat back down next to his wife on the couch. “That was quite close,” he said. His foot was moving up and down the same way Fingon’s sometimes did, but instead of his leg bouncing, it was causing him to rock forward and back slightly instead.

Anaire smiled and asked, “Have you seen my knitting needles?”

“What needles?”

“The ones I use almost every night,” she replied calmly.

“Those... yes... why do you want those?”

“So I can knit.”

“Mm.” Fingolfin continued to rock. “I know what we could do instead.”

“I want my needles, Finweion, so wherever you hid them, tell me now.”

Fingolfin sighed, reached between the cushions of the couch, and pulled out the knitting needles, one at a time.

“And my yarn?”

This time, Fingolfin reached underneath the couch, retrieving a ball of yarn that he handed to his wife. He sighed again, and went back to rocking, but only until Anaire put her hand on his knee. “Stop that, dear.”

“Sorry.” He began to drum his fingers on the arm of the sofa instead.

Anaire giggled as she pulled the end of the yarn from the ball and let it roll off her lap. “At least we can be positive that you are most certainly their father.”