For French Pony’s birthday. Because she knows about music and she wrote the most believable explanation that I ever read for what was Fingon doing up that mountain with a harp. Happy birthday, FP, and good luck with exams.

Soul Music.

“When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest time, and to the latest.” Thoreau.

“I ran through dark, suffocating, endless tunnels. I stiffled harsh sobs, telling myself that I was safe in a land sung into being by the Valar, where neither foe nor danger could reach me. And yet somehow I knew it not to be true. The tunnels narrowed and I choked in fear, but also for lack of air. Darkness became impenetrable and fear hastened my heartbeats and froze my thoughts. I stumbled on uneven ground and fell down face first, scraping my knees and hitting my head. I remained there for a while, stretched on the tunnel floor, feeling my last drops of courage bleed away. Defeated, I gave in and began to cry. When I had no more tears to shed and my throat hurt and my eyes stung and my lungs burnt, I simply lay there, exhausted, fearing that I was beyond even Lord Námo’s reach, and that I was doomed to rest in the bowels of the Blessed Realm until Arda was remade. And just when I had lost all hope, and with it fear, I thought I heard a soft murmur, a trembling echo that weaved a melody of untold beauty in those dark and silent places. Hopeful, I lifted my head and then pulled myself to my knees and listened intently, with my whole being, certain that my grandfather had finally found me.”

“Grandfather?”

Fingon smiled softly down at his child, who was pulling his blanket tightly up to his chin. The small face showed now a look of deep concentration. That was far better than the panicked expression he had worn since his rescue earlier that evening, in his father's more than informed opinion.

“Not yours, Ereinion, mine,” he said, and then raised his brows expectantly. The child bit his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, thinking.

“Finwë?” he asked then tentatively, and then smiled broadly at his father’s approving nod.

“Exactly. I was lost in his cellars, as I have told you, and I hoped that he would come to find me...”

“And you were crying?”

“Indeed. I was so frightened that I could not think of any other thing,” Fingon admitted easily, remembering his son’s brave attempts at holding back his tears of relief when his father had finally found him nestled in the hollow of a dead beech.

“I cried too,” the child confessed, not meeting his father’s eyes. “But then I got up and tried to find the way back to the stronghold...”

“And then you looked for shelter as the night drew in. You behaved in a sensible manner, Ereinion, I am very proud of you,” Fingon smiled reassuringly, trying to forget the choking despair he had felt when he learnt that his young son had not returned with the other elflings from a day walk beyond the walls. The elflings had parted in two groups and each caretaker had believed that the young prince was with the other group. Intrigued by a shy rabbit, Ereinion had wandered off on his own and had missed the return call from both groups. By the time his absence had been marked back at the stronghold a few hours had already passed. With a shiver, Fingon refused to revive the terrifying thoughts that had crossed his mind as he searched the forest and until he found his son. Wisely, he had decided to wait until next morning before talking to the caretakers. For now he only wanted to reassure himself that his child was safe at home and warmy tucked in his bed.

“What happened then, when you were lost in the cellars?”

‘Suddenly that music was all around me, and even if I could not understand the words, or recognize the voices, it comforted me and gave me courage. It seemed as if a dim glow pulsed on the stone wall as the music coursed through it. Encouraged but this dimmest light, I stood up and resumed walking with decision, and it seemed as if the light grew stronger, and the music deeper. It echoed in the wall, and it resounded and gleamed at my passing, and my own light was strengthened by it. Comforted, I tried to join the song, and soon I was singing to myself in harmony whit that unknown melody as I continued walking. The glimmer of that music now surrounded me and guided me at the right turns, and in no time I was back in the wider tunnels of my grandfather’s cellars, and I heard his strong voice calling. I cried to him and he cried back, and then began to sing. “Follow my voice, Findekáno” he told me, and he continued singing until I reached a wide cellar and saw the trap door on the ceiling and his long arms dangling, waiting to pull me up back into the light and his comforting embrace. I rested there safely, and for a while I just wished I was allowed to remain there forever.

“Did he scold you?” the child asked quietly. Fingon could not smother a smirk. He was sure that he still had the marks of his sons’s fingers around his neck, so tightly he had held onto him as soon as Fingon had picked him up from his shelter. He remembered the wild beating of the child’s heart against his chest, and the trickle of warm tears as Ereinion buried his face against his father's neck and refused to utter a single word on the ride home. He had been terrified, Fingon knew, and he had not allowed Milluin to undress and bath him. He had clung to his Ata through dinner and had only reluctantly let go of one of his thick braids and allowed himslef to be lay down into his warm bed after Fingon promised to tell him a story. Distracted by the tale of his father's own misadventures as an elfling, he had finally started making questions and telling scattered bits about his adventure. He is surely recovering, Fingon told himself wrily, since he is beginning to worry about consequences. 

