Whatever You Say, Ace by Isilme_among_the_stars  

The first time Maedhros beheld Fingon he was smitten. How could he not be? Such soft, velvety skin! The delightful smell of his hair! Yes, Maedhros was in love from the moment he first held his baby cousin who, unlike Maglor when he was an infant, rarely cried and did not try to pull his hair.

Despite what certain elves would insinuate later, and falsehoods certain rumours would spread like wildfire among the populace, his love for Fingon was never substantially different than the platonic affection that he felt in that first moment. Maedhros was becoming quite tired of having to explain otherwise.

Just because he had gifted his cousin sparkling ribbons for his hair did not mean they were ‘involved’. They were gold, but that was only because it was Finno’s favourite colour to decorate himself with. Had he not given his other cousins gifts too? Just because he remarked upon the fine figure that Fingon cut atop a horse did not mean he was hoping to steal a kiss later. It was merely that he expressed pride in his young cousin’s growing aptitude and fine form. He had been partially responsible for teaching him appropriate princely decorum after all, and did he not also compliment his other cousins when they became accomplished? Why, oh why, did everyone seem to insist on reading further into it? Couldn’t a smile just be a smile? Did it have to be a lustful suggestion? Could not praise just be praise? Did it have to be a sign of a budding romance? Maedhros had never thought of Fingon in a romantic or sexual way.

In fact, he’d never thought of anyone in those ways. Perhaps this was why everyone read so much into the smallest of his actions. They were starved for gossip fodder. Since he’d shown no real interest in nissi, his brothers and friends eventually began to assume his predilections were for neri. Or rather, a certain nér in particular. Maglor was absolutely the worst.

“I want to date. So, you must date,” he had declared.

“No, thank you,” Maedhros declined mildly, without looking up from the book he was reading.

“What is wrong with you anyway? Atar was married at your age. Are you scared of nissi?”

“Leave off Makalaurë. Date if you want to, but don’t involve me.”

“Fine, I will date. But I’m absolutely involving you.”

He proceeded to attempt to set up Maedhros with a string of nissi. They were all lovely people. It was not their fault that Maedhros was in fact more attracted to books.

“Oh, now I understand,” Maglor declared dramatically when he walked in on Maedhros braiding Fingon’s hair, humming happily as his fingers worked.

“What are you talking about?” Maitimo asked, baffled. This was not uncommon with Maglor. Maedhros had yet to decide whether he spoke aloud what should have been private thoughts or merely neglected to voice half of what he was thinking.

“I presented you with melons and you like peaches. Isn’t he a bit young for you?”

Maitimo understood perfectly then. He picked up the comb and launched it at Maglor. Maglor merely ducked, laughed as the projectile sailed over his head and left the room.

“What is he talking about?” Fingon asked, also much baffled.

“Makalaurë wishes to court nissi, so he is determined that I must too. He’s been trying to partner me with a veritable crowd of them for months now. I’m not interested. His efforts naturally failed. Now he thinks that is because I prefer neri.”

“And he reached this conclusion at this very moment because you are braiding my hair?”

“It seems that way.”

“Then he must think…” Fingon started to giggle, “he must think we are attracted to each other!” Fingon’s laughter grew until it shook his shoulders.

“Stay still Findekáno!” Maedhros chided, trying to keep his own laughter at bay.

“But it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard today!”

“Isn’t it just?”

Fingon liked to swim.

It was rather more enjoyable than hunting, truth be told. Finrod had already wandered off with his harp seeking more interesting pursuits. Only Celegorm was still truly interested in taking down the Stag they’d been following. So, when they passed by a splendid pool at the bottom of a small waterfall in Oromë’s forest, Fingon jumped straight in, clothes and all.

Maedhros rolled his eyes, took the time to strip down to his small clothes first, and then dove in after him. The day was pleasantly warm after all, and Celegorm still had Maglor to help him bring down the impressive creature.

Yes, Fingon liked to swim, but he did not like to be cold, which he promptly became when he had to slog back to camp in his wet clothes, the clear sky ensuring the evening chill came in swiftly. He was shivering piteously by the time he and Maedhros arrived.

“I’m so cold,” he complained through chattering teeth as Maedhros hung his wet clothes by the fire to dry. He looked miserable from inside the cocoon he’d made of his blanket.

“Here, take mine,” Maedhros offered, passing his blanket over, “I’ll climb in there with you in a moment. You’ll be warm in no time.”

“He’ll warm up faster if you’re both unclothed. It’s basic physics,” Finrod pointed out helpfully, twanging idly on his harp as he sat by the fire.

Maedhros took one look at his cousin’s piteous, trembling form and began stripping.

“Did Tyelko bag his stag?” Maedhros asked Finrod from inside their now shared cocoon.

Finrod only shrugged, “Neither of your brothers are back.” He tossed them pastries that had been stashed in his pack. They scarfed them down, and now comfortably warm and fed, promptly fell asleep.

Celegorm sniggered and elbowed Maglor when he spotted them, “hark at them, Káno.”

“It’s only ‘hark’ when you’re hearing something, idiot,” Maglor replied, then pointed out two sets of clothes hung up by the fire.

“Finno caught a chill. Maitimo is kindly warming him up” Finrod explained, “did you fare any better?”

“Oh, warming him up, is it?” Maglor smirked.

Finrod frowned, confused. Maglor conferred with him in exuberant whispers while Celegorm began to dress the large hare that had been his consolation prize. When he glanced up at them, both had knowing, slightly salacious looks in their eyes.

Behind him, Celegorm heard another set of voices whispering.

“Look at that,” Lord Oromë said, “what is that odd creature by the fire?”

“It is Findekáno and Maitimo,” Vána answered dreamily, “aren’t they so sweet together?”

“Together? You mean?”

“Oh, yes. They’re going to make a lovely couple,” Vána gushed.

“I must admit, they do look quite adorable all tangled together like that. Their faces go all smooshily relaxed when they sleep,” Oromë observed.

Celegorm chuckled.

“What? Have I used the wrong words?” Oromë asked him.

“No, it’s just very vala of you. Eldar would not put it in quite those words.”

“How would you put it?”

“We’d probably say peaceful. And smitten.”

“Fine,” Maedhros threw up his hands in frustration when Maglor confronted him later, “we’re in a relationship. It’s called having a cousin. Are you happy?”

Maglor looked intently back at him. He was far quieter than usual. It was disconcerting.

“But it’s not just “having a cousin” is it brother? You’re far closer to Findekáno than you are with any of the others. You’d have any of the rest of us shiver by the fire until we warmed ourselves up.”

“None of the rest of you would have been stupid enough to dive into a pool still fully clothed.” Maedhros remarked huffily.

“I won’t deny that. But my point stands. It goes beyond the closeness between Turukáno and Findaráto even. Aulë’s forge, you’re closer to Findekáno than you are even with any of us! You have no intention of bedding him, I can maybe believe that, or you probably would have by now. But what is it that you have? It’s certainly something more than a cousinly bond.”

“I don’t know, Káno. There is no yermë. I don’t know if I am even capable of sexual attraction. But he’s more than merely a friend, I can’t explain it. I believe the right term for it is melotorno, but I have very little written so far on how that is expected to proceed.”

“There’s far more to life than can be found in your books, Nelyo.”

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“Are you sneaking off again? You’re going to get us all into trouble you know.”

Maehdros had not seen Caranthir sitting in the entrance hall. Formenos had too many shadowy corners.

“It is not sneaking. I’m a grown adult and I can go where I choose.”

“Then why do you go after dark, while father sleeps?” Caranthir accused.

“Because he is too angry with uncle to try to understand and I do not want to hurt him. Neither do I wish for the rest of you to suffer the consequences.”

