Third

He met them under the eaves of the wood. One had a head of beautiful, red hair, unlike any he’d seen before. The other’s hair was dark, less strange. Yet strangers they were in this land.

‘Well met. I am Bredele.’ As the host, he thought it proper to introduce himself first.

’Beech – a suitable name for one such as you,’ the red-haired said.

Bredele smiled, happy that this stranger could see it, too.

‘I am Nelyafinwë,’ the stranger said.

‘Ne-ly-a-fin-wë’. Bredele pronounced the name slowly and carefully, tasting each syllable. It was a strange name, edgy and unrestful, yet it seemed hesitant to leave his mouth.

‘What does your name mean?’ he asked, curious to learn more of his new acquaintance.

A muscle bunched on the Elf’s jaw, hard and tight. Bredele watched, confused, while the other spoke in measured words, as if expecting problems.

Why this should be so, Bredele could not understand. The name's meaning did not seem strange at all. Imin, Tata and Enel were names once, good enough to the first of their kind, and Bredele descended from Enel, the ‘third Elf’.

Nay, Bredele thought, there is nothing wrong with the name ‘Third Finwë’.

***

Hair Shout

’I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Círdan mused, studying the swaddled baby in his arms as the two of them sat comfortably in a chair by the window.

A tiny hand stuck out from the blankets and held tightly on to the mariner’s beard—a very natural reaction for a babe, in Maedhros’ opinion, nothing strange about it at all; not many elven beards around, after all—so what was Círdan wondering about?

Maedhros lifted a corner of the blanket to take a closer look at the little one. Then he stopped and had to suppress a chuckle.

Círdan looked up, surprised.

‘That hair...’ Maedhros began, and the mariner nodded encouragingly.

’... must have come from the mother’s side of the family!’ the proud father interrupted, smiling insincerely at Círdan.

Maedhros snorted.

‘Nay, Fingon, your hair looked exactly the same at this age!’ he laughed.

‘Really?’ Círdan’s face lit up in an unexpected smile.

‘Sure. Why do you think his father -’ An elbow in Maedhros’ side interrupted him, but he quickly seized Fingon’s wrist, spinning him around and pushing him into the corner, thus preventing his still struggling cousin from interrupting. Satisfied that he could still beat the young one, Maedhros continued telling the old family joke to the mariner.

‘...why else do you think his father named him “Hair Shout”?’

As laughter resounded through the room, the embarrassed Fingon groaned and ceased resisting Maedhros’ hold.

His tiny son jerked at the sudden noise, then attempted a giggle. The shielding blanket fell away as he wriggled and Fingon smiled at the sight, as did Maedhros. The child’s hair practically stood on end, forming a fuzzy, dark-brown halo around his perfect features.

‘Well, at least the hair looks good on him,’ Fingon said.

Maedhros nodded and released his cousin.

‘It does. I suppose on the whole, he could do worse than take after you,’ he admitted. Joining Círdan at the window, he draped the blanket around the infant again, for it was a chilly day.

Fingon approached, rubbing his wrist. He bent to pick up his son from Círdan’s arms.

‘My little star,’ he whispered and kissed the child.

Maedhros watched his cousin’s usual, proud reserve melt into an expression of love and adoration. He turned abruptly to look out the window, although a sudden mist prevented him from seeing much.

Fingon is not the only one who has much love to give. Does he realize his good fortune?

Perhaps someday, I, too... but no, it can never be. It is too late for that, and much too late for regrets.

The mist cleared and Maedhros composed himself, turning to Círdan to discuss matters of succession. He would have no misunderstandings on the subject.

***

Author's Notes:

I personally believe more in the meaning 'Cunning Commander' than 'Hair Shout'!

History Lessons

Bored out of his mind, Arahael struggled to recount the history of the Noldorin kings. They were all dead, after all; what was the point? He’d much rather be outside, training with his new sword or perhaps riding, but unfortunately he was stuck with Erestor all morning. Curse history! And the next class, diplomacy, was even worse. He decided to try to liven things up a bit.

‘And then there was this king, this hair guy…’

’I beg your pardon?’ For once, Erestor looked thoroughly confused.

Encouraged, Arahael elaborated, ’You know, the one with the loud hair.’

’Loud hair?’

’Yes, Fingon! Means ’Hair Shout’, doesn’t it?

In the silence that followed, Arahael watched Erestor with great interest; never had he seen his teacher with his mouth agape like this. The boy sat back and waited for the eruption to happen, a look of innocence plastered on his face like a shield.

A ray of sun peeked curiously through the window, highlighting the strange tableau, and broke the teacher out of his trancelike state. His mouth shut with a resounding snap. With blazing eyes and bright red spots on his high cheekbones, Erestor, Exile of Aman, former Advisor to the High King, now Chief Counsellor of Imladris, descended on his blasphemous pupil.

The ensuing dressing-down went over in the history of Imladris as the most thorough tongue-lashing ever given. By the end of it, Arahael was cowering in his chair and had renounced all ideas of making jokes on dead kings’ expense. An awestruck audience hovered at a safe distance; even at normal volume, Erestor’s well-trained voice carried far, but the volume he achieved this day had brought Elves rushing to the scene from all corners of the house (and a few from the gardens).

Elrond finally managed to calm the seething Erestor down enough to drag him to the infirmary. Worrying about his friend’s state, particularly his facial colour and the throbbing vein in his right temple, Elrond persuaded him to accept first a sedative and then—a while later—a thorough examination.

When Elrond referred to the incident in later days, he claimed that Erestor’s blood pressure must have set a record, for never in his life had he seen an Elf so red in the face.

To the satisfaction of all parties involved, it was decided that for the time being, young Arahael had received sufficient education in diplomacy and the history of Middle-earth. His morning lessons were replaced with an extended physical training programme. After a few weeks of running up and down steep slopes for hours on end, running from the stream to the stables with full water buckets, and running to do every warrior’s tiniest bidding at top speed, Arahael had not only become amazingly fit, he had also developed a wonderful feeling for diplomacy, a skill that stood him in good stead ever after.

***

Author’s Notes:

Arahael was the second Chieftain of the Dúnedain after the fall of Arnor. I picked him randomly for this uncanonical silliness.