Happy Begetting Day by Ecthelion

Happy Begetting Day

Maedhros was conceived upon the long table in Nerdanel’s workshop. They were surrounded by countless sculptures of her crafting, elegantly shaped and masterfully arranged. As their flames entwined, her last sight was an almost-perfect statue she had sculpted after the smiths in her father’s forge, her husband among them. Meanwhile, he whispered softly in her ear, “I love you so.”

“He shall be Maitimo,” Nerdanel said, gazing at the boy as he tried to stand, already taller than most children of his age.

Maglor was conceived after a grand festival of music. The King of Alqualondë came to Tirion to commemorate the anniversary of the Teleri’s arrival in Aman and the Noldor’s reunion with their long-separated kin. The white city was alive with song for days, Telerin singers and harpers wandering the streets of Tirion, weaving melodies of love and visions of distant shores, setting everyone in a mood of love and longing, so enchanting that she and Fëanor could not but choose to bring forth another child, a testament to their union.

“Makalaurë shall he be,” said Nerdanel, gazing at the dark-haired boy in his crib, “for his voice shall be both mighty and tender, and it will move countless hearts.”

Celegorm was conceived upon the open green fields near the woods of Oromë. She and Fëanor were journeying together once more, after the busy yet rewarding years of raising their first two sons. The change of pace was a welcome refreshment, and she was reminded of the early days of their youth—when they ventured far and wide across the lands of Aman, coming to know each other as their hearts became one. They joined in the light of the Two Trees, near their horses, with long grass and wildflowers strewn about. Their indulgence, however, was unexpectedly interrupted: a large golden hound darted through the woods, startling them as they lay sated and forcing them to rise in haste, scrambling for clothing to cover themselves.

“Tyelkormo, as I perceive,” said Nerdanel, her gaze following the boy as he laughed at his elder brothers, strong and restless. “May the Valar grant him greater patience.”

By the time Caranthir was conceived, they had begun longing for a daughter.

“Three sons,” her husband declared, his unparalleled talent extending in every matter of lore, including the art of numbers, “do you realize how rare it is to have three sons in succession? It stands to reason that the next shall be a daughter.” Then he kissed her and began grazing at her ears and neck. “I would like one who looks just like you.”

The child did resemble her—in complexion, that is to say. Dark-haired, with ruddy cheeks and her features—but he was another son.

“I do not understand,” her husband lamented, incredulous. “I was thinking of a daughter—”

“Which is the same pronoun in our tongue,” she reminded him. “Perhaps you should work on expanding our vocabulary first, my master of words. Meanwhile, I shall name him Carnistir.”

The family accepted it without much fuss or sulking; after all, she and Fëanor were still young and eager, and they could afford more trial and error. The only complication was Celegorm, who insisted on calling his younger brother “little sister” until Caranthir grew old enough to bite him. It took both Maedhros and Maglor to pull them apart.

They tried again; Curufin was conceived in Fëanor’s workshop, next to the forge—in fact, upon the anvil itself. Her skin was streaked with ash and glimmering mineral dust when they finished, satisfied, the heat lingering on her and within her.

“I hope this one looks like you,” she said to him as he lifted her, “for we already have two who bear a clear trace of me, yet none who truly take after you.”

He pressed another kiss to her lips as he carried her to their chamber. “I will love them, no matter whom they resemble—and even more so, if they look like you.”

The newborn did indeed resemble him in every aspect, even in gender.

“Atarinkë you are,” she said, gazing at the sleeping baby surrounded by her four elder sons and her husband, sensing their quiet disappointment.

“Amíl, do you think we will ever have a little sister?” Celegorm asked, unable to hold back, clearly voicing the doubt on everyone’s mind.

“I do not yield to strange odds,” her husband vowed. “Let us try again—if my father could sire daughters, so can I.” This statement was rare indeed, for he seldom acknowledged his father’s other children.

He prepared meticulously, employing all the skills he had mastered over the years. She was brought to the peak of ecstasy, twice as high as she had ever known—twice, as if the very stars sang within her. All the while, he murmured repeatedly of beautiful children like her—unprecedented—with her eyes and copper-red hair like her father’s. When they drifted into dreams, exhausted, she felt something different settle within her and thought their efforts had finally concluded in perfection.

Until it was revealed to be twins—unheard of among the Eldar—and both were boys.

The family was amazed, joyful, and disappointed all at once, her husband most of all.

“I do not suppose you have more left in you, meldanya,” he said, holding her tightly after she gave birth. She knew he had always feared she might give too much of herself to their children, as his mother had, and leave him in the same manner.

“No; we have given all we could,” she replied, cradling her newborn twin sons. “They are Ambarussa, for their red hair, resemblance, and twinhood.”

“At least their names should be different?” her husband protested.

“Then let one be called Umbarto, but which, time will decide.”

“Ambarto, you mean?” her husband asked, frowning.

“Umbarto I spoke; yet do as you wish. It will make no difference.” (1)

For they are fated to be as they are, and we are fated to never have the daughter we so desired.

Chapter End Notes

(1) Nerdanel’s remarks on the naming of Amrod and Amras are quoted from HoME 12.

Unlike English, Quenya does not distinguish gender in pronouns.