It was more than a mere difference in phrasing. Maedhros understood this, but he didn’t think Caranthir did. Caranthir rolled his eyes.

“Give Finno my regards then. How long will you be gone?”

“A few days. Cover for me in the morning?”

“Only because I love you so much. Do I get a kiss too?”

His brother’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes told a different story. All his brothers loved each other, just as they all loved father and worried about him. Maedhros did not rise to the bait.

“I’m not giving Findekáno kisses either. I know you don’t understand, Moryo, but I won’t give up his friendship just because our fathers are at each other’s throats.”

“Say what you want, I don’t see you sneaking off to visit Findaráto, or Turukáno or any of the others.”

“I could make a point of visiting our other cousins while I’m gone, you know, if you wanted me to? We all miss them. I have a letter for Írisse from Tyelko.” Maitimo pulled the corner of it from his pocket to show Caranthir.

“No, just tell Finno to pass on our regards.”

Maehdros stood behind Fingon and ran his fingers through his soft, thick hair. “Oh, I have missed you.”

Fingolfin pursed his lips and buried his face in his teacup, taking a deliberate, long sip.

“And I you. Won’t you stay?” he suggested between bites of bread spread thick with preserve.

“You could, Maitimo. You have family here. Your mother, as you know, abides with mine. We would make space for you.”

Nolofinwë, ever the diplomat, Maitimo thought, and I also can play that game. He began to part Fingon’s hair, twisting it so that all the finest strands were caught up in the braid and stayed out of his eyes, just how he liked.

“With respect, uncle, should my brothers or I have wished to stay, we would have chosen to do so from the beginning.”

“You are all grown. You do not have to follow your father’s path. I do not understand your decision.”

“We love our father, uncle. Not one of us would choose to be parted from him, and it would be wrong for anyone to try to steal us away,” Maedhros looked pointedly at Fingolfin. I see what you are trying to do, his expression said, it won’t work.

Fingolfin doubled down.

“Then why do I continually find you here? Sneaking away right under his nose.”

“It is because I also love my cousins, and you, and it is not sneaking.”

Turgon coughed.

“It is not sneaking, Turukáno. Grandfather knows where I go.”

“Does he know why? Does he know you are in love with one cousin in particular?”

Maedhros could not see Fingon’s glare, but he felt him do it, and knew exactly how it looked from Turgon’s end.

“You are wrong,” Maedros’s voice was quiet and dangerous, “and frankly I am appalled that you still cling to rumours that Makalaurë ignorantly began when we were little more than children. He was clever enough to realise his error many years ago.”

Turgon huffed but said no more.

Maedhros softened his voice, “it is like you and Findaráto. You are particularly close friends, and so it is with us.”

“Even I can see it runs deeper than that, Maitimo,” Fingolfin said quietly, “I know my sons. This is far more committed. Tread carefully.”

“He is not uncle Fëanáro, atya,” Fingon asserted, “he will not hurt me.”

“I am sure Maitimo is intelligent enough not to try such a thing,” Fingolfin remarked mildly, “he would not like the consequences.”

“I am hurt that you are concerned I might.”

The game was abruptly dropped. There was no pretense in Maedhros’s voice now, and from the look in his uncle’s eyes, Fingolfin understood this too. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached over and squeezed his nephew’s shoulder.

“What I would not give for our family to be woven whole at last. Come back as often as you like, Maitimo, and guard that pure heart of yours.”

“Have your father and Turukáno been very angry with me?” Maedhros asked Fingon later, when they were alone.

“Father? Not so very much. He worries, I think. He fears what uncle Fëanáro is becoming and worries that I may be drawn into that danger through you. Just as he does with Írisse and Tyelkormo.”

“He needn’t worry so much. My father’s anger burns hot, but once it has cooled, he will see reason. And it will cool as long as both manage not to provoke one another.”

“I hope you are right,” Fingon said, sounding unsure.

“But Turukáno?”

Fingon sighed and made a face.

“He is only angry because he wants me to have what he has. Elenwë has convinced him that I am missing out on marriage and fatherhood because of you. I am well and truly old enough now that my lack of marriage or even courting has become notable.”

“And are you missing out? Would you like such things?”

Maedhros watched intently as Fingon thought about this quietly for a moment.

“Perhaps, one day. Though I have not felt inclined towards either yet.”

“You could, you know. Begin to court someone, that is. If there was someone special who drew your attention. I would not mind.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, of course not. Why would I deny you that joy? It need not change anything between us.”

Maedhros tried to imagine Fingon with a family, with his own little daughter to love just as Turgon had. He felt his heart warm at the idea. It would be wonderful watching his cousin light up just as his own father had when his younger brothers were born. But he could not imagine his bold and adventurous Fingon as a father just yet. He was not so settled in life as Turgon, and still longed yet to stretch his wings.

“I do not want anything to change between us,” Fingon assured him, “I will keep it in mind. But I find my life full enough at present.”

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“Father, you can’t just abandon them” Maedhros protested, “What about Findekáno the Valiant? He and his followers fought bravely for us. Won’t we at least go back for them?”

“Needless baggage they are Maitimo,” he decried, his eyes fey, “yes, even them. No, we will not go back.”

“Oh, he argues the case for Finno,” Celegorm huffed, “what about Írisse? What about Findaráto and the rest?”

Maglor gave him a sharp look.

“They’re not important enough, clearly. He only uses that persuasive voice of his because he can’t stand to be parted from his beloved Findekáno. He’s not the only one who left a lover behind,” Caranthir muttered.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Maglor elbowed him in the ribs. It was too late. Fëanor had heard.

“Maitimo?” he inquired, dangerously quiet.

Maedhros met his eyes undaunted, “There is nothing to tell. We should send the ships back for your brother, and our cousins, who fought beside us and will do so again. As is right.”

Fëanor picked up a torch, not breaking eye contact with Maedhros for a second. “Burn them,” he ordered.

“I will have no part in this,” Maedhros asserted calmly, and he stood aside.

“It’s so tragic,” Ossë whispered to Ulmo, “Fëanáro burns the ships and now Findekáno and Maitimo will be separated forever.”

“Well at least Findekáno will be safe in Aman, and the rest of Nolofinwë’s host with him. It’s a small price to pay.”

“But you cannot deny it is sad,” Ossë said.

Ulmo sighed, misty-eyed, “they were so adorable together.”

Ulmo had not accounted for Noldorin determination. In that very hour, they made the decision to cross the ice.

Maglor had longed to run after his brother, to fight for him from the very day he was taken. He did not do so, because it was a foolish endeavour. What sense was there in sacrificing many to win back the one? No matter how dear to him that one was. But Fingon had dared, and Maedhros was somewhere on the other side of the lake right now, safe with him.

“I knew Maitimo was sweet on Finno,” Amras whispered to Maglor, “But I did not realise that Finno loved him back.”

“Well, clearly he does,” Maglor reasoned, “or he probably wouldn’t have taken himself on a near suicidal solo rescue mission to get him back.”

Both were silent for a moment, taking in the gravity of Maglor’s words.

“I can’t quite believe it. It still doesn’t seem quite real, that he could be back,” Amras sounded choked up and strange.

“Neither would I if I hadn’t seen that tuft of red hair. It was unmistakable.”

“It’s a good job Finno does love him, or maybe we wouldn’t have seen him again.”

Maglor swallowed, feeling guilty. His brother didn’t have the right of it, and it was largely his own fault, but he didn’t have the heart to correct him. Besides, perhaps Finno really did love Maitimo.

“You sent an eagle,” Námo accused.

“So what if I did?” Manwë was not intimidated.

“You said you would not listen to their pleas,” Námo reminded Manwë.

