Of the birth of Curufinwë.

(Disclaimer: All of the characters, places, and the main story line are JRR Tolkien’s wonderful creations. All references are from The Silmarillion, and HoME Volumes 10, 11 and 12. Nothing is mine, except the interpretation and any mistakes.)

With thanks to Bellemaine and Emalin

“Also the Eldar say that in the begetting, and still more in the bearing of children, greater share and strength of their being, in mind and in body, goes forth than in the making of mortal children.”

(‘The Later Quenta Silmarillion’ HoME 10. Morgoth’s Ring JRR Tolkien.)

The house of King Finwë. Tirion. The Year of the Trees 1179.

My son – my beloved son! Finwion hast thy father named thee. Son of Finwë - his son! Does he know by so naming thee; does thy father suspect my intent? He sees with his eyes my weakness, he perceives in his fëa my utter exhaustion – but I think he understands not my deepest longing? I have given all the strength and skill I possess to bring thee forth, child of mine - all the life that should have gone into the many children thy father desires, into sustaining my own life, into firing my own inspiration through the ages to come.

What now for me but to nurture and counsel thee for the short time I endure, and then to seek peace and rest eternal from the labour of living. What more can I give to my lord - give to the Noldor, than I have done in giving birth to thee? Mighty wilt thou become, my son – mightier in mind and in body than the measure given to any of the Eldar, that there will come a time when even the Valar will look to thee and marvel. Such is the intention of Ilúvatar, I do perceive. For why else should one with such a spirit of fire be brought to birth amongst our people? Why else should my life’s energy be so consumed?

Thy spirit is as strong as if thou were many. All of my powers to create hast thou taken, and seemingly forged into thy form most perfect. So strong a spirit hast thou, my son - more like unto a Maia than an Elda I do ponder. I quell at the impropriety of such a thought, it seeming near blasphemous. And yet …

Finwion hast thy father named thee – and I? I shall name thee for what I know thee to be, and for what my foresight tells me thou yet shalt be – I shall name thee Spirit of Fire; I shall name thee Fëanáro.

Neldormindo. The first house of Curufinwë Fëanáro. Seventh Age.

Now many of the records show that Fëanáro was renowned as the father of seven sons; yet with the usual bias of interest in him, say little if anything about me. Mighty in skill and in lore though he was, he could not have brought forth any sons without my assistance in the matter! It is true that, in the begetting of children, neri put forth a great share of their strength of mind and body – in this was my husband no exception - but the greater share of strength is required in the bearing; in the bringing to birth of a child. Of necessity are nissi the ones who give most of themselves.

I remember the sensations of being with child; the initial joy and delight at the creation of life, aye – of a certainty was each one of our sons conceived of our love and will, and the prospect of his forthcoming birth was a great happiness to us. But for my part there was also the slow-growing awareness of my own energy for life passing into the forming hröa of each of our unborn children, as my body took upon itself that shape of fecundity; of swollen breasts and stomach. Fëanáro was also aware of the draining of his strength, though he made light of it, as if it taxed him not. The fëar of our unborn children drew nourishment from both of us of course, through our own union of fëar - from his strength of spirit, which I mediated to them. So it was that our sons were not only conceived but brought to birth by both our efforts. Mayhap this was more the case with us than with some couples? For Fëanáro would always give fully of himself to his creations: be they gems, or sculpting, or Silmarils – or sons. And as with all of the Eldar during the years of the children, he and I were rarely parted.

Six times did I give forth of my gift of strength – a gift of love to my husband and to life. But our fifth son; his birth was reminiscent of Fëanáro’s own in a manner that caused both my lord and I to ponder greatly. Our fifth son nigh consumed me in body and spirit that was I almost lost, even as Míriel had become lost.

- - - - -

It was late in the Year of the Trees 1295. I had been working on a sculpture of the Lord Ecthelion’s wife Serewen, wanting it to reflect her likeness to perfection. By that time I had long established a reputation as a sculptress of uncanny skill. My craftings were so lifelike it was said that, if they knew not my art, friends would speak to the sculptures as if they had life. But that particular work was difficult for me because I was large with child. I had tired more easily in that pregnancy than with the four sons already brought to birth.

Fëanáro had spent more time with me than usual, giving of his strength of fëa to support and sustain me. Though he spoke not of it in words, I could sense the conflict of his concern and elation over the way our son was developing. We both knew the child would be different – we knew that son would be more like him than any of the others.

Now it came to pass that on the day of which I write, Fëanáro had ridden to my father’s house. Less than one day’s journey was it to the dwellings of the Aulenduri on a swift horse such as Tyelperocco. My lord wished to make final consultation with Narwasar on the planned addition to our house of Neldormindo before my time drew nigh, and to return the following day in the company of my mother. Never would Fëanáro have left my side had he known that day I was to give birth – he had always been with me in that time of my labour that no midwife could drive him from the room. But this child was indeed to be like his father. He was strong and eager for life. Too eager to be born was Curufinwë!

I was alone when the first pains, the first pangs of birth gripped me; and most ill prepared. Not for twelve days or more did I expect the child to seek birth. So gripped with weakness was I as the muscles of my stomach suddenly contracted, that all I could do was cry out. Carnistir, who was by then fourteen years old, and the much older Makalaurë came running to my workroom in haste.

I recall the shocked paleness of Carnistir’s face as he reached me, just as the chisel dropped from my hand and the strength in my legs failed. He caught me up, carried me back to the house through the open windows of my study, and up the broad staircase to my room. A poor reward I gave for his swift actions; I dug my fingers into his arm in my agony.

The rhythm of the contractions was too quick. The child was coming in too much haste!