“I suppose he did scold me soundly,” he admitted seriously, holding back an amused grin at the child’s dismayed face. “But I do not remember. Yet I do remember something that he told me back then, somethig that has comforted me since then, whenever I was alone or afraid...”

“Something to take the fear away?” Fingon smiled softly at the barely concealed egaerness in the child’s voice. He nodded solemnly and leaned forth, as if to share a secret.

“Music echoes deep in the soul of all creatures, Findekano”, my grandfather told me. “And all creatures recognize the echoes of Iluvatar’s voice in each other. So when you feel alone, or sad or afraid, you just have to raise your voice in song, and you will see that all creatures, of wood and stone, of water and earth will join gladly in your song and rekindle your courage, strengthening your fea with the bits of the Music that each creature carries within.” 

“But...did it...does it work?” Seeing the sceptic look in his son’s eyes, Fingon stretched out a hand and smoothed down a rebel tendril of raven dark hair.

“Of course it does, Ereinion! Deep in those tunnels the rocks awoke to the song of my fëa and the dormant echoes of Iluvatar’s song arose to comfort me and guide me...The stones answer better to us Noldor, while trees and waters react gladly to the presence of the Lindir, and miss their voices when they desert the rivers and glades...All creatures were born out of song once in the very beginning of Time, and we all carry the echoes of that Music within, ready to arise in song and lend strength to those who need it...That is why music fills us Quendi with joy.”

“So if I sing when I am afraid, will my fear be carried away? I want to be as valiant as you are, Ata...”

Fingon felt a sharp stab of pain at that admission. Not for the first time he wondered what on Arda had possessed him to give into his wife’s pleas that they should beget a child. “A child to be thrust into this dark world of despair, tainted for ever by my fell deeds and the curse that weighes upon me?”  he had asked bitterly. With the steady manner with which she had once taken command of his heart, she had placed a comforting hand on his and had smiled convincingly. “A child to brighten up your days, my lord, and to remind you that there is hope glittering even in the darkest hour,” she had declared, and that had been the end of the discussion. “An elfling should not think of being brave, an elfling should not be afraid of orcs and dragons!” he thought now with mounting despair,  blaming hismelf again for the burdens of duty and responsibility, and the dangers that awaited his little son.

“Music might not carry away your fear,” he admitted honestly, “but it will help you remember who you are, and how you are connected to the strength that runs along the very veins of Arda, so you can draw on it and be stronger...”

“Did you sing when you fought the dragon?” Fingon shook his head in exasperated amusement. Obviously his son preferred reassuring facts to vague though comforting words. But then, he remembered himslef wondering bleakly whether his grandfather had been singing as he faced Melko before the gates of Formenos.

“Of course! And it disturbed the creature almost as much as our arrows did!”

Ereinion’s face was creased now, as if he were pondering an extremely obscure issue.

“So is that why you carried a harp to the mountain, because you knew that you would be frightened? Were you frightened when you were up there on your own?” he finally asked, lifting worried eyes to meet his father’s. Sensing that something was troubling his child, Fingon let pass the fact that he was being tricked into a second story. With a deep sigh he lay hismelf down on the bed next to his son, and could not supress a grin when the elfling snuggled eagerly into his embrace.

“I was very frightened when I was up there, indeed,” he began, smiling at the child’s startled expression at his admission. “At one point I had completely lost my way, and the poisoned fumes blinded me and made my breathing painful...I was close to despair, and I feared that I would neither find my cousin nor have the strength left to go back to my father and my people. I was terrified, and when I was about to give up hope suddenly my grandfather’s words, spoken long ago in Valinor to comfort a terrified elfling returned to me..”

“And you sang with your harp....”

“That I did, and it not only comforted me, but my song awoke the echoes of Iluvatar’s music in the heart of those mournful stone walls, and the mountain answered to my song, and it arose my cousin from his torment and lent him strength to sing back to me and lead me to him...And you know the rest,” he added with forced calmness.

His son nodded quietly, playing distractedly with the tip of one of Fingon’s braids.  “Thorondor carried you to where Maedhors hung, and you cut his hand and the Lord of Eagles took you back to Mithrim,” he recalled in an almost casual voice. It stunned Fingon that an ordeal that still gave him nightmares on occasion could be summed up in such a matter-of-factly manner. “I...I thought that you were never afraid, Ata,” the child added then, looking perplexed and more than a little curious. Fingon shook his head and let escape a quivering sigh.

