Finwë drew his hood back up over his face and got up. It was high time that he left. Enough strange things had happened to him today, and frankly, he did not want to meet any more long lost relatives or well-wishers, no matter how eloquent or beautiful they were. He made his way between the tables, nodding to some other patrons who lifted their mugs in a salute.
As he walked out the door, he caught the innkeeper's eye for a moment, smiled, and quickly bowed. Anor's dying rays lit up the surroundings with a rose-gold tint. Finwë strode to the stables and went to find his horse. The stable boy had indeed been trustworthy. His horse had been fed, watered, groomed, and rested. Finwë gently wound his fingers in the horse's mane, and led him outside. Once they had cleared the entrance to the stable, and after checking that all his belongings were with him, Finwë swung up on the horse and galloped south on the road. Yes, he would go to Minas Tirith after all. It had been a very long time since he had last seen the White Tower.
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But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.
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