Whatever You Say, Ace by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Twelve

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.