One's Own by Urloth

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In Which Rúmil is Rúmil And Another Baby Is Born

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“I want a little sibling to,” Finëamírë said one day. She was sitting next to him in the library, listening to a story about the birth of The Trees.

“Why? You have an older one,” Fëanáro tried not to feel aggrieved.

“But you’re older,” Finëamírë said with great wisdom in her voice, “and I would like a younger sibling too; just like you have.”

“I don’t have an older sibling,” Fëanáro said, ignoring his unease at the proclamation and all his memories of the things his parents had said and left unanswered, “so we’re equal.”

Finëamírë narrowed her eyes at him.

“I think I’m going to get a little sibling anyway,” she said with a note of triumph, “because I think Father wants me to have one.”

“What makes you say that?” Fëanáro bristled.

“Because Father was saying we were growing so fast, and then he said he missed us being little ones. I think he wants another little one.”

That hurt.

“Aren’t we enough?” he asked her, “aren’t you upset he said that?”

“No,” Rúmil interrupted, having overheard them and come over from his desk. The great braid of his silver hair slithered about with his every movement, especially as he knelt to be at eye level with them, “no little cousin, because your sister knows wisely that your parents’ love for the both of you will be undiminished no matter how old you grow or how many siblings you have.”

Fëanáro looked at Finëamírë.

“What Rúmil said,” she said solemnly, “with all the long words as well.”

“Also,” Rúmil, the great fount of wisdom he was, said calmly, “any new child your parents might have would be the younger sibling of both of you.”

Wisdom dispensed he picked up the book Fëanáro had been reading to Finëamírë. “Ah this is a good story. Budge over and I shall read the next part.”

-

It therefore was not a surprise when their parents called them to them one evening, and Fëanáro recognised the content and happy look in their mother, and the excitement in their father.

“A big sister,” Finëamírë was bouncing on her feet, “A big sister! Am I going to have a little brother or a little sister?”

“The both of you,” their father said, “will have to wait, as your mother has decided she would like to keep it a secret.”

“Again?!” Fëanáro wailed. Finëamírë had been hard enough to wait to find out!! He had to wait again?!

“Yes again,” their mother’s smile was … just a little gleeful.

-

“She’s like a little puffy bird,” Finëamírë said contemplatively. The light of the trees was thick in the air, though not in the shadowed corner where their mother with her fragile skin was.

Their mother was napping. They had come to Mount Taniquetil for a festival, but today was a long rest day, and so they were sitting around, doing things to occupy their hands. Princess Indis of the Vanyar was sitting with them, humming to herself as she finished writing something on a large slate that she had balanced on her knees.

Fëanáro eyed her suspiciously.

He didn’t trust Indis’ hair.

It was puffy and gold and unlike the hair of any Noldor.

He was sure it ate things.

Their mother slept on in her large wicker chair, the back of it fanning out like the strange nuisance birds that liked to occupy the front lawn of Ingwë’s mountainous palace. They were, according to the High King himself, nice to eat, nice to look at, but an annoyance in all other things.

“Having a child is a taxing matter, especially the fourth child,” Indis said quietly in her sweet way, and then she put down her slate, picked up her lute and asked them if they wanted to hear a song before either of them could correct her.

-

“It’s going to be a girl,” Finëamírë said, “I can feel it in my bones.”

“You are far too young to feel anything in your bones except growth spurts,” Rúmil replied without batting an eyelash or breaking tone from his lecture about the coastal erosion being experienced by some Telerin settlements.

-

It seemed to Fëanáro that this pregnancy had passed far quicker, but far slower at the same time.

Which made no sense, frustrated him, and made him kick a wall as he glared at the improved design of his amber rattle, though to his mind he could still do better. He lifted it with care and turned it over in his hands.

“Have you come to tell me Mother is in labour,” he asked Rúmil sourly, “having stood at my door for at least the past hour?”

