Work Text:
One of the more rebellious impulses of Nerdanel’s heart, since her marriage, has been to take an interest in her brother-in-law’s doings—indeed, to name Fingolfin as her brother-in-law at all. Before she met him, she had the blackest impression of his character, all on account of Feanor. A single encounter had been enough to dispel that impression forever, and had done a fair amount of work in Fingolfin’s favor. (That was before her wedding.)
In his features, he resembles Finwe more than Feanor does, though he is like neither of them in temperament. Where Finwe is gregarious and gentlemanly, Fingolfin is studied in his manners. Where Feanor sparkles with vivacity (and sometimes, crueler things), what light is in Fingolfin’s spirit shines softer, steadier.
Freshly in the bloom of marriage herself, Nerdanel has sometimes thought that she would like to see him in love.
But what kind of woman would suit him? That is a harder question, and one she cannot (of course) raise with Feanor. Domesticity has not softened him on old scores. Why, even in the first few months of Maedhros’ life, she could scarcely permit Fingolfin to cuddle his half-nephew without earning a thunderous glare and an even more thunderous tirade on the long coach-ride home. Already, little Maedhros was frightened by his father’s storming. His wide grey eyes grew impossibly round; he forgot to suck his thumb, his lips trembling silently.
He does not cry very often, her Maitimo. He is always listening to everybody else.
Fingolfin finds love not long before Nerdanel’s second-born is to enter the world—and she is forced to learn of it through whispers and hints at first. Finally, Finwe makes a proud announcement, in his blushing son’s hearing, that a betrothal is very much expected to be imminent.
“You will like Anaire tremendously,” Finwe says, in a voice not quiet enough to be successfully conspiratorial. “She is French, by blood, but do not let that fool you—her airs and graces are as pleasing and unaffected as your own.”
“Father,” Fingolfin says, “I beg you would not—I mean, I think Nerdanel must form her own opinion, at—”
“At the altar? For I dare not hope we shall see much of her before then. He is always slipping away of a Sunday, my dear, to say his prayers at another table.”
“Where did you meet?” Nerdanel asks Fingolfin, shifting a squirming Maedhros on her knees, so that his sharp little elbows do not stab the baby—who has stopped squirming, for once.
“I…” Fingolfin’s voice seems unequal to an answer, for a moment, but then he clears his throat and begins again manfully, “I was fortunate enough to be seated beside her at a dinner some months ago. That was enough.”
“He is a conversationalist, in the right company,” Finwe says proudly. He loves his younger sons dearly: Nerdanel knows this, and is always satisfied to observe it, when Feanor is away—as he is now, on an errand of commission with one of the city architects. Something about a bridge, for Feanor’s mind stretches beyond the intricacies of watch chains to the grandeur of laid brick and towering steel.
“But,” Finwe continues, “It was not seats at supper, but rather places on the dancefloor, eh, Fingolfin?”
Fingolfin is properly blushing now. “She is a fine dancer, Nerdanel. You would approve.”
“I hardly dance,” Nerdanel answers, grinning. She does not have the demure mien that Fingolfin’s French damsel likely does, but Feanor and his family have never expected such from her. They are united in liking her, if in nothing else. “I can be no judge, therefore, only an admirer.”
“Spoken like an artist!” Finwe says. “Always precise.” Then, to his fidgeting grandson, “Come here, my boy, my Maedhros Nelyafinwe. You are giving your mother too much trouble.”
Maedhros twists round to blink up at Nerdanel, his beautiful wide eyes as trusting as they have been since babyhood.
“No trouble, my dear,” she says to him, smiling reassuringly. “Grandfather only wants his turn of cuddling you.”
Maedhros slips down, and totters across the floor, still a little unsure of his footing when he is not at home. Or perhaps she has misjudged him, out of motherly worry: perhaps he is only enjoying the lush carpet beneath his thin slipper-soles.
“His hair is so like yours, Nerdanel,” Fingolfin says, admiringly.
“Softer,” says Nerdanel. She is surprised, but very pleased, when Fingolfin’s hand stretches out, almost by instinct more than will, to stroke one of the silky ringlets as Maedhros passes by him. Fingolfin will be as good a father as he will be a husband.
Feeling the touch, Maedhros stops short, and turns to look up at his uncle.
Half-uncle, Feanor sneers in Nerdanel’s mind, but he is not here, and she need not heed him.
“I beg your pardon, Maedhros,” Fingolfin says very gravely, inclining his head as if Maedhros was a gentleman full-grown.
Finwe chuckles.
“Athair,” Maedhros says, his gaze fixed contentedly on Fingolfin’s face. He has not said it so loudly or clearly in all Feanor’s months of prodding. He has been very quiet, and very inclined to prattle little nonsense sounds, which Nerdanel finds endearing, but which Feanor fears are warnings of a weak mind.
“Oh,” Fingolfin says, the flush of color that talking of Anaire had left him with all draining away, “No—no, Maedhros. I mean, very good, that is, you have spoken it very well, but I—”
“That is your uncle, a stór,” Finwe says, with a wink and a smile at Nerdanel that she cannot fully return. “Can you say uncle? Or uncail?”
“Athair,” Maedhros says again, very firmly, and then a tender smile dimples his cheeks, and he claps his hands together softly. “Good baby,” he says, turning to be sure that Nerdanel agrees. “Baby?”
Helplessly, Nerdanel claps her hands. “You are learning so much, my sweet,” she says. “Athair, uncail, mamaí. And soon, you shall have a little brother or sister whose name shall be your favorite word.”
“I shall drink to that,” Finwe says cheerfully, raising his afternoon tipple. Fingolfin is very consumed by a close examination of the carpet.
Nerdanel feels the little one within her stirring. Cheering on the elder brother, perhaps, whose name will be their favorite word.
It shall be different, Nerdanel promises her child—her children. All shall be different, between you.