“Yes, but you heard how desperate they were! I couldn’t just leave them like that. Think how awful it would be, Námo, to mercy kill your own lover. I couldn’t just let that happen,” Manwë reasoned.

Námo was silent. Manwë wondered if perhaps he had a heart after all. Nienna was not the only one that cried for the plight of the Noldorin exiles, no matter what the rest of them might say.

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The little rituals began while Maedhros was recovering. They were small at first, just a particular way of smiling or squeezing hands, that communicated a certain thing: I am here, I care, and I’m not going anywhere. As Maedhros regained his strength they grew into something a little more: a meal and news shared every mid-morning, and a walk once a week, just around the room at first, and then gradually as far as the lake.

When Maedhros joined his brothers across the lake, the rituals changed, but did not cease. There was the particular way Fingon would sign off each letter, and the tongue in cheek response Maedhros would begin his with, once he could manage a pen again. Each wrote the other every week, even if they could not be sent that frequently. When one occasioned to visit the other, they fell into a very predictable and rather affectionate pattern. The most noticeable sign of which was that Maedhros’s hair was always neatly and elaborately braided whenever Fingon stayed, which Maglor commented on one day.

“I wonder if I was wrong about you two. You once told me that you were not lovers. Do you remember? But it certainly looks like it now,” Maglor ran a careful finger along one of the twists in Maedhros’s hair, “Can’t you see it?”

“It’s no different to before Maglor, only we can be more openly affectionate now that our peoples are reconciled.”

“Well, our brothers are all reading into it, and it’s not friendship they are assuming. I hear them whispering about you two when they think we’re not listening, though I no longer think there is any mocking in their talk. If you are not lovers, then what is it?”

“I don’t know. Why do you feel the need to dissect it?”

“Perhaps so I can speak back to the rumours,” Maglor smiled teasingly.

Maedhros laughed, “Which you started, you horrible beast, and now look what you’ve done. You can’t stop them!” He thought for a moment, “it is as I said, a kind of meldë, without the desire for romance of any kind, or want for children. A close friendship with a peculiarly high dose of commitment.”

“Hmm, accurate enough, but I doubt it will satisfy the rest of your brothers. Though they may never be happy until you do in fact start going at it like a rabbit with someone. Fingon or otherwise.”

“Hypocrites. Four of them unmarried themselves, and yet they gossip about me.”

“Well, none of them carries on with anyone the way you do with Fingon, and if they did, they wouldn’t claim not to be lovers.”

When Maedhros built Himring he made a room for Fingon. Technically it was a guestroom, not actually Fingon’s alone, but it was designed with him in mind. Maedhros placed it in the warmest part of the fortress that still had a Westward facing window for views of the sunset. He arranged the furniture inside it in the pattern that Fingon’s had been placed in Tirion, though nothing here was near as fine. But the first time Fingon walked in he had said, “ah, I’m home!” and Maedhros had almost cried. Fingon had a similar room for Maedhros at Barad Eithel, but rather than carefully arranging the furniture, his strategy of choice was thoughtfully scattered books. They did not get to visit each other all that often, but when they did, both were glad.

Maedhros had been at Barad Eithel when Fingon first met Nutunto. She had approached them, bold as brass as they sat upon the grass in Ard Galen on a sunny spring day. Forgoing all of the tedious deference the two men usually attracted, she had struck up a conversation about the wildflowers they were both admiring.

“I can’t believe I’ve never met you before. Are you sure you crossed the ice with us?” Fingon asked her.

“Oh yes, how could one forget the ice? I remember seeing you there. You were often pre-occupied with more dangerous and important things than greeting the likes of me.”

“Still, I feel it is rude of me.”

“How many subjects does your father have? Isn’t it thousands? Do you truly expect yourself to remember each one?”

“Fingon is such a hospitable person he would probably try,” Maedhros piped up.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Nutunto had asked.

“No,” Fingon had corrected, “This is Lord Maedhros of Himring. We are cousins.”

“Oh good, because I rather like you, so I am glad to hear you are indeed not taken.”

Fingon and Maehdros looked at each other sideways. This elleth was very forward, and entirely unlike most other ellith they knew.

Nutunto read their expressions and laughed, “I’ve heard about you Lord Maedhros. I hear you are close to the prince. But if you declare him single, then I shall take your word for it.”

“I think I am going to like you,” Maedhros declared to Nutunto, and then turned to Fingon, “You should marry her immediately.”

Thus began their rather unique friendship. Fingon also liked her rather well and they were married barely a year later. Maedhros began to think of his main guestroom as Fingon and Nutunto’s. When Fingon visited Himring, more often than not she came too, and he was often blessed with stimulating conversation on all manner of scholarly topics for which Fingon had no taste. In his room in Barad Eithel, along with the books Maedhros now often found wildflowers, and a draft essay on some point of lore Nutunto wished for his opinion on.

Nutunto was never jealous of her husband’s closeness with Maedhros. She never seemed to read in it what wasn’t there. Maedhros was particularly fond of the way she very pointedly referred to him as “cousin Maedhros” and reserved sharp looks for anyone who insinuated their closeness was indecent. Particularly amusing were the times she occasioned to turn this upon Caranthir, who understood perfectly but could make no reply, and Finrod, who was perfectly oblivious. With her around, life was sweeter. As Morgoth cowered within his fortress and the glorious peace grew longer, life was very sweet indeed.

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Fingon woke one morning with the distinct feeling that his insides had been re-arranged while he slept. Nothing hurt or appeared any different from the outside, so he ignored it, and went on ignoring it for another three months until it became difficult to continue to do so. Very difficult indeed.

“I don’t think the long peace is good for your figure my love,” Fingon’s wife laughed one evening as they retired to bed, patting his stomach in a teasing way.

“Oh, isn’t it?” he sucked in his gut and puffed up his chest.

Nutunto spoke in jest, but he did have to wonder what was behind the sudden change in his shape. Nothing worth speaking of had changed, in truth. He was just as vigorous as ever and his eating habits were just the same. A week later his belly had swollen a little more.

“Did you eat something that disagreed with you, my love? You seem a little bloated,” Nutunto remarked. Eru bless her, she was serious too. Not a hint of chastising was there in her voice, only concern.

“Oh, perhaps it was the wine,” Fingon lied, “I am sure I will be feeling better by tomorrow.”

There was, however, no discernable change come morning, and Fingon, feeling a bit self-conscious, began to choose tunics somewhat looser than was his usual wont. Two weeks after this, he felt a distinct flutter, and it was not coming from his heart. Nor was it, unfortunately, trapped gas. He remembered Elenwë speaking of such a thing before Idril had been born, and Fingon had a rather uncomfortable feeling that his symptoms were not going to resolve themselves anytime soon.

“I’m leaving in a few days to visit Himring,” he announced to Nutunto that evening, “I intend to see how our cousins in the East are faring. Do not worry about me if I tarry overlong, as I may travel on to Thargellion after.”

“Of course, dear. You have written to your father to inform him of your plans?” Nutunto asked innocently.

Fingon’s cheeks became a decidedly rosier shade than usual, “No, not yet. But I will do so without delay.”

Nutunto smiled, knowingly, “Give cousin Maedhros my love. Tell him, I expect him to get off his frozen backside and be the one to pay the next visit. I shall of course make sure he is very comfortable while he is here.”

Fingon smiled back. His wife was a treasure. He would miss her. But there was one elf, and one elf only that he trusted with the strangeness of this situation, and he needed advice urgently.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt, Fingon. You’re definitely pregnant,” Maedhros concluded, falling into a comfortable chair by the fire with a soft thunk, very baffled and slightly amused.

“But I’m an ellon, not an elleth!” Fingon protested.

“I know, Fingon. I’m rather intimately aware of that fact. Do you know you once peed in my hair while aunt Anairë was changing you?”

