A/N: Another chapter! Trust me, i'm as surprised as you are.

Fingon isn't really sure how to share the news with Caranthir, so it's something of a relief when Firien all but flies ahead of him and throws herself against the bars.

Caranthir is on his feet and in front of her in an instant, his hands reaching as far as they can through the bars to wrap around hers, his lips pressed against every inch of her face that they can reach.

It's the happiest he's seen his cousin in . . . possibly ever, come to think of it, so it takes a long moment for him to tear his eyes politely away and look at Gil-Galad instead.

Gil-Galad is still half-hidden in the shadows and looks very much like he would prefer to melt away into them entirely. "Maybe I should - "

Oh, no. They had come too far for him to back out of this now.

"He'll be thrilled," Fingon assures him. "Trust me." He grabs Gil-Galad by the wrist and drags him forward before the other elf can protest.

Firien is now somewhat breathless, but she pulls away from Caranthir just enough to beam up at him and say, "I found our son."

Caranthir's eyes widen and he takes in the full scene for the first time, gaze locking on Gil-Galad.

Firien spills out the whole story, one hand reaching out for Gil-Galad even as the other remains locked around Caranthir's.

Gil-Galad steps forward with a far more nervous clench to his shoulders than Fingon had seen upon his meeting with Firien, but that's probably understandable. No one gossips about Firien in horrified whispers.

"I have a son," Caranthir says, and he sounds stunned and wonderstruck and very much like he badly needs to sit down. "All that time, and I didn't know."

The strong implication that had he known things would have been very different seems to strike some part of the desperate need that's been so obvious in Gil-Galad's eyes, and he steps forward again, shoulders loosening a bit, now close enough to touch.

"I want to know everything," Caranthir says. "Everything I missed."

Fingon decides this is probably a private moment, and he slips away into the shadows Gil-Galad had been hiding in before ducking round the corner into another hall.

He decides to go see Maedhros, on the grounds that he'll need to start spreading the news somewhere and also on the grounds that it's been too long since he's seen Maedhros.

Maedhros is doing push-ups when he arrives, which is somewhat pointless, seeing as they're dead and can neither gain nor lose muscle mass, but also a good sign, since it means he's alert enough to be bored.

"Congratulations, you're an uncle," Fingon announces, plopping down on the floor just on the other side of the bars from Maedhros. "I think. I'm pretty sure, at least."

Maedhros sits up. "I'm very sure," he says wryly. "Unless Celebrimbor has found some way to fight with his father even here and has disavowed us again, I suppose."

"You know what I meant," he grumbles. "I think we've resolved the Gil-Galad situation. We think he's Caranthir's."

Maedhros raises an eyebrow. "You think?"

"That's right, I never told you about that whole mess," Fingon realizes. "See, Aranel, Firien, and Aredhel all tried to claim him, but I know Aranel's lying, and Firien's story fits the best, and Gil-Galad just seems to - fit with them somehow, so Firien and Caranthir. Probably. Only don't say that where anyone else can hear because I'm pretty sure Caranthir would punch me." Another thought occurred to him, and he added, "Also, please don't tell Maglor that I called his wife a liar because he would probably do worse than punch me."

That last bit might have been a misstep because Maedhros's face fell a bit at the mention of Maglor, who no one had seen since the First Age, and who Maedhros probably wouldn't get to see even if Maglor did end up here.

"Have you told Father yet?" Maedhros asks instead of pursuing that point, and Fingon is grateful for a split second before the full impact of that question hits.

"You realize that ambiguity about Gil-Galad's heritage is the only thing preventing your father from experimenting with time travel."

Maedhros says nothing. Possibly he considers time travel worth the risks. Seeing where they are now, Fingon has a hard time blaming him, but - Still.

Time travel. Uncle Feanor.

He has a right to be concerned.

Fingon groans in the face of Maedhros's continuing silence. "I'll tell him," he concedes before he hits upon a brilliant delaying tactic. "But I'm waiting until I can take Gil-Galad with him. I'm sure he'll want to meet his new grandson."

Gil-Galad and his almost-certainly-parents have a lot of catching up to do.

And when it comes to not destroying the fabric of reality, every second counts.

Unfortunately, all good things must end, including stalling tactics.

Fingon is eventually forced to make good on his promise and introduce Gil-Galad to his grandfather.

"Uncle Feanor, meet Feanor," he announces, because that opportunity is too good to resist. "Though he goes by Gil-Galad these days, mostly."

Uncle Feanor is thrilled to meet his new grandson, thrilled to hear that the new grandson is named after him, and even more thrilled to hear all about what happened to this new grandson, particularly regarding the circumstances of his birth.

Gil-Galad looks a little overwhelmed.

Fingon looks at what appears suspiciously like an almost completed time travel project and decides that Gil-Galad isn't the only one.

"Though all who were wronged by him should weep for him, still little pity would he find," Namo intones, his voice reverberating through the halls into Fingon's very bones.

Well. If he still has bones. Does he have bones right now, technically?

That's really not the point, he reminds himself and gets back to it.

"I understand that," he says. "I do. I'm not asking for pity for him. I'm asking pity for the rest of us, and by rest of us, I mean the rest of Arda."

Namo frowns. "What mean you by this?"

"I mean," Fingon says through gritted teeth, "Uncle Feanor is about two hours away from using time and/or space travel and personally, I find this slightly disturbing."

Namo doesn't doubt that this is possible which Fingon also finds slightly concerning; he's been holding out faint hope that it can't actually be done.

Apparently it can.

"Then we will remove his means to do so," Namo says firmly, like that's the end of it.

"And when he makes another one?" Fingon demands.

"He will be unable to do so in an empty cell," Namo says.

Fingon takes one short moment to imagine that - Uncle Feanor alone in a plain stone cell with nothing to do or see or plan except for an occasional visit from Fingon, and he wonders exactly how long it would take Uncle Feanor to go utterly, hopelessly mad.

"If you do that, he won't have to invent time travel," he says, and he almost can't believe he's saying this, but, "because I'll have taken his design and done it for him."

Namo's frown deepens. It almost looks like he's considering it, though.

A sudden ripple goes through the world. A moment later, a Maia bursts into Namo's audience hall.

"My lord!" she says. "Feanor has escaped!"

"Of course he has," Fingon says, and he lets his head fall into his hands with a gentle thunk.

(It is, he learns a little later, at least travel in space and not through time, which is, he supposes, something.)