Something New by Grundy

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Chapter 1

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Maeglin nearly crashed into two people as he rocketed out the doors of the House of the Mole. He spared neither time nor thought for the bemused looks he left in his wake, however. Tuor’s message had been quite clear.

Itarillë was in labor.

He was not the only one whose path carried him arrow-straight to the doors of the House of the Wing. He could see the crowd at the other end of the square parting to allow Laurefindil and Aunt Irimë through. He nodded to his mother’s cousin as they jogged up the stairs to the doors, which they courteously held open for their elder kinswoman.

Both the doors and the house itself were practically new, older than the child who would hopefully be there by day’s end by a mere handful of months. Most Ondolindrim found the speed of their princess’s courtship, marriage, and first child dizzying in and of itself, nevermind that it had been combined with the formation and building of a twelfth House. The building had barely been complete when Itarillë announced the begetting of her son.

Inside, a small cordon of Rillë and Tuor’s trusted retainers had posted themselves strategically – a few at the doors to intercept anyone whose curiosity overflowed its bounds, several strung out to impede the progress of anyone who ought not be heading anywhere beyond the entryway, and a pair on either side of the stairs that led to their lord and lady’s private quarters. From the sounds of it, most of the Wings were gathered in the great hall, awaiting word that the babe had arrived.

He and Laurefindil did not quite run once the doors had closed behind them. At least, they did not run until they reached the stairs. Laurefindil took them two at a time, which seemed an unnecessary risk to Maeglin, who simply quickened his pace to keep up.

“Mind you two don’t injure yourselves racing like that!” came Irimë’s warning from behind them. “Having to send for a healer to set whatever limbs you break when you miss a step will not be of any help!”

It didn’t slow either of them. Maeglin didn’t know about Laurefindil, but he had never had younger kin before, so being present for their birth was an impossibility. He wasn’t about to risk missing his nephew’s entrance to the world.

Maeglin was unsurprised to find Hendor outside the door to those quarters, one last hurdle for anyone who might have evaded the others. Seeing who it was, though, he simply opened the door with a smile to admit them.

Inside they found Tuor all of a dither – and not in the bedroom, but pacing anxiously in the spacious morning room.

“What are you doing out here?” Maeglin asked. “You should be with Itarillë.”

“She’s birthing,” Tuor replied, as if that explained anything.

“Of course she’s birthing, that’s why we’re here,” Laurefindil replied before Maeglin could. “Mother’s on the stairs, and if it weren’t for the child coming earlier than expected, you’d probably have had Turvo camped out here days in advance so as not to risk missing a moment.”

“Come on, we shouldn’t be standing around out here,” Maeglin added, continuing toward the bedroom door.

Tuor looked completely scandalized.

“But…men don’t belong in a birthing room!”

Laurefindil blinked, but Maeglin couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle.

Apparently, all those discussions his cousin had with her husband hadn’t covered all the differences between her people and his. Just as well they’d arrived before the King – Turukano would definitely not defer to mannish sensibilities at the birth of his first grandchild!

“Perhaps Men do not, but elven men do if they are kin to the mother and child. And the father most definitely should be in there!”

The door to Itarillë’s chamber opened and a thoroughly exasperated Rosalmiel poked her head out.

“Talk sense into him, would you?” she said, her tone making it more an order than a question. “I tried to tell him! Itarillë needs him – and the sooner, the better!”

Maeglin glanced at Laurefindil, who nodded ever so slightly, and the two of them each seized an elbow and walked Tuor into the room without any further discussion, though he was now babbling something about nearly eleven months not being at all early and he was sure that the pregnancy going this long meant something had gone wrong and…

“Be thankful we took the stairs like children instead of like properly sedate Noldorin princes,” Laurefindil suggested pleasantly. “Otherwise you’d be hearing Mother’s opinions on your failure to properly support your wife. As it is, I think we’re getting you where you belong just in time.”

“I’d be more concerned about Uncle’s opinions on the matter,” Maeglin added. “Risking his daughter and grandson’s well-being with such dereliction? I can only imagine what he would say.”

Tuor blinked at them in bewilderment.

“The only acceptable excuses for a living father not being present for his child’s birth all involve the Enemy,” Maeglin explained in an undertone, trying very hard not to laugh. “It is expected that the mother and child’s close kin will be present to support them as well, but the father’s presence is vital.”

With that, he gave Tuor a gentle shove toward the birthing stool, where things seemed to Maeglin’s inexperienced eye to be fairly well advanced. Rosalmiel shot him a grateful look, but it was Itarillë’s fervent thank you! in his head that really mattered.

Also, you might get over here as well, she added. Tuor really hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.

At that, Maeglin couldn’t help but chuckle.

