Happy Begetting Day by Ecthelion

| | |

To the Beautiful Daughters

“It concerns me,” Fingolfin said to Anairë as soon as they returned home from the King’s house, “that so far, all of us have only had sons—me, Ingoldo, and Fëanáro, as we have just learned.”

“Especially in your elder brother’s case—twin sons after having five—I wonder how he will take that,” Anairë said with a soft sigh. “Surely, he will love them,” she added, “but I worry about Nerdanel. Could she even try again, assuming he has not already given up? Seven children… it is almost unthinkable.” She shivered slightly, as though the very thought unsettled her.

Fingolfin nodded in agreement. “I cannot even imagine us having more than four, considering how much Findekáno and Turukáno have taken from you already. But I do think daughters are far too rare in this generation.”

“Fortunately, we still have time and vigor,” Anairë said with a reassuring tone. “The same goes for Eärwen and Ingoldo, though they have more sons than we do.”

“I will speak to Ingoldo about this tomorrow,” Fingolfin said firmly, his voice resolute.

The next day, when Fingolfin found his younger brother in the garden, he quickly realized how awkward the topic was, even though he and Finarfin were no strangers to difficult discussions. To Fingolfin's relief, however, Finarfin seemed more thoughtful and engaged than usual after hearing his elder brother’s concerns about the absence of daughters in their family.

“But this is the will of Eru, is it not?” Finarfin replied after a moment of contemplation. “How can we ever hope to change it?”

“Just as we seek to change anything,” Fingolfin answered. “Help me think of what we can do.”

They pondered together, the wise and noble princes of Tirion, from the time Telperion began to bloom until Laurelin’s light faded. Only their shining eyes betrayed the stirring and kindling of their thoughts as they went to and fro in silent exchange. (1)

“Since we are trying to have daughters, I suppose the ladies may hold the stronger influence?” Finarfin finally ventured, speaking tentatively after much wine and no small measure of embarrassment. “Perhaps it is up to our wives?”

This theory, though unsupported by evidence, sounded plausible enough at first. And when they heard more rumors from the attendants about how their elder brother had managed to father twins, it suddenly seemed well-founded.

“Looks like our elder brother tried too hard, as he does in everything,” Fingolfin remarked with a wry smile. “All right, let us consult with Anairë and Eärwen, and, with the blessing of the Valar, perhaps our concerns will be resolved.”

Fingolfin had anticipated a delicate discourse with his wife, who was ever composed and proper, never embarking on adventures or indulging in the unexpected. (2) To his pleasant surprise, Anairë considered his words only briefly before replying, “I also feel it is time for another child, and preferably a daughter. What should I do?”

“Well, that is the difficult part,” Fingolfin admitted. “If our theory is correct, you shall lead, and I will follow. Be a little creative—different than before.” He stopped himself from adding, but not as different as my elder brother did, unwilling to stifle her imagination.

Anairë was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded with quiet determination. “So be it.”

Fingolfin was taken aback by the spark in her eyes—this was unfamiliar to him, as though his wife had just revealed a side of herself he had never known.

Some time passed, and nothing came of it. Just as the matter was slipping from Fingolfin’s mind, he was caught completely off guard upon entering his bedchamber one day.

A pair of gentle hands covered his eyes from behind, quickly and deftly tying a blindfold over his head. The knot felt intricate and artful, judging by the precise movements he could sense.

“Anairë?” he asked, unable to resist after the initial shock. She gave no reply. Instead, a finger pressed softly against his lips—a clear command to silence. Then, one of her hands slipped into his and began leading him forward.

Disoriented, he could not tell where they were going, but the texture beneath his feet and the faint scents in the air suggested they were heading toward the stables. His guess was confirmed when her guiding hand released him briefly, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse being brought forward.

Obeying her silent commands, he mounted, resisting the urge to remove the blindfold or voice the questions racing through his mind. His thoughts spun wildly—wondering what the household staff might think if they saw this—but he quickly realized it was far too late for such concerns. He felt her mount behind him, her arms wrapping around him securely, as though he were a maiden and she, the steadfast, protective partner.

“Steady yourself, meldanya,” she whispered in his ear. Before he could reply, she urged the horse forward with a decisive nudge of her knee, sending it into a sudden gallop.

They raced through the streets of Tirion, veering off the familiar paths that wound around the city, descending steadily toward the green fields of Calacirya. When the breeze carried the faint, salty tang of the sea to his nose, she finally brought the horse to a halt. Gently, she helped him dismount, then guided him to sit on a soft patch of grass.

Her kiss found his lips with such forcefulness and fervor that, for a moment, he was almost startled. As he opened his mouth to speak, intending to ask, “Are you sure about this? We do not have to—” she silenced him with another kiss, firmly pushing him onto his back. Her hands guided his to her breast and waist, and only then did he realize she was bare beneath his touch.