“I was scared to death only this afternoon, son, when I could not find you...” Seeing the look in the big grey eyes he hugged the child briefly. “There is nothing wrong in being scared, or afraid, Ereinion. I have been frigthened more times than I care to remember...and I most certainly was, up there in that mountain. Courage is not about not being afraid, but about finding the strength to do what you are supposed to do, despite your fears...”

“I was afraid,” the child confessed miserably, “and I did not know how to be valiant...”

“You behaved very bravely, Ereinion, and now you know that singing will make you feel stronger, as you gather strength from other creatures. Will you remember it?” 

“I will. And if I sing strong enough maybe I will become as valiant as you are...But you did not tell me why you carried the harp on the first place...” Fingon chuckled at his child’s insistence.

“That is a good story. Once I made up my mind to go after Maedhros I told no one about it. Your cousin Idril caugth me as I was sneaking out the camp in the middle of the night. She feared that I was worried and sad, and so she gave me her harp so I could play music and feel not alone while I was away...”   

“Did Grandfather scold you when you were returned?” Fingon rolled his eyes at the only too natural worry that echoed in the child’s soft voice.

“First he hugged me tightly and then he put me to bed and sat by my side and sang to me until my nightmares disappeared,” he explained, softly caressing his son’s dark head. “The day after he scolded me for being rash and reckless...and confined me to our cabin for a whole turn of the moon.”

“That was fair,” the child sentenced judiciously.

“I thought so.”

For a while they remained thus, side by side, comforted by each other’s presence. Ereinion was the first to stir.

“Ata?”

“Yes?”

“I will not sneak away again until I am of age, I promise...”

“I am glad to hear that, Ereinion. You frightened us all very badly today...”

“I am sorry. I will take what punishment you see fit to deliver without complaining...”

Fingon bit back a chuckle at the serious, adult words from his child.

“Good. But that will be tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest. Do you want me to sing to you until you fall asleep?”

He met serious, grey eyes that observed him evenly.

“I think I am ready to sleep on my own, Ata,” the child offered. “I can sing to myself if I am afraid.”

“I will be in my study if you need me,” Fingon offered, bending to place a soft kiss on the child’s head. “I am proud of you, Ereinion.”

“Thank you, Ata. And thank you for sharing with me the secret of your courage.” Shrugging with barely repressed mirth, Fingon made for the door.

“You are most welcome, child. May Estë send peaceful dreams to you,” he added softly. As he turned to close the door behind him, he heard the child’s voice arise in a soft tune and smiled fondly to himself.

“How is he?” Fingolfin’s powerful presence startled him out of his musings. His father stood before him still in his travel clothes, studying him intently. He relaxed and shook his head.

“He is fine. You know the resilience of youth. I told him a couple of stories and now he is ready to go to sleep...”

“His Ata, though, looks a bit shaken to me...”

Fingon let escape a nervous chuckle. “Shaken, indeed…” he cast a curious glance at his father and then changed course. “When did you arrive, I was not aware that your patrol had been sighted…?” Fingolfin had been away inspecting the settlements around Mithrim for several days and was just returned, it seemed.

“No wonder,” the king answered dryly. “You were otherwise busy, the guards told me,” he added with a knowing smile. “You look as if you were about to collapse…would you like me to tuck you away in your bed?” he teased affectionately, passing an arm over his son’s shoulders. Fingon cast him a wary glance before accepting the silent support.

“I still have some reports to complete, since I spent the afternoon tracking my errant elfling….but perhaps you could come down and keep me company?” he suggested with a hopeful grin.

“Excellent!” Fingolfin agreed, steering them both to the stairs. “And while you are at it I can tell you the tale of a grown up elfling who sneaked off his father’s camp and was away for weeks…” Fingon groaned. 

“I already know that one…I’d rather have you tell me how you managed to cope with our adventurous stints,” he sighed, wondering if he would ever learn no to be frightened every time his child was not under his direct supervision. His father’s laughter was answer enough.

“I do not think I have learnt to cope with your adventurousness yet,” the king confessed, patting his son’s arm as he opened the door to the study that they shared. “But I will tell you what I do everytime I feel frightned on your account, “ he added, walking to a side table, pouring two goblets of wine and handing one to his expectant-looking son. "I sing."

A/N I am freely referring to FP’s story “The Whole” here.