“You know me well,” Rúmil grinned, “hurry along little prince, I’ve been keeping half a mind on the proceedings with osanwë, and you’ve not a new sibling yet so no need to be waspish.”

Fëanáro carefully placed the rattle in the box he had made for it, more pleased, to be honest, with the parquetry of the box that Finëamírë had made for it, then the rattle itself though Rúmil, coming over to look at it, complimented both equally enough that he could not detect a bias either way.

He was old enough to be able to walk on his own just fine but his hand snuck into Rúmil’s as they walked towards those familiar rooms. There were scars on Rúmil’s palms, in amongst all of the callouses there from writing and reading. The red tattooing on his arms and legs (a tradition from the East that had not been continued in the West) was slashed all over. Fëanáro glanced at their joined hands, and at the red inking of Rúmil’s finger tips. His parents had markings like this, subtly different. Fëanáro was sure there were stories in them, but the most he knew was that the palm was the clan mark, and the back of the hand was Tata’s mark.

The Eighteen Pointed Star on the back of Rúmil’s hand taunted him, promising stories that no one was willing to tell him.

Finëamírë was sitting with a maid but she jumped up and went running towards him, nearly knocking him over with her hug. She was wide eyed, even frantic looking.

“I heart Mother scream,” she whispered, shivering all over.

“Giving birth is, like most strenuous physical activities, uncomfortable,” Rúmil’s bland voice shattered Fëanáro’s own panicked reaction to the thought of their mother in pain enough that she had screamed.

“How would you know,” he cast Rúmil a frown, stroking Finëamírë’s hair which was a mess of curls that no one had bothered to brush. He reached into his belt pouch and rummaged around till he found the one he kept for when he had to run to dinner straight from his workshop. He sat down and began to laboriously unpick the knots and tangles.

“I could have given birth,” Rúmil said, and Fëanáro glared at him.

“You are a man,” he said, “men do not give birth.”

“Oh precious innocent summer child,” Rúmil smiled and the smile sent horrific chills down Fëanáro’s spine, “the things you do not know… yet.”

“Rúmil stop frightening my son,” Finwë ordered from the doorway.

“Father,” Fëanáro gave him a wide eyed glance, “men can’t give birth can they?!”

“No,” Finwë cast Rúmil a glance that was unreadable to Fëanáro despite his large vocabulary of his father’s various looks, glances, gazes, and glares. Rúmil made a coughing noise that sounded a lot like ‘coward.’

“Is the baby born yet?” Finëamírë asked tremulously. Their father opened his mouth but sudden shrill crying interrupted him. He gave them a tired smile, “yes.”

“But I only just arrived here,” Fëanáro said, shocked, “Finëamírë took much longer.”

“Sometimes later births are easier and take less time,” Finwë suddenly glared at Rúmil whose mouth had opened but shut when the glare was received with a tiny click of teeth, “Finëamírë’s birth took less than yours.”

“How long did Fëanáro’s birth take?” Finëamírë squirmed until Fëanáro let go of her hair, racing across to wrap their father’s legs in an hug. Finwë simply lifted her off his legs and onto his hip so he could walk, a hand reaching for Fëanáro’s which Fëanáro happy grabbed onto.

“Two days.”

Fëanáro spared a moment of envy at his father’s height and strength.

Finëamírë had a strong grip. It was hard to break sometimes when she really didn’t want to let go of you.

“Fëanáro did you ever apologise to Mother?” Finëamírë asked him solemnly.

“Why should I apologise for being born?” Fëanáro glared back but he did wonder if he should.

Their mother was sitting up against bright blue pillows, gently shushing and rocking the bundle in her arms with an amused and weary grin upon her face. There was something slightly off about her appearance; something different about her face but Fëanáro couldn’t quite put his finger on the change.

“There, quiet again. And hello my children, I hope you were not outside long.”

Fëanáro was unbearably happy to see her all of a sudden. He wasn’t sure why, but it was as though a fear that he’d not known was there went away all at once when he heard her speak, and met her eyes.

