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and the violence caused such silence,
who are we mistaken?
For years uncounted Fingon had remained in the Halls of Mandos waiting for his son. Russo’s son.
At first, this wait was his alone, and no amount of pleading nor badgering could sway him from it. Then Maedhros had thrown himself into flame, and joined Fingon in death. Now, his wait is shared.
Ideally, their wait would be wasted, for Ereinion would not die at all, and instead live a long life and sail to the blessed lands of Valinor unharmed. But they could not leave the Halls of Mandos and risk their son dying and waking up alone.
So when a Maia arrives to bring Námo’s summons, they are grieved. To call the both of them, it can mean only one thing: Ereinion has come.
Fingon holds Maedhros’ hand tightly as they follow the Maia to Námo, and he lets his thoughts settle on his son.
He had not had the chance to raise Ereinion, nor had Russo. He had been far too young of an elfling when Fingon had died, and no one but the fathers themselves knew who Ereinion’s other parent was. So he was brought to Falas, and given to Círdan to care for.
Did Ereinion even remember them? Did he know who his parents were?
“Do you think he remembers us?” Fingon whispers to Maedhros urgently, because the thought will not leave him. “Or does he know us only from stories?”
“If he does not, then I imagine he will be in for quite the surprise when he discovers who exactly fathered him, aside from you,” replies Maedhros. This does not make Fingon feel any better.
When they arrive at the large, imposing doors that shelter Ereinion, Fingon’s jaw is clenched, and he fears that if he were any more corporeal, he would crack teeth. The Maia that guided them pushes the door open, and when she moves out of the way Fingon feels as though he has been struck.
Upon two great chairs Lord Námo and Lady Nienna are seated, and within Námo’s lap lies the shredded, burned remains of what must be fëa. Surely, this cannot be…
Lady Nienna looks up at them, though her brother does not, and her face is stained wet with tears. She beckons them closer with a shaky hand.
When they are close, Nienna rises from her seat and draws them in by the shoulders, directing their chins to look at the broken fëa.
“He is your son,” she says, and Fingon feels as though he could weep. Pressed beside him, he feels Russo stiffen. This was not what they had waited for; not this heartbreak and anguish. They had waited for a joyful reunion, or perhaps a tense one, and they had been ready to relearn who their son was.
They had not been ready for this.
“He died at Sauron’s hand,” Námo says, looking up at them now. “Great harm was done to his body, and also to his fëa. I… I am not sure if I can repair him wholly.”
“What?” Russo gapes, and Fingon lets the tears that had been building behind his eyes free. “Surely you cannot mean he is destroyed. There must be something you can do?”
Námo sighs, and from Nienna comes a great, heaving sob. “I can piece him back together, but he will not be the same. Pieces of him will be missing that he will not be able to grow back. He will live his life incomplete— it would be wrong of me to return him as such. Perhaps if it were an elfling we were speaking of…” Námo trails off. He sounds weary.
Fingon falls to his knees and places his face in his hands. He had waited ages of the world for his son to be returned to him, so he might make amends and rebuild what he had lost, and what there had never been a chance to make. Now, his son is lost to him forever, else returned but eternally fractured. He feels Lady Nienna wrap her arms around him, and he cannot help but cry harder.
Maedhros does not fall broken the same way. “An elfling? Why?”
Námo looks mildly ruffled. “Elves are made with missing parts. You grow them as you age. An elfing, perhaps, could find it in them to grow these parts that Sauron ruined as well,” he explains.
“Could you not make Ereinion an elfling?”
Maedhros is met with silence.
From his place on the floor, Fingon looks up tearily and trains his eye not on his husband, but on the contemplative expression on Námo’s face. It does not look dismissive. It does not look pitying. Nienna rises to her feet.
Gracefully, she walks close and leans down to whisper in her brother’s ear. They remain like that, quiet, faces tucked close together, for quite some time. Fingon manages to pull himself together and rise to stand next to Maedhros.
Finally, the two Valar turn again to them. “We could, in theory, place Ereinion in an elfing’s body again,” says Námo, “but you have to understand that he would be burdened. I cannot take from him what he still has; I cannot remake him entirely.”
“We know,” Maedhros says, for the both of them. Fingon finds his beloved’s hand where it hangs tense by his side and clutches it. “We would not wish you to. But he is our son, and we want for him to be whole.”
“Besides,” says Fingon, “we did not get the chance to raise him in his first life. Perhaps we can redeem ourselves in his second. Please, my Lord.”
Námo sighs heavily, leaning back in his throne and letting his hand flow softly over the shapeless form of Ereinion’s fëa. Nienna laughs, and it’s soft, and tinkling, like the wind chimes Fingon’s sister-in-law had been so fond of in life.
“Alright,” Námo concedes. “I will return you both to life, and with you your son, in the form of an elfling. But I cannot promise that all will be solved: the damage to him was great.”
“We understand,” Fingon says eagerly. “Thank you, Lord Námo. Thank you.” He does not wait for a reply, and instead turns in haste, tugging Russo along where their hands are still intertwined. He rushes out into the hall and takes them both back to their room, where he promptly bursts into tears.
Fingon collapses onto the wide bed that he and Maedhros share, face in his hands. “Our son, Russo, what has been done to our son?”
“I know, Finno,” Maedhros says softly, consolingly, as he comes to sit on the bed next to him and lay an arm across his shoulders. “It will be alright. We will raise him ourselves, and he will be happy, and loved, and no harm shall be done to him again.”
Maedhros and Fingon are given a kindly, quiet home on the outskirts of Tirion, and for the first few days, Ereinion is nowhere to be found. They begin to worry.
Had Námo been unable to give him an elfling body after all? Had something happened? Did it go wrong? They stew in these worries until, at last, a maia clothed in solemn grey robes appears at their door, and in their arms is a wide-eyed child.
Ereinion is no larger than the length of Fingon’s forearm, and Fingon feels as though he could weep, because never in his first life had he the chance to see Ereinion like this. He takes him from the arms of the Maia, and hears distantly as Maedhros thanks them. His eyes do not leave Ereinon once.
“Finno,” Maedhros breathes, and at last Fingon looks up. Russo’s eyes are wet, and wide, and they look so much like Ereinion’s that his heart hurts.
“He’s beautiful, Russo,” says Fingon, and he feels as though he may choke on his words. “He is ours again. Ours as he never was before.”
but you see, it's not me,
it's not my family.