“I have a wife! A wife, Maedhros! What is she going to think?” Fingon continued, pausing in the path he paced before the fire and turning toward Maedhros to gesticulate as he spoke.

Maedhros suspected he’d stopped paying attention to anything he said after the word “pregnant”. He replied anyway.

“She’ll probably panic a whole lot less than you are right now. Nutunto’s a very open-minded and accepting elleth.”

Fingon took up his pacing again, “Oh Manwë, what will father say?”

“He’ll probably be pleased to have a grandchild that he can actually visit and dote upon I imagine. Turgon and Idril disappearing with no trace was very hard on him,” Maedhros replied, very reasonably he thought.

Fingon groaned. Either he had doubts that Fingolfin would take the news quite so calmly, or he’d just thought of another horrifying implication.

“How did this even happen? I’m not even supposed to be able to become pregnant,” Fingon complained despairingly, flopping himself into the armchair next to Maedhros’s.

“Valar knows,” Maedhros said, pouring himself a stiff drink.

“Valar….” Fingon mused, staring straight past the fire at something that clearly didn’t exist in the physical plane, “yes, it must be some twisted idea of theirs.”

Maehdros groaned, “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood for speculation or conspiracy theories.”

Fingon continued to stare silently past the flames for an interminably long time, then quite suddenly his brain seemed to catch up on processing Maedhros’s side of the conversation.

“Did I really pee in your hair when we were children? I must have had remarkably good aim.”

Maedhros snorted, “truly, you did.”

Fingon cracked a wide grin and chortled long at the thought, his laughter ending abruptly as he admitted, “oh dear, I think I might have peed myself again, just a little bit.”

Maedhros threw back his head and positively cackled at that.

Fingon wasn’t far off the mark about Valar involvement, as he would find out that night, though Irmo certainly didn’t think of the idea as twisted.

Fingon, Irmo called to him in the dream from between the trees in the softly lit gardens of Lórien. Fingon, it is my joy to deliver some rather important and fortuitous news.

What? That I’m pregnant? Dream Fingon huffed.

Irmo looked rather taken aback. How…

How did I know?! Babies tend to announce themselves with a rounding out of one’s gut after a few months. And if that was not enough of a clue, the damnable fluttering certainly gave it away. The kicks are very distracting.

Oh. Yes, well, continued Irmo, you’re going to become pregnant and give birth to a son.

I already am pregnant! Dream Fingon yelled, fists balled up.

Yes, of course. And your son will become the High King of the Noldor after you and your father before you. And the name you shall call him by is Ereinion.

Pray tell, Dream Fingon demanded, why did you not think it fit to give me a son in the usual manner? Via, oh, I don’t know… my lovely wife?

Irmo looked distinctly confused.

You do realise I have a wife?

Irmo coughed slightly, well, yes. But are you not also in love with Maitimo? Would you not prefer to have a child with him? The idea has certain strategic advantages.

No, I would not prefer a child with Maedhros, you idiot, Dream Fingon was truly fuming now, I only want one with Nutunto! Maedhros and I have never been lovers, despite what everyone seems to think.

You keep telling yourself that, Irmo said, rolling his eyes, anyhow, the Valar have decided that a descendant of the two of you, the eldest two sons of the two elder Noldorin houses of Lords, would surely solidify the legitimacy of the child’s claim. With all the dying and passing of kingship business, it does pay to be careful.

Dream Fingon slapped his palm to his forehead, wondering if the Valar had any clue how reproduction worked at all.

And we’ve given this child all the best qualities from all the Lordly Noldorin families, so there is no doubt they will be an effective ruler. Irmo seemed rather proud of that last point.

Oh Eru, we’re doomed. Fingon concluded. Unfortunately, he was quite right. Rather fortuitously, Irmo was also right.

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Earlier, in Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, the Valar had conferred…

“In case it has escaped your attention,” Ulmo began, rumbling in a voice that would very much not escape anyone’s attention, “our beloved exiles will soon find themselves in distinctly unpleasant and unfortunate circumstances.”

“They seem to be managing quite well in my view,” Tulkas piped up. Quite literally, as his voice sounded very much like the blaring of war horns, “The leaguer is holding nicely.”

“In case some of us need a refresher, since the singing of the music was so long ago, the dragons Melkor is hiding underground are almost full grown, his Balrog recruitment program was quite successful and the volcanoes are nearing their natural eruptive sensitive points,” Varda added helpfully. Tulkas nodded as if any of that made sense to him and shot a quick questioning look at Oromë.

“She means Morgoth will very shortly kick their arses,” he translated.

“I have enacted some fail-safes: prophecies, hidden fortresses and the like. However, these are really only stop-gap measures. They’re all vulnerable to the same old thing that got our dear children in this mess in the first place.”

A chorus of sighs and mutterings of “Noldorin pride” with much head shaking ensued.

“That old chestnut,” Manwë lamented. Nienna laid a consolatory hand on his shoulder.

“We need a better plan,” Ulmo declared.

“Must we intervene at all?” Námo questioned, “Why not just leave them to their fate?”

This earned him several variations on the theme of black looks. Námo turned his own black look pointedly upon Manwë.

“You all agreed to it! They will reap harvest of their violence, and we will shut our ears to their woes. It was a very impressive Doom.”

Manwë coughed into his hand, everyone was thinking it, he could tell… the eagle incident, “yes, well, perhaps that was somewhat harsh. A work around may be in order. What exactly are you proposing Ulmo?”

“Selective breeding.”

“Selective what?” Oromë sounded outraged, “you mean to pair them off like beasts and make them go at it like rabbits until we end up with one with a temperament that we like?”

“It need not be quite that vulgar dear,” Vána pacified, “I could work a little match-making magic.”

Ulmo’s voice drowned their conversation like the great wave that would at some time in the future put an end to Númenor.

“I had thought we could consult someone a little more experienced in the matter.” Ulmo turned his gaze toward Aulë and Yavanna, “You have some experience in the field of genetics, both of you, have you not?”

“Yes, genetics are our specialty. The Khazâd project was quite successful, if I do say so myself,” Aulë’s voice rang with self-congratulation.

“And some of us still wonder where the pride came from,” Námo muttered.

Manwë pointedly ignored him, “I trust you have a more elegant solution than a breeding program?”

“Oh yes,” Yavanna piped up, “we’ve been experimenting with new techniques in genetic splicing-”

“Just to be clear, this is a technique that is suitable for Eldar, not only plants?” Manwë cut her off before Yavanna could settle in for a lengthy monologue. There was a reason that Ent-speech was horrendously, ponderously prolonged. Yavanna seemed not to notice and indeed continued to mutter a string of jargony sounding words.

“Yes, of course,” Aulë spoke over her, quite used to his wife’s quirks. There was a reason he’d taken up forge work. Her infodumps did not tend to follow him there, and should they chance to, the ringing of hammers quite drowned them out.

Manwë nodded and rubbed his hands together with pleasure, “Very good! It is settled then. We shall now come up with a list of desired traits together and then you may get to work.”

“There is only one, very small complication,” Aulë looked as if he would like to hide behind his furnace if he could, “I have never actually done pregnancy before.”

“What? You can’t be serious!” Námo looked very unimpressed.

“He is,” Ulmo’s laugh was terrible, like the shrieking of ship timbers and rigging straining in a storm, “He made seven dudes! His Naucor were all men! Only men! It’s a good job Eru intervened when he did!”

Ulmo did not look like he was going to stop laughing anytime soon. Aulë coughed. Varda gave Ulmo a stern look.

“Female Naucor may have been an afterthought,” she began.

“Khazâd,” Aulë corrected under his breath.

