Disclaimer: Usual drill. I don't own anything, but wish I did.
WARNING: Some of the characters may be out of character. If they are, I apologise.
It was the tallest tree in the Tirion grounds.
Fingon looked up at it, wondering at its height. It seemed to stretch higher than the palace itself. The dark green of the leaves were almost black against the perfect summer blue of the sky.
The branches looked as though they were holding the sky itself.
If he were to climb up it, how far would he see? Would he be able to see the entire city?
An excited grin on his face, the elfling took off his shoes and left them at the foot of the trunk. He leaped up and grasped the trunk tightly with his small hands. His feet found a knothole and he scrabbled upwards; fortunately, there were more nooks within the bark than he had expected.
Fingon had climbed trees before, but never one so tall as this one.
Soon, he passed the first level of branches. He had scraped his bare feet once or twice when he had misjudged a foothold, and his fingers were beginning to ache slightly, but he kept clambering until the branches became thin, but were just big enough for him to sit on.
He looked around him, his eyes shining with amazement.
The city of Tirion lay below him, sparkling in the light of the golden tree. The fields surrounded it like a green ocean. And, just in the distance, Fingon could see the sea shimmer.
The breeze whipped his braids away from his face, causing him to laugh with delight.
This was wonderful! He could not wait to tell his brother and his cousin Maedhros about it!
He turned around and was just beginning to climb down again when he missed a foothold. He tensed and gripped the branch, his heart beating rapidly.
Where was it? Where had he put his foot when he was going up?
Fingon glanced down to see where the foothold was – and saw just how high up he really was. At once he sat back on the branch, quaking.
He didn't feel quite so happy now.
He tried it again – and this time he nearly lost his grip on the branch. The next one down was too far for him to reach safely. Scrambling back onto his branch, he fought back tears.
What was he going to do? He couldn't get down!
Taking a deep breath, he called out as loudly as he could: "Father!"
... ... ...
Fingolfin heard the cry from where he was walking in the grounds, and immediately raced towards the sound.
"Father!"
What mischief had his son managed to get into? He had not imagined the note of fright in Fingon's voice, and worry made him sprint faster.
Fingolfin was grateful he was wearing a shirt and leggings instead of a cumbersome robe. It was far easier to run in the former.
Quickly, Fingolfin reached the place in the grounds where he thought the cry had come from – except there was no sign of his son. Confused, Fingolfin looked around, and saw his son's shoes at the foot of the tree.
Surely Fingon hadn't...
He looked up, and saw a small black-haired figure in a red tunic amidst the branches.
How in Aman had Fingon been able to get so high? If he let go, or fell from that tree...
"Be patient, my son!" Fingolfin called up. "Stay where you are. I am coming."
Thanking the Valar for his chosen attire that day, he began to climb up the tree with nimble movements and an agility that surprised his son.
He reached the elfling quickly. "Well," he said, "you certainly are in a predicament."
"Yes," Fingon said. He looked both ashamed and embarrassed.
"You can see so far from up here!" Fingolfin smiled, trying to reassure his son. He was glad Fingon had his hair in two full braids as opposed to smaller braids and partially loose. If his son's hair had blown into his face, he might have become distracted and let go.
"I am going to carry you down – but you must keep still while I do so. You have my promise I will not drop you."
He reached out his hands; Fingon trustingly lowered himself into his father's secure grasp. Keeping himself perfectly balanced on the branches he was standing on, Fingolfin laid his son gently across his shoulder. Keeping him there with one arm, he began his descent.
Fingon found himself staring at the ground as it drew nearer. He did not try to kick or struggle, but his small hands gripped his father's shirt for dear life.
When he had reached a suitable descent, Fingolfin jumped down to the ground. He knelt, lifted Fingon off his shoulder and set him on his feet.
The tree cast a cool, protective shadow over the two Elves.
"Thank you, Father," Fingon said in a small voice.
"What were you doing up there?" Fingolfin asked, attempting to wipe a smudge off his son's face.
"I am sorry, Father. I only wanted to see from the top of the tree...Are you angry with me?"
"No, of course I am not! But I would like you to think before you climb any high trees. In fact, Fingon, I do not want you or your brother to climb any trees until I say you can. Is that understood?"
Fingon nodded. If his father did not wish him to do something, he would not do it.
"Good." Fingolfin kissed his son's forehead.
The elfling put on his shoes, wincing only slightly as his scraped feet twinged.
Fingolfin looked lovingly down at his son. Fingon's cheeks were dirtied, his hair was escaping from his braids and his red tunic was filthy.
"Look at you. You are in no fit state for the family dinner!"
"Is it tonight?" Fingon asked.
"Indeed it is, little one. Your grandfather will no doubt want to hear of your adventure this afternoon."
"Will he?" The elfling's eyes brightened.
"Yes – but you need a bath before that can happen."
Fingolfin tucked his son under one arm before he could protest. "No struggling," he warned teasingly. "Or I will tickle you until you beg for mercy!"
He strode off in the direction of his home, his chuckles echoing in the breeze.
Hope you liked it!
A young Sindarin or Silvan elf-child might have no problem whatsoever getting up or down trees because they've lived amongst them their whole lives. Fingon is a young Noldorin prince: he's been born and brought up in a very different environment.