“Hello,” he whispered, climbing up onto the bed with no help, whilst his father settled Finëamírë on Míriel’s other side.

“Hello Nárenya, what was that I heard from the corridor? Was Rúmil being mean to you?”

“No,” he denied, as Rúmil, who had settled at a chair a respectful distance from the end of the bed said, “character building.”

“Liar,” Míriel returned to her cousin.

“Mother I want to see the baby,” Finëamírë piped up, impatient and straining to have a look at what the blanket of brilliant blue and silver stars, each one a different design, and each one as intricate as the last, held within.

Míriel lowered her arms obligingly.

Fëanáro leaned in. He knew the baby would be scrunched and pink, and this time he knew not to hold that against the baby.

“….they don’t have hair…they don’t even have eyebrows,” Fëanáro was horrified.

“Yes he does,” Míriel protested, stroking her finger along the ridge where the baby’s eyebrows should have been.

A boy then.

Fëanáro stuck his tongue out at Finëamírë only to have it caught and tugged by their mother immediately.

He mumbled an apology, and watched her stroke the baby’s brow ridge again. Very fine, fair hairs caught the light and revealed themselves when she disturbed them.

Oh, he frowned and then the light of understanding dawned abruptly. He reached out, hesitantly, and stroked the baby’s head with his fingertips. There was downy hair there, but too light to be seen.

“Oh he has Mother’s hair,” Finëamírë squirmed.

Fëanáro nodded, speechless. He stroke the baby’s head again, and his newest brother stirred restlessly, pursing his lips and flexing hands as tiny and well-formed at Finëamírë’s had been.

Fëanáro wasn’t sure how he felt. Awed, perhaps, and just a little bit jealous.

“Here, straighten up love,” Fëanáro immediately wriggled back, arms ready. Now it was Finëamírë’s turn to be arranged like a doll, showing her how to hold the baby when it was her turn. Fëanáro spared a moment to feel smug that he already knew, even though he knew that wasn’t fair to Finëamírë.

His new brother’s weight seemed even less than his sister’s had been.

Again the baby stirred, restless and then opened his eyes.

Fëanáro knew, academically, that infants could not see very well, his father had explained that to him when Finëamírë had been born. That did not stop the feeling the baby was looking straight at him.

“Is he Finwion as well?” he asked, aware of Finëamírë fussing for her turn to hold the baby.

“Yes but of course once day he will be a Finwë just like you,” his mother kissed his hair, leaning in to wrap her arm around his body and adjust his hold on his brother.

He tried to imagine what sort of name his brother would bear one day. He had no idea. His brother was just born and had, really, no personality at all.

“My turn,” Finëamírë interrupted, “Fëanáro I want to hold him too. Father I want to-”

Finwë placed a finger over her lips.

Fëanáro hugged the new Finwion a little tighter for a few more moments out of defiance then handed the baby to his father, who made sure Finëamírë was holding her arms properly.

Fëanáro leaned into Míriel, and her hand stroked through his hair almost immediately.

“Mother,” he murmured and turned into her, wrapping his arms around her even though it was so awkward so he could hug her tight. She was soft around the middle still, and smelled of the herbal rinses that healers liked to put in the water they cleaned patients with to keep bad auguries away. Beside them Finëamírë commented immediately that ‘Finwion looks like a prune,’ to their father’s choked laugh and Rúmil’s outright joy at her proclamation.

“Your and Rúmil’s eyebrows are dark,” he looked at Rúmil who was leaning over towards Finëamírë, trying to see the child as well. Rúmil’s eyebrows were as black as his, or Finëamírë’s, or his father’s. He glanced at his mother’s eyebrows…and startled. Usually Míriel’s well-shaped brows were as black as Rúmil’s, but now they were a light grey only a few shades darker than the silver of her hair.

When had that happened?!

“The wonders of coal dust,” she chuckled, “a little piece of wisdom which I’m sure your brother will learn in time.”