Varda turned her withering look upon Aulë. He looked appropriately chastised.

“Entwives, however, existed from the very beginning of their species. You can handle the mechanics, can’t you Yavanna dear?” Varda asked sweetly.

“Don’t insult me, of course I can,” Yavanna glared at her with an air of superiority.

“That’s settled then, Aulë and Yavanna will see to it,” Manwë concluded, “Now onto that list of desired traits…”

That was an altogether lengthier and more unruly conversation…

Chapter End Notes

In case anyone was concerned about Aulë's reaction to Yavanna's infodumps. He is being a bit of an ass, but he loves her really. This is really not intended to be a dig at infodumping, which is a perfectly valid form of neurodivergent communication.

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“We have to tell your wife,” Maedhros burst into Fingon’s chamber the next morning while he was still abed.

Fingon hurriedly pulled the eiderdown right up to his chin.

“Valar, Maehdros, I’m not even dressed yet. Couldn’t you have waited until after breakfast?”

“Oh sorry,” Maedhros said absently, turning his back to afford Fingon a modicum of privacy, “tell me when you’re decent. But as I was saying, we should let Nutunto in on this, I think she would be a great help.”

“I find myself unable to discuss the matter before I am properly clothed. Kindly shut up while I find my pants,” Fingon sounded rather unimpressed.

“Here,” Maehdros said, tossing him the trousers that lay in a crumpled heap where Fingon had haphazardly discarded them the night before. He did so without turning. They landed on Fingon’s head. “I don’t know why you’re so upset; it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before. It’s just skin. I’m perfectly capable of having an intelligent conversation with you whether you have clothes on or not. I won’t look at you any differently.”

“I know,” Fingon replied, lacing the trousers as quickly as he dared, “its very disconcerting. You might see little difference in a person, raiment or no, but I can assure you most people do.”

Maedhros frowned, “Would you rather I was like most people?”

“No, I like you just the way you are,” Fingon’s voice was softer, though it was unclear if that was because he was less pissed off, or if it were merely muffled by the tunic he pulled over his head, “how many ellyn are lucky enough to have both a fabulous wife, and whatever it is we have going on here?”

“You mean that?”

“Yes. Now you may turn around, I am appropriately garmented.”

Maedhros turned. Fingon positively glowed. His cheeks had a lovely, hale rosiness to them and his hair was thicker and shinier than ever. Maedhros wished he were still able to braid it.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t look at me any differently,” Fingon accused, narrow-eyed.

“I’m not. It’s just… you look very well. Pregnancy seems to suit you.”

Fingon snorted, “right. What were you saying about Nutunto?”

Maehdros shook himself, “yes, Nutunto, we should summon her to join us as soon as practicable.”

“Why, pray tell?” Fingon did not look convinced. “I was rather hoping I could hole myself up here until the problem goes away and no one else any the wiser.”

“The problem isn’t just going to go away Fingon! How exactly are you planning to explain the presence of an infant when you do finally return home?”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Nutunto at least is a rather plausible excuse for that.”

“True. Fine. But you’re going to have to formulate some plausible reason for her to do so. You know I’m not good at fibbing. And don’t make it embarrassing! Please?”

“I could invite Maglor and his wife,” Maedhros teased, “Etsenima is positively starved for female company over at the Gap. I’m sure she’d be delighted with Nutunto’s attentions.”

Fingon groaned, “as soon as Maglor gets word, then everyone will know. Finrod will be the first he’ll tell and then our golden cousin will insist on following me around taking notes with parchment and quill permanently attached to his fingers, so he doesn’t miss a single detail.”

Maedhros made his voice high and melodious and put on an expression of mock scrutiny, “Oh, how interesting Fingon! I do believe you’ve grown another inch around the middle just this week! How does it feel to have a child kicking inside of you?”

“Oh no, you’re going to make me wet myself again,” Fingon cried, doubled over in laughter, “now there’s a juicy detail for cousin Finrod’s scientifically enquiring mind: pregnancy appears to have deleterious effect on bladder capacity and control.”

“Never fear, I shan’t invite my big-mouthed brother in truth. But it does make for a nice pretense,” Maehdros reassured him.

“It was the Valar,” Fingon revealed after he had recovered from the fit of laughter.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow.

“Irmo came to me in a dream last night. He seemed very pleased with their cleverness.”

“Did they put Aulë in charge? The Naugrim have a very interesting mythology of origin, incidentally. Caranthir’s correspondence on the matter was most amusing. I shall have to dig out his letters for you.”

Irmo was back a few nights later.

Fingon, he called, interrupting a rather pleasant dream in which he basked in a sunny field while Nutunto drew near and-

Fingon! Irmo yelled sharply.

Oh good, you’re back. I have some questions.

You do? I didn’t anticipate this… Irmo seemed rather caught off guard.

Yes, I do, Dream Fingon’s grin was positively malicious. His voice grew louder and angrier the longer he talked. Firstly, which one of you idiots came up with this “brilliant” idea? Secondly, how did you plan for me to actually give birth? I’m not exactly equipped with the right infrastructure, if you take my meaning? Thirdly, you can knock this ridiculous shit off at once and give the child to my wife to nurture. I’m sure the poor little fëa would be much happier growing there in the usual way, than in whatever abomination it is you have created here.

Are you quite done? Irmo asked, arms folded over his chest.

No! I’m not, Dream Fingon continued, I want it known that I’m very, very angry, and you can’t just go making an ellon pregnant without their consent. Nor an elleth either, for that matter. I hate you all.

You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

No, I don’t think!

Quite, Irmo agreed, you don’t think, do you? You’re driven purely by hormones presently. Sorry about that, by the way, but it couldn’t be helped. An unfortunate consequence of successful gestation.

Dream Fingon glared his best glare, Answer my questions.

That “poor little fëa” has already become quite attached to you. Transfer is not possible. As for birthing, I will consult Yavanna and get back to you in due course.

Yavanna dreamt this up? But she does plants! Do I look like a plant?

Irmo ignored that. Did the ridiculous elf think he couldn’t tell the difference? Plants were never this much trouble. It was a group effort. Her and Lord Aulë have been workshopping the finer points.

I knew it! Why did you want to talk to me, out of curiosity?

The child’s name. We’re a bit concerned Ereinion isn’t clear enough. You must name him Finwain Ereinion.

Dream Fingon’s jaw dropped. You can’t be serious? New Finwe, Scion of Kings? How pretentious can you get? And my cousins all thought their names were bad…

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“It was Aulë,” Fingon dropped casually to Maedhros as they sat side by side on horseback, “but Yavanna had a hand in it too apparently.”

“Irmo again?” Maedhros kept his eyes fixed firmly on the pass Nutunto’s travelling party was expected to emerge from shortly.

“Yes. You’ll never guess what they expect me to name the child.”

Fingon shivered in the frigid air. Why did Himring have to be so damnably cold. He wished Nutunto would hurry up. The clouds looked positively laden with snow. Maedhros unclasped his cloak and settled it onto Fingon’s shoulders, who hummed appreciatively.

“It can’t be any worse than third Finwë can it?” Maedhros asked, quite naively.

Fingon shot him an evil grin, “Do you want to wager on that?”

“Oh no, it is worse, isn’t it? Spit it out then.”

“Finwain Ereinion.”

For a second Fingon feared his cousin might fall off his horse.

“Well. That is certainly something.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“You’re not actually going to do it are you?” Maedhros shot Fingon a questioning look. He was known for being rather ostentatious after all.

“Do you think they’ll Doom me to the everlasting dark if I refuse?”

“Perhaps it’s best not to test their patience. Even if they are idiots,” Maedhros counselled, returning his gaze to the pass once more. “Finwain Ereinion…” he muttered under his breath.