The words dissolved into the wind, carried away by the rising anticipation. A strange yet familiar fire kindled within him, and he surrendered himself to her completely, asking no further questions.

When they finished, his blindfold had long since slipped away and now hung loosely around his neck, though the intricate knot remained securely tied. They lay together in the green fields near the exit of Calacirya, where the silver light of Telperion bathed the blades of grass in a soft, grey sheen. Nearby, their horse, a white stallion, grazed peacefully by a stream, while the white city of Tirion stood proudly upon Túna, gleaming like crystal and pearl beneath the radiant light.

“That was... unexpected,” he said, thoroughly satisfied, his fingers tracing the curve of her shoulders. She had been incredible—commanding yet giving, an exquisite display of power and pleasure that was entirely new to him.

“I had some help from Írimë,” she replied, her voice soft and languid as she began to drift into a sated slumber.

“Írimë?” he repeated, sitting up in disbelief. “But she does not even have a lover—”

“You do not need a lover to understand love,” she murmured, her voice growing faint as sleep claimed her. “I have a feeling this will be a daughter, and this time, I shall name her Irissë and make it widely known that she is what we have so greatly desired—you cannot make me keep her amilessë hidden as you did with those of our elder boys.”

“That was only because you named both of them ‘king,’ which would certainly have provoked my elder brother—” he began, but she had already slipped into repose, a familiar sign that a child was taking hold.

“Irissë she is, then,” he whispered as he gently lifted her into his arms. “In fact, that will be her father-name as well.”

It truly turned out to be a girl—a precious daughter. That same year, Finarfin’s daughter was also born. At their celebration afterward, the brothers sat together, watching the little girls play. One golden-haired, the other dark-haired, both still unsteady on their feet as they toddled about, their laughter ringing out brightly against the gentle murmur of conversation.

Nerdanel remained at rest after the birth of her twin sons, but Maedhros and Maglor had come. Maedhros, close in age to Fingolfin and a familiar presence in his house, sat with Fingon, the two exchanging jokes and laughter as longtime friends often do. Meanwhile, Maglor sang a soft marching tune, his light voice carrying through the air as he watched the little girls scramble and play together.

“Now we both have our daughters,” Fingolfin said, raising a toast to his younger brother, who returned the gesture with a grin. “Did you do something extraordinary?”

“Indeed,” Finarfin replied, a twinkle in his eye. “It was one of the boldest things we have ever done—we took a boat from Alqualondë and tried to sail to Tol Eressëa.”

Fingolfin raised a brow, intrigued. That was certainly adventurous. “How did it go?” he asked, his curiosity fully awakened. He had never set foot on the Lonely Isle, the place their ancestors were said to have sailed upon as a living ship during their journey to Aman—or so the tales claimed.

“We never truly made it,” Finarfin admitted with a sheepish smile. “You know I am no great sailor, even though she is. But we did behold its shores and glimpsed a white tower gleaming in the distance.”

He paused, a fond smile tugging at his lips as the memory surfaced. “She said she saw starlight caught in my golden hair, as though the light of the Two Trees had entwined there.”

Fingolfin immediately raised his glass again, deciding the details were more than he needed to hear. “Anyway, to our beautiful daughters,” he said, smoothly steering the conversation back.

“To our beautiful daughters,” Finarfin echoed with a chuckle, raising his glass in turn.

The story below may or may not have happened

After returning to Tirion that day, Fingolfin found the knotted cloth to be quite a nuisance. It was impossible to simply remove it from over his head, and he did not wish to cut it. He spent an entire day trying to untangle the knot, but in the end, he had to leave it hanging around his neck until Anairë awoke three days later.  

Not long after, a peculiar trend began spreading throughout the city: everyone started wearing folded pieces of fine linen around their necks, adorned with beautiful and intricate knots. Alongside this fashion came the tale of Princess Charging. After the birth of Aredhel, the story gained even greater popularity. It was said that a certain Maia, upon hearing of the House of Finwë’s predicament of producing no daughters in the third generation, had personally arrived on a white horse, charging in like a princess, to bestow a few much-needed lessons upon Prince Fingolfin. The results, as the tale went, were immediate and effective—benefiting even the House of Finarfin.

People could not help but remark that, had the Crown Prince not been so hasty and waited a few more years, he might have also benefited from this blessing and perhaps even fathered a pair of twin daughters. For a time, “Do not be hasty” became the city’s most popular greeting—but that, as they say, is a story for another time. 

Chapter End Notes

(1) “Only their shining eyes betrayed the stirring and kindling of their thoughts as they went to and fro in silent exchange.” (Adapted from The Lord of the Rings)<br />
(2) “never embarking on adventures or indulging in the unexpected.” (Adapted from The Hobbit)

I have often wondered why Fingolfin’s children did not have recorded mother-names, so I wove this into my imagination.

The relative timing of the births of Amrod and Amras compared to Aredhel and Galadriel is unknown; I have assumed that Amrod and Amras were older, which seems the more likely scenario.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment