Great was the lamentation in Hithlum when the fall of Fingolfin became known, and Fingon in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor; but his young son Ereinion (who was after named Gil-galad) he sent to the Havens. –The Silmarillion, Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin

 Ereinion had fought sleep that night with a tenacious valor reminiscent of that of his father. Tadiel looked down upon the young boy, his eyelids finally drooping shut over his jewel bright eyes, so like those of Fingon. His hair fanned out across the pillow, closer to the auburn of her own than his father's sable locks. The small face reflected only Fingon. Although perhaps not quite as pretty, there was no mistaking the strong jaw line and the incipient hawkish Finwëan nose. She tucked the quilt tighter around his chin and began a lullaby of her own device, more melancholy in tone than she would have chosen had she not believed he was already more asleep than awake.  

A chéneg A ionneg 
Pant galu pant glas 
A naenatha hún nín 
Ne chinn lín cenim: 
Le iôn adar lín 
û iôn naneth lín.1  

As she sang the last line, a soft snick of the latch opening and closing drew her eyes to the door. Fingon entered, saying, "Everything is prepared for tomorrow and . . . " before pausing to draw his eyebrows together into the pretense of a scowl. She guessed from the shadow that clouded Fingon's face for an instant that he had caught the wistful lyrics of her lullaby. 

"Ai, woman, don't be so tragic," he said, lowering his voice. "One of the reasons Maitimo and I chose you was that you did not have that mawkish my-best-years-are-behind me air that so many Noldorin women sport like it is their finest cloak. We needed someone who could make us laugh. Someone with a spine of steel."  

"Pshaw! You thought you needed a Sindarin woman and I was the one you knew best. Maybe you should have married one of his followers at Himring. They certainly do not affect that attitude. They are more the free-at-last-and-proud-of-it, I'll-run-you-through-if-you-cross-me types." She tried to hold onto her demeanor of perhaps insulted or offended. Failing miserably, she allowed herself to smile at him, although tears still stung her eyes. "And how dare you . . . as though I've never laughed with you, Finno." 

"That's my Tadiel!" He pulled her up from the child's bed and hugged her tight against his chest, roughly stroking her hair, making it difficult for her to breathe with her nose pressed against the harsh wool of his scratchiest outer coat. "Actually, you usually laugh at me." 

She laughed while sobbing. "Why do I feel like I will never see you again?" 

"Hush. Hush," he said, kissing her all over her face. "You're going to wake him up and even I, despite my infinite patience with the cheeky little reprobate, cannot handle that right now. Círdan is a hard nut. He will protect the two of you with his life. He fears my wrath." They both grinned at that remark. Círdan, like so many others, adored the new High King of the Noldor. But they both knew Círdan's testy gruffness and impatience with Fingon at times simultaneously annoyed the king while reminding him fondly of his father. "Come along, sweetheart. He will sleep until morning if you don't roust him with your maudlin wailing." 

"What do I get in return for coming with you?" she teased. 

"The best I've got in me. I do try." He winked at her, holding her chin in his hand. "And succeed as often as not, don't I?" 

"Finno." She sighed deeply, which made him chuckle. "You are lovely." She stroked his cheek, looking up into his sapphire eyes, feeling the stricture of her chest again, which had nearly loosened for a moment. "You know I've never had any complaints. Quite the contrary." Her voice turned husky as she sniffed involuntarily. He wiped the tip of her nose with his fist, making a great show of cleaning his hand on his surcoat. He got the giggle he wanted, along with a light cuff to the shoulder. She cleared her throat, determined, for love of him, to put on the pluckiest face she could manage. "Well, maybe a few complaints. But only related to frequency not quality. And you've always made me regret those the next time you were in the mood." 

"I'm in the mood now, love. Feel that?" he asked, prodding her in the stomach with the proof of his inclination.  

----------- 
1"Gilraen's Song," written for the films, lyrics by Philippa Boyens, Sindarin translation by David Salo.

 
Original English lyrics: 

Little boy, little one, 
Full of grace full of joy, 
Oh, my heart will break, 
For I see in your eyes: 
You are your father’s son, 
Not your mother’s child.

 

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