As if I do? he asked.

As he strode to her side, the door opened again to admit both Aunt Irimë and Maeglin’s uncle, all but dancing in his eagerness to meet his grandson.

“Just in time,” Rosalmiel announced to the room. “Tuor, you’d best get ready to catch, this boy is in quite a hurry! If I’d had any notion it would go so quickly, I’d have told you to send messengers sooner.”

“Catch?” Tuor asked in a strangled tone. “I’m expected to catch?”

Don’t. You. Dare. Laugh! Itarillë ordered silently.

Most of her focus was on easing her son’s entrance into the world, so he couldn’t tell if her crushing grip on his hand was due to that or a reinforcement of her order. Either way, he managed to restrain himself, but only just barely.

“I would offer encouragement, but I haven’t actually been at a birth before,” he said aloud. “I really have no idea how things are supposed to go.”

“That makes two of us,” Itarillë confessed through gritted teeth.

“You seem to be doing well, from what I can tell,” Maeglin replied encouragingly.

“She’s doing very well indeed,” his uncle said proudly, tears in his eyes.

Tuor’s dithering was falling on determinedly indifferent ears. This time it was Rosalmiel strong-arming him into place whether he would or no.

There was a sudden sound from between Itarillë’s legs that had not come from Tuor. It was less a cry than grunt of indignation.

“There,” Rosalmiel said in satisfaction. “He’s a fine big lad, Itarillë, for all he’s so early.”

Tuor was apparently too shocked to repeat his earlier nonsense about eleven months being late.

“He looks very much as you did as a child,” Turukano told Itarillë proudly. “Have you a name ready for him, son?”

He looked toward Tuor, who appeared to be in such a daze that Maeglin wasn’t entirely sure he had heard the question. He did, however, bring the child up to where Itarillë could take him to hold.

“Oh, he’s such a darling!” she breathed.

Maeglin hadn’t ever seen a newborn before – at least, not one who had just been born. So he had no standard by which to judge, but Rosalmiel’s prouncement of ‘a fine big lad’ seemed to him to be over-generous. The boy was the tiniest child he’d ever seen. ‘Darling’ seemed a bit dubious as well, given how the babe was looking around with a scowl.

“He’ll grow,” Irimë chuckled. “Sorry lad, but you look nearly as dumbfounded as Tuor at the sight of him.”

“I’ve never had a nephew before,” Maeglin replied quietly.

“He’s looking at you,” Itarillë beamed. “That’s your uncle Maeglin, my sweet.”

At least the boy wasn’t scowling at Maeglin or Itarillë. In fact, he seemed to be regarding his uncle quite intently, as if deciding whether or not he’d measure up. He squirmed one arm free of the blanket Rosalmiel had wrapped him in, and waved it about. When Maeglin tried to tuck the little arm back in, the baby grabbed his finger with surprising strength for such a little thing.

“What are we to call him?” Maeglin asked, not taking his eyes off the tiny blue ones, and not entirely sure it was safe to leave the baby holding his finger. “I should like to say hello properly.”

“I hadn’t thought much on names yet,” Tuor admitted sheepishly.

“Well of course not,” Irimë said practically. “Who thinks about names before the child comes into the light? You can’t be sure a name will suit before you’ve laid eyes on him.”

That seemed to throw Tuor back into confusion.

“You may call him Ardamírë,” Itarillë announced firmly. “What’s more, you may make yourself useful and hold him for a few minutes.”

It’s a name of foresight. At least, I think it is, though I really don't understand what exactly I just saw, only that it was important somehow.

I'm sure it was something good, Maeglin replied.

“I’ve not held a baby before,” he added aloud.

“It’s not terribly complicated,” Aunt Irimë informed him drily. “Be sure to support his head, and for Nienna’s sake don’t drop him.”

That possibility had hadn’t thought of – he’d been more concerned that he might accidentally hurt the baby. Now he was actually worried.

You’ll be fine. I’ve seen you do wire work for hours at a time without breaking anything, and that’s far more delicate! Itarillë snorted. You can manage an infant for a few minutes.

He wasn’t as confident as she was, but he gamely let Itarillë pass the baby to him so she could get on with whatever it was Rosalmiel was now instructing her (and Tuor) to do.

“Hello, Ardamírë, I’m your uncle,” he told the child quietly.

Ardamírë for his part was regarding him solemnly with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Don’t look so worried, lad. You’re a natural. And he’d let you know if he was unhappy. Hello there, Ardamírë!”

Maeglin managed not to jump as his uncle’s arm was thrown around his shoulders. And this was one more new thing today – he had never seen Turukano look so happy before.

“What a lucky boy you are, Ardamirë, to have such an uncle. And such a mother!”