Fingon couldn’t help but grin.

“The sooner we’re out of this cold, the better!” Nutunto announced when she arrived, “I’m freezing my arse off!”

“Násië to that!” Fingon leaned over to kiss her politely on the cheek before spurring his horse on toward the fortress.

“Are you actually wearing his cloak? As well as your own? And still shivering?” Nutunto asked teasingly when they pulled up outside of the stables.

“The cold doesn’t agree with me,” Fingon sniffed.

“Poor cousin Maedhros. Did you not think he may be suffering too?” she winked at Maedhros, who to all accounts appeared perfectly content despite his lack.

He rewarded her with a hearty laugh, “Ah Nutunto, how I have missed your sparkling wit. I am very glad you could join us.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have Maglor and Etsenima arrived yet?” she enquired eagerly. Nutunto frequently felt starved for company too. There were plenty of ellith living near Barad Eithel, it was true, but few were very good conversationalists. Certainly, none matching Etsenima’s talents. None were as fierce nor as intelligent as she would have liked, and their senses of humour were entirely lacking.

“About that….” Fingon looked very sheepish.

“Uh-oh, I smell deceit,” she flicked her eyes toward Maedhros, correctly interpreting the source of said fibbery.

“It will be a pleasure to fill you in once we’ve thawed out your husband,” he promised, wrapping an arm around Fingon, who had already caught Nutunto’s hand, and leading them both inside.

Nutunto did not stop laughing for a full 5 minutes. Fingon timed her. Each time she managed to catch her breath, Maedhros would catch her eye and the giggles would start up all over again. Fingon glared at him. He was starting to feel a tad upset.

“It really is not so funny for me as it apparently is for you,” he complained mildly to his wife, tears beginning to gather in his eyes. This had been happening with alarming regularity for the past week. He did not understand this sudden proclivity for tears. It was rather hard to live up to the name of Valiant when your eyes leaked so frequently.

Nutunto finally managed to compose herself. There was pity in her eyes, “Oh, I am sorry, my love. Aulë really has done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

Fingon began to sob quite uncontrollably at this point. It was not an enjoyable experience. But as it had the pleasant side-effect of causing him to be swiftly and soundly embraced by his two favourite people in all of Arda, he found he could not be too mad about it.

“It’s not that I’m ungrateful,” he mumbled into his wife’s damp shoulder, “I just thought you’d be the one to carry our children.”

“That is the usual way of things,” she agreed mildly, “but we never have been a completely usual family, have we?”

Fingon shook his head.

“I believe that’s understating the matter considerably,” Maedhros added.

“Could I feel the little one, do you think?” Nutunto asked.

Fingon guided her hand onto his belly and heard her sharp intake of breath as the baby prodded at it.

“May I?” Maedhros asked.

Fingon nodded, and he laid his large, pale hand next to Nutunto’s small, tawny one. Fingon placed one of his own over them both. The little scrap of fëa reached out inquiringly. What is this? it wanted to know.

Family, Fingon showed it, this is family.

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For Prince Fingon, care of Lord Maehdros of Himring, care of Lord Maglor of the Gap

Dearest cousin,

I do not wish to alarm you, but I have received a rather strongly worded letter from our High King who is under the impression that you dally at Himring overlong due to your fondness for our beloved redhead. Cousin, for the sake of your ever-loving wife, I do hope that no impropriety has occurred.  Due to the haste of your departure, I do believe your loving father is rather more concerned than furious at present. But I would not put his patience to the test, dear one, I do not expect his temper will hold indefinitely. He asks that you call upon him in Hithlum at your earliest convenience. I should think you more than most would understand the danger hidden within that innocuous phrase.  I do not know what gave him the impression I may be more persuasive than him, but I beg you, please return to him with all due speed.

Yours in hope that his wrath is not too terrible,

Finrod Felagund

Prince Findekáno Nolofinwion of Barad Eithel, care of Makalaurë Feanorion of the Gap

Findekáno,

Whatever troubles your cousin has brought down upon himself I am confident that the Lord of Himring is more than capable of resolving. He was once High King after all, however briefly. I am sure your presence is not required. Barad Eithel is your responsibility, and I should not wish for it to become neglected. I ask, as your father, for the second time, that you kindly return as soon as possible. I shall not ask again.

Yours in expectation,

Atar

Lord Finrod,

Please allow me the courtesy of informing you that Lords Fingon and Maedhros departed for the Gap last week. I have taken the liberty of forwarding your letter with much haste.

Captain of the Guard, Himring

For Prince Fingon, care of Lord Maglor of the Gap

Dearest cousin,

Now I am truly concerned. It seems you are only fleeing further afield. This is not at all like your usual valorous self. I am making for the Gap with all haste. Do not fear dearest cousin, I am confident whatever ails you can be resolved and together we may forestall the consternation of your father.

Yours in kindness,

Finrod

Maedhros and Maglor, the Gap I presume (try Himring if not)

Brothers,

I do not pretend to understand your sudden interest in Naugrim physiognomy, but I assure you I am no expert in the matter. No, I do not know if Aulë ever made wives for the seven forefathers, nor do I know their means of reproduction. Maedhros, do you ask because you wish to bed one or breed your own army of them?  They are far too short for you, brother, and do not in any case have very impressive buttocks. But they are stunning fighters. I understand the previous materials I conveyed to you on their original stories were quite amusing, but I have no new material to share. And quite frankly, now I am suspicious. Reply with suitable explanation of your intentions promptly or expect a visit forthwith.

Yours in curiosity,

Caranthir

Maedhros, the Gap still I presume

Brother,

Liar. If it were military capabilities you were interested in all along you would not be asking about wives. Get your mind out of the mud. Really, what would Fingon think? But since we are pretending you want them for their axes and not their swords, I suggest you try befriending. It has turned out very profitably for me. You probably would get along quite well with the little bastards as they have a wicked sense of humour. If you’d like an introduction, you can get your own arse over here and I’ll set up a meeting.

Glad we had this chat,

Caranthir

Prince Findekáno Nolofinwion, care of Makalaurë Fëanorion of the Gap

Son,

I must humbly ask your forgiveness for my hasty summons. Your cousin Findaráto has written and explained all. I hear that congratulations are in order. You and Nutunto must of course do what you feel is necessary at this delicate time, though I cannot presume to understand why the Gap should be the most suitable environment. Do not concern yourself with Barad Eithel. I shall gladly hold the fort until your return. You will of course visit as soon as convenient when our newest prince or princess of the House of Finwë is born, won’t you?

Valar be with you,

Atar

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Finrod approached Fingon with the dreaded, predicted tape measure in hand.

“I don’t see why you need to come at me with that thing. Get it away,” Fingon rebuked him, slapping his hand away when it came too close.

“Because you’ve been too long lacking in the proper care,” Finrod explained with great patience, “and it would be well to monitor your health and that of the child’s.”

“You just want to study me,” Fingon accused, “It’s too unique an opportunity for you to pass up.”

“Findekáno Nolofinwion!” Finrod chastised him, “I intend no such thing. I am a keen student of the sciences, but foremost I am your cousin who wishes only to ensure you are well. Now, please let me measure you.”

Fingon acquiesced. It was very hard to say no to Finrod.

“Father wrote. He has rather changed his tune. What did you say to him?”

Finrod chuckled as he pulled the tape taut over Fingon’s belly. “I told you we could forestall his consternation, did I not? I merely mentioned that Nutunto was with child, and that you had journeyed to Himring to share the happy news. He would only expect that after all.”

Fingon nodded, this was true. Fingolfin had more or less accepted his son’s intimacy with Maedhros, though he still vacillated on whether he approved.

“After this I dropped the hint that Nutunto grew weary, unusually and perhaps concerningly so,” Finrod went on, “and found herself in need of refreshment such as only the Gap could provide.”

