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Artanáro. Quenya, “noble flame”, “noble fire”.
Fingon struggled to come up with an ataressë for his son.
He had started thinking the moment his wife told him she was expecting a boy. Fingon wanted his son to have a name that would fit the family name. A name that would make him proud, that would speak of his courage, and of his strength. He wanted to give the child a piece of the family legacy.
But finding the perfect name for the firstborn son of the High Prince of the Noldor had proven to be no easy task. Fingon had actually written several options, both in Quenya and in Sindarin, and had stared long and hard at the names written in Cirth and Tengwar, hoping that the aesthetics would help him make up his mind. He had searched in many books, of lore and of children’s stories. He had asked his kin and his wife’s kin, the people of Círdan. He had even consulted with his father.
However, as the due date approached, Fingon had grown more and more anxious. He had not yet found the perfect name, the name the first prince of the Noldor born in Beleriand would bear, maybe even the name he might one day be known as King... No, it was best not to dwell on such thoughts.
A mere two weeks away from the due date, Fingon started to feel the crushing weight of the family legacy. His father had led the host of the Noldor across the Grinding Ice, sustaining them by sheer force of will. Fingon himself had dared the many perils of Thangorodrim, in enemy territory, to bring his cousin back and establish a truce that had seemed uneasy at first, but was becoming more stable as the years went by. If his son ever had to lead the Noldor (and Fingon wanted to think that was a big if) he did not want him to have to do so under the enormous shadow of his father and grandfather, not to mention his many cousins.
Fingon did not voice his concerns, but his wife put them in words a week before the birth date.
“I understand that you Golodhrim are very attached to family names.” She had said in that practical tone of hers that had made Fingon notice her among the crowds at the Mereth Aderthad. “But I think it is hardly fair to task a small child with the duty to live up to your legacy, just because of a name.” She had rubbed a hand over the swell of her belly and stared directly at her husband, a hint of accusation shining in her grey eyes. “The Powers know that he will grow up in hard enough times, and will have to prove his strength and courage much earlier than we expect. I do not wish for my son to also have to deal with the pressure of filling your shoes.”
She was right, and Fingon went back to the drawing board, unsure of what he wanted his son to be named. If he was honest with himself, Fingon did not wish for his son to grow up thinking he had to prove his worth in a foolish task. He wanted the boy to grow strong, to be able to face the challenges that this war would no doubt throw at him and his people. He hoped the child would not inherit his own recklessness. However he wished for the boy to have some of the fire of the House of Finwë.
Eventually he picked Artanáro. Noble flame. It honoured his noble lineage, and the courage he would be know for in the coming years. It seemed fitting.
Gil-galad. Sindarin, “Star of Radiance”.
His wife had much less trouble figuring out what she wanted her son to be named. The child had the brightest eyes she had ever seen, a sharp blue that outmatched even his fathers’, who had seen the Light of the Two Trees. But she had only ever seen the light of the stars of Elbereth, and so she came up with a name for her child.
Or that was what she said to her husband. What she did not say was that she had seen what he would become. When she first realised she was expecting, she knew the child was destined for a great fate. Greater than his father, and perhaps even than this grandfather. When she felt him move in her womb for the first time, she knew he would be strong, he would be brave. He would have no choice. She could see now the darkness that lay ahead, barely kept at bay by the swords of the Golodhrim, her husband and his kin. Their son was destined to lead the fight against the darkness, to shine bright as a beacon of hope for his people, and for the fate of Arda. She saw it clear when the midwife handed him over and put him to her breast.
She named him Gil-galad, Sindarin for star of radiance, the language of her people, and of her son. It seemed fitting.
Ereinion. Sindarin, “Scion of Kings”.
Fingolfin had no trouble coming up with a name for his first grandson, even though Elven tradition did not call for grandparents to pick a name.
Picking up the babe from his mother’s arms, just a few hours after the youngest member of the House of Finwë had opened his eyes to the world for the first time, Fingolfin smiled tenderly at the tiny red face and the closed eyes. Having been cleaned and fed, the baby had fallen fast asleep, and it was time for the new parents to have some rest as well, so the High King had been delighted to look after his grandson while the child’s parents prepared for bed.
He gently tickled the tiny chin, and the baby squirmed in his grandfather’s arms, still asleep. Fingon felt a lump in his throat when he saw the look of clear adoration in his father’s eyes, looking down at the babe. He had never fully understood the meaning of unconditional love until he had held his son for the first time. He understood now.
“He will make a fine prince of the House of Finwë.” Fingolfin said approvingly, as the baby´s tiny fingers curled around his grandfather’s large index. “A true scion of kings indeed.” But the High King’s eyes now moveed on to his son, his eyes shining warmly with the same loving expression. Fingon threw his arms around his father and wrapped him in a hug, careful not to disturb his son’s sleep. Fingolfin leaned onto his embrace, until the High Prince stepped back, and reached out to his son.
“Sleep well, Ereinion.” Fingolfin said quietly, as he passed the sleeping child to his father’s arms. “And you too, my son.” He pressed a light kiss to Fingon’s brow, and with a bow to his daughter-in-law, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Ereinion”, Fingon said to himself, as he lowered his son to his crib, beside his now sleeping wife, exhausted after the ordeal. It seemed fitting.