“Implausible,” Fingon judged, “I cannot believe it worked.”

Finrod shot him a hurt look, “The edain did not call me Nóm the Wise for nothing, and you are forgetting our family history. Do you think he would deny Nutunto anything that may prevent her from suffering the fate of Míriel?”

Fingon’s expression lost its annoyance and became suddenly very shrewd, “Oh, that is genius. Cruel, but very, very clever. I must write to reassure him that Nutunto is well enough, however regrettably she and I must remain here to ensure she continues to be so. Remind me later.”

Finrod began walking his hands all over Fingon’s belly, pressing down in vaguely uncomfortable places. His bladder screamed. The slightly larger than little scrap of fëa reached out to share his indignance. I do not appreciate being tickled. What is this feeling?

I believe you are laughing, Fingon tried to explain, you might enjoy that someday.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked Finrod.

“Oh yes,” his cousin assured him, leaning over to make some notes in a piece of parchment he had pulled out of his pocket.

You sly bastard, you are studying me, Finrod thought.

“If you feel it necessary to share any of what you are writing there with another soul, I shall find it necessary to break your fingers so badly you will never hold a pen, nor pluck a harp string again,” he threatened.

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One of the privileges of being the size of a whale, Fingon discovered, was that no one questioned your desire for a nap. Maglor had even played soft music as he drifted off in a comfortably warm patch of afternoon sun.

Oh, it’s you again, Fingon regarded Irmo as one might a particularly irritating rash that no unguent seemed capable of resolving.

Nice to see you too, Irmo replied with ample sarcasm, I see you have yourself a midwife. I must say I’m rather relieved.

I can’t say that I am. Finrod is more of a busybody than a midwife. What do you want? Fingon snapped rather brusquely, wishing to be spared whatever additional nonsense Irmo had come to heap upon him this time

To discuss the child’s name. Again. Irmo squirmed slightly as he said it. Even he seemed to realise this level of indecision was bordering on ridiculous. The child was only a few months from coming earthside now, and at this rate it seemed his name would still be in flux long after he was born.

Dream Fingon raised an eyebrow. Someone thought better of naming him “I am the new Finwë, my right to rule shall not be denied” did they?

Your ploy to pass the child off as Nutunto’s did not escape Manwë’s attention. He despairs that the child’s Fëanorian heritage will be obscured. The union of your two houses, and end to this petty posturing between them was rather a large part of the plan.

Fingon sighed. We resolved all that when Maedhros gave up the crown.

Irmo fixed him with a pointed look. And would all of Maedhros’s brothers obey Fingolfin without question if he were not here to corral them?

You have a point, Fingon admitted reluctantly.

Vána is rather upset by this spurning of Maitimo too, you should know.

Vána can shove her soppy romanticism up her flowery arse. Aulë’s bloody beard, even tragically sentimental Finrod now understands we’re not and never were lovers. If she’d been paying attention, she’d have noticed not only that my cousin masterminded the whole thing, but he is happier than he’s been in years. Did you come merely to voice every Vala’s displeasure? You missed some.

Whatever you say, Irmo brushed his comments off, although he was starting to wonder if the Valar didn’t have their wires a little crossed on this particular matter. Fingon certainly seemed rather convinced they did. He coughed and went on. The baby shall have a third name: Artanáro.

Artanáro? Noble fire? Now you’re just grasping at straws, that sounds more Finarfinian than Fëanorian.

It was Námo’s idea. I think he may be trolling Manwë at this point, Irmo admitted. He had rather a suspicious smirk when he told him: It has the fire part in it. It is unmistakeable.

I see. Fingon replied, sincerely hoping he was more than just a joke to them all. Has Yavanna worked out how the baby will be born yet?

Hmmm? She has put some thought into it, yes. That reminds me, I have a list of materials required that your midwife should gather in readiness. Kindly memorise it and pass it on. We shall provide more instructions in due course.

Fingon glanced at the list.

A small, sharp knife? Silk thread? Cloth suitable for staunching blood loss! What is this? Do you mean to kill me?! Think of something better! Take it back!

Fingon threw the abstract figment of a list in Irmo’s insubstantial face and jolted awake in shock.

Fingon had not stopped pacing, or rather, waddling with anxious purpose, since he woke. With braids in disarray and arms akimbo to balance the bulk of a belly that now strained against his previously ample tunic, Fingon was quite a sight. Maglor savagely bit back the urge to laugh.

“What troubles you cousin?” he asked with admirable restraint.

Fingon increased his pace. Maglor started to become vaguely concerned.

“Will you stop that fretful marching? You’re making me anxious. Come, sit and tell me what worries you.”

Fingon paused and turned a wide-eyed face toward Maglor. He looked plain terrified. His cousin, the brave idiot who had swanned into Angband with a bloody harp and a song, the man who had driven off a live, fire-breathing dragon with only a handful of archers on horseback, was scared. This could not be good.

“Fingon?” Maglor’s voice wavered.

“I don’t think I’m going to survive this, Káno.”

Maglor leaned over the squirming ball of unborn infant to wrap his arms around Fingon’s trembling shoulders. The child chose this moment to tell him in no uncertain terms how little it enjoyed its increasingly cramped quarters, and suggested he stop making the matter worse. Fair enough, he thought and carefully lowered Fingon to the ground, letting his cousin lay half in his lap while he awkwardly stroked his unruly hair. When he finally managed to coax from him the source of his fear, and Fingon related the contents of Irmo’s list, all the blood drained from Maglor’s face.

Nutunto was furious.

“Elbereth!” she cried up to the stars when night came, “How could you allow this? I thought you had more sense! I beg of you, if there is any love for us left in your heart, hear my words.”

Nutunto paused, drew in a deep breath, and proceeded to tell Varda at length exactly what she thought of the Valar’s latest attempt to save them. Her monologue was not very reverent and involved quite a great deal of unsavoury language. She hoped Varda would understand, if indeed she was even listening. Her boldness was rewarded with her own visit from Irmo later that night who informed her that Aulë and Yavanna had been reprimanded and was rather helpful in addressing her remaining concerns.

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When Ereinion was born he had ten perfect fingers that curled into little fists, ten round little toes that splayed when he yawned, and a full head of striking silver hair.

“Do you, uh, happen to have Telerin heritage my dear?” Fingon asked Nutunto.

“I do now,” she replied.

Ereinion squirmed in Fingon’s arms, screwed up his face and began to suck rather frantically on his fist. Fingon felt a sudden pang of panic rise up in his chest.

“How are we going to feed him?”

He looked over to Nutunto, who was already beginning to unlace her tunic.

“Don’t worry about that darling. I have had my own little heart to heart with Irmo on the matter. He was very anxious to ensure I understood I did not have to take up the Valar’s offer to induce lactation. It seems someone had a brusque word with him on matters of consent.”

“I wonder who that could have been,” Maedhros commented mildly as he helped Fingon pass the infant to her before he started squalling.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Nutunto remarked with a sly smile.

Maedhros turned his attentions back to his beloved cousin. Tired, sweaty, and covered in smears of only Varda knew what, Maedhros still thought him the most wonderful person he’d ever had the good fortune to know.

“Would you like me to help you take a bath?” he asked, reminded a little guiltily of the importance of consent himself, “Of course, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, so if you’d rather I didn’t I’ll quite understand.”

“Yes, please,” Fingon accepted gratefully, “after all, you have seen it all before, haven’t you? Just promise you won’t start thinking of me any differently.”

“What? Like as a lover? Fingon, you know I’d never.” Maedhros frowned. Hadn’t he proved that to him hundreds of times by now?

“No,” Fingon smiled tiredly, “Like gross, disgusting, weak and helpless.”

Maedhros laughed, “That’d be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

Fingolfin clutched his grandson jealously. It was rather difficult to wrest him from the arms of Maedhros, where he was to be found almost constantly when not held by his parents. Maedhros reached over to brush a silver strand of hair from Ereinion’s forehead. Fingolfin glared at him, earning a laugh from Fingon.

“What names have you chosen for him?” Fingolfin enquired.

Fingon, Nutunto and Maedhros exchanged looks.

“Finwain Ereinion Artanáro,” Fingon mumbled, a little embarrassed.

Fingolfin did not look shocked. “My, that certainly leaves no question as to his claim, does it?” he commented mildly.

Maedhros shifted uncomfortably, which pleased Fingolfin more than he cared to admit.

“Which is why his mother name is Gil-Galad,” Nutunto added, “so the poor boy shall not be forced to utter that mouthful every time he wishes to introduce himself.”

“For his hair, I presume?” Fingolfin asked.

Nutunto nodded.

Fingolfin sighed, “It’s not the first hair-related name in our family either, but at least you are more creative than Nerdanel about it. Did she not at first want to call both of your youngest brothers Ambarussa, Russandol?”

“You think three redheads in one family too many, uncle?”

“Of course not, my dear nephew, only that they should not also all be called Redhead.”

Fingolfin was forced to give up his determined possession of Ereinion as the infant began to fuss.

“You knew,” Maedhros accused in the quiet that followed while Fingon found Nutunto a comfortable corner in which to feed him.

“Did you think Fingon was the only one that received a nocturnal visit from that fool Irmo?”

“When?” Maedhros was curious to know.

“Shortly before Finrod’s letter arrived. Incidentally, thank you for caring so well for my son in my absence.”

“I am glad I could be there to support him in this trying time. It has been my pleasure.”

Maedhros meant that very sincerely. He thought of the small moments of joy that had been an almost daily occurrence over the last year. How wonderful it felt to walk into a room expecting to find Fingon there, hale and whole, and not have to wonder if he was safe until the next letter came. His voice, singing out in its clear tenor tones, seldom went unheard for long, and how warm it made Maedhros feel to hear it. How nice it had been to have Fingon so close to him again. Maedhros knew it would have to end soon. He could not delay returning to Himring much longer, and they would be obliged to part again.

After a moment Maedhros added, “I have always loved Fingon, uncle.”

“And I am glad of it. Please don’t ever stop.”

Fingolfin reached up to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you think we should tell them?” Maedhros asked.

“Not yet. It is far too enjoyable watching them dance around the truth. Don’t you think?”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Your thoughts and comments are always welcome. As this is a little different to what I've written before I'm especially keen to hear what you did or didn't like.

Gil-Galad managed to pick up quite a few names. Tolkien’s conceptions for the character, particularly his parentage changed quite a few times with different versions of the legendarium. Technically his name when he is Fingon’s son is Findor. Ereinion is given as his birth name and Artanáro his father name. He is also variously named Finwain, Finellach and Rodnar. Not quite as many names as Túrin, but still impressive.

Ambarussa, meaning "top russet" and Russandol "copper top" are both variations on the theme of redhead, as is Maedhros actually which means "shapely and redhaired". The naming practices within the House of Finwë, featuring politically charged and questionable name choices, is quite a fun deep dive if you are so inclined.

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It turned out to be quite difficult to hide a pregnancy, even in a place so cold and remote as Himring. It was at least not considered unusual that Fingon insisted on wearing his cloak absolutely everywhere, even in front of the roaring fire in the dining hall. However, even with this helpful piece of nicely concealing garb, the shape of his growing abdomen was becoming harder to hide.

“Why are there so many blasted men here?” Fingon demanded of Maedhros as the sixth month of his unfortunate condition wore on, “it’s really rather rude you know. I came out here to hide and I’m beset with people that I must constantly dodge.”

“We are running a frontline defense here,” Maedhros replied mildly, “that requires a certain amount of manpower. We could arrange a little cottage for you in the woods? Nice and quiet, and far from the garrison?”

“Out in the cold, all by myself? No thank you!”

Maedhros chuckled, “Well stop your complaining then. Why are you in such a mood today?”

“A letter from father came. He wants to know how much longer my survey of the Eastern defenses is likely to require and laments my absence at Barad Eithel.”

“Ah, I see, which is a very Fingolfin way of saying “get your arse back here right now”. Shall I write to him for you? Pretend there is some sort of trouble in Thargellion that requires your attention?”

“What, and risk Caranthir working it out?”

That was risking extortion and they both knew it.

“The Gap then?”

Fingon gave him a withering look. Maehdros already knew his opinions on Maglor’s ability to keep a secret, which was about as effectively as a thunderstorm could imitate silence.

“Why not here?” Fingon suggested.

“Because your father knows I run a tight ship. It would only raise more suspicion.”

Fingon could not argue with that.

“Your opinion of Maglor may not be high,” Maedhros voice became quiet and serious all of a sudden, “and you have just cause not to trust him, terrible gossip and rumour monger that he was in Aman, but he has kept my confidence for many years.”

Fingon’s withering look softened to one that was merely suspicious.

“Truly. It appears he can keep quiet about a thing if he so chooses, and as no one believes that he is able to, it makes him remarkably effective at it.”

“I confess myself surprised.”

Maedhros leaned in very close, “He is the only one, apart from yourself, who knows quite how desperately hopeless I became in Angband. You know to what I refer, I will not speak it aloud.”

“Everyone knows you went a little bit mad there. Who wouldn’t after hanging from a blasted cliff for years?” Fingon whispered back.

“Ah, but almost no-one knows just how much. Only you and Maglor, and neither of you have told another soul.”

Fingon was silent for a moment. It was not a memory either of them enjoyed re-living.

“What manner of difficulties is your brother experiencing at the Gap? Pray tell! I shall be only too glad to help him resolve them.”

Maedhros smiled, “I do believe you should see them for yourself my prince. I expect you shall want to depart for my brother’s lands shortly?”

“Have you gone insane?” It was hard enough to stay low key at Himring, with a borderline antisocial host who actively avoided large gatherings. How much harder would it be when prevailing upon the hospitality of a socialite like Maglor?

“Once perhaps, but I assure you I am perfectly sane now. A change of scenery will do us both good. And I believe Nutunto shall be pleased.”

It was all over once Maedhros mentioned her name. Fingon knew when he was beaten, but whoever said he should be gracious in defeat?

“Maedhros?”

“Yes?”

“If Maglor blabs to Finrod I will personally cut off your other hand and see how much you like holding your sword between your toes.”

Irmo tiptoed up to Yavanna as she coaxed fruit from a vine in her garden.

“Manwë wants to know: do you have plans for the birth?”

“Sorry what?” Yavanna glared at Irmo.

“Birth. It is the process of pregnancy ending and the child becoming separate. Plans for the process by which this will occur is required by Manwë immediately,” Irmo informed her with some hesitation.

“Will it not just drop off of him like a fruit, or a discarded branch? That is how entings become separate.”

“No. Eldar do not function in quite the same way as ents.”

“Of course,” Yavanna lowered her voice, “Do not breathe a word to Manwë. As far as he is concerned, I am suitably aware of their anatomy. He will have his plans tomorrow.”

Irmo did not look convinced. Irmo did look rather soundly intimidated, “…if you say so.”

It was a rather long night for Yavanna. Aulë had nothing useful to share, so she was obliged to consult with Ulmo and Oromë, because they at least knew about animals. Neither were afraid to laugh in her face. Yavanna supposed she deserved that, but it was not an enjoyable experience. They had at least pitied her enough to come up with a workable solution that she could present to Manwë the next day.

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