“Fëanáro; I need thee!” I had called to my husband in thought, though my mind was already hazed and unfocused that I knew not at the time if he had heard my plea.

All seemed most confusing. Carnistir was shouting for Maitimo to send riders to my parent’s house; Makalaurë had run to fetch the midwife - to fetch Arnónë or Meldawen. I knew he would fetch anyone he could, for though they understood well what was to happen, none of my sons had wish to aid the birthing of a younger brother.

Then so strong was my pain that, for a time, I remembered no more.

There were short spaces of consciousness when I trembled, closing my eyes in my anger and agony. How could I be so weak? Never before had my strength betrayed me – nay, not in childbearing nor in any other matter.

Carnistir had laid me gently upon my bed, and had brought a bowl of cool, rose scented water to bathe my brow. His face still held a look of strained disbelief at what was transpiring before him. No coward was he - none of my sons were - but to aid his mother in such a situation was asking a lot of him.

“Thou art doing well, dear one,” I managed to gasp, trying to be encouraging.

Then the door swung open and Arnónë hurried in, her breath sounding harsh with her great hurry.

“Away with you, my lord prince! See that Maniel is on her way.”

That chief of my ladies took immediate control, moving straight to my side, lifting me up to support me in my efforts as my son would never have thought to do.

“Away, I say! This is no place for you.”

Carnistir would not usually have accepted such a tone of remonstration without complaint, but on that occasion he made a hasty retreat from my room, doubtlessly relieved that another had taken on the task he feared would be his.

- - - - - -

I heard softened voices around me, speaking with much concern. I thought: ‘this must be death. This must be where Míriel has gone?’ Surely I was in the gardens of Lórien at the least, for all was a dusk-light to my eyes? But awareness of the fragrance of the roses that grew outside the bedroom windows reached me. I knew I was still alive - still at home in Tirion.

Yet the tiredness!

The needy cry of a newborn reached my hearing, but no strength had I, not even to turn my head upon the pillow to look upon my babe. It seemed to me as if my body had been torn apart. My child was born, but instead of the expected surge of joy, I had barely the will to draw breath.

So tired.

I wanted to see him. I wanted to hold him, to have this new life snuggle against me that I knew the reason for what I had endured. Instead, I drifted in and out of a cool, shadow-world. The lusty calls, a demand for attention, a proclamation of life embraced, were the dream – the darkness was my reality. Only in that numbing darkness was the pain and utter weakness bearable.

Hushed words were again being spoken. With great effort I focused my eyes, seeing the drawn expression on the face of Arnónë close by, as she tried to administer a potion that would presumably aid my rest.

“Drink this, Lady Nerdanel. You need to sleep.”

She raised my head slightly, so gently for one who could be so abrupt, and held a small glass to my lips, trickling a warm, sweet amber liquid into my mouth.

And I was again exhausted.

Before I passed into the shadows, Makalaurë moved into my range of vision. Keeping vigil was he.

“We are here, Mother. Maitimo has gone himself to fetch father. Tyelkormo has gone to our grandfather’s house to fetch Alyu. All will be well.”

He did not sound convinced. His deep, beautiful voice was haunted with concern, though he endeavoured for it not to show.

“The child? What has happened?” I whispered to him.

“He is well. He is strong. ‘Tis thou who art weakened; thou who must take rest, lady and mother.”

I tried to understand what Makalaurë was asking of me but it was too difficult, and the potion was exerting its soporific effect.

Dream! I was in a dream of standing upon a seashore, as in my childhood days. But the sky was dull grey; the waters dark and cold. The waves upon the shore were tugging at my legs almost as grasping hands, pulling me forwards.

So very tired was I.

Again could I hear voices; Maniel, the midwife, her tone raised in something of anguish.

“How can this be? She had little trouble with any of the others. Too strong is this child, too eager was he to be born that he has consumed her strength – as Prince Curufinwë did to his mother.”

“Do not even say that!” Arnónë replied sharply, “This carrying and birthing is nothing like that which Queen Míriel endured. Neither will the Lady Nerdanel seek release from life – she is too strong to be brought down.”

“My mother is strong!” Makalaurë echoed determinedly. He was sitting beside me, holding onto my hand. The sensation of him willing me his own strength was comforting, but it was not enough. He had no bond with me that he could easily give of his own life’s strength to nurture me – yet he tried. As the sound of laughter upon the shores and of children playing in the white foaming breakers, his song to my spirit was of hope and joy. But no healer was he – and the bright blue sky he had sung of was again overcast with grey, that I felt as if my hand slipped from his grasp. He believed I would languish even as his grandmother had – that he was going to lose me.

“Amillë – thou must give battle!”

I tried. I turned my head to see that Carnistir, and also Tyelkormo kept watch by the door. Most serious of expression were they. Alyu, King Finwë’s foremost healer was standing by the window, conversing hurriedly with Maniel. Arnónë was praying to the Valar. They all thought I was going to languish - that I would not recover from my ordeal. Although none save Míriel had been lost in Aman through childbearing, they knew well that it was possible.

Then the images shifted. Again was I in the colourless world; the cold, deep waters pulling at my legs that it seemed as if I were wading, knee deep, into the strongest undercurrent. My body seemed so heavy, so tired was I; so cold.

And if I chose, I knew I could lay myself down upon that water and I would drift, and there would be no more pain.

“This is of no use! We must send again for help,” Carnistir was saying. “I shall ride forth to see what keeps our father!”

“Too late it is to reach Prince Curufinwë.” Arnónë, who had been present at the birth of Fëanáro himself, sighed, “Too long will it take for him to return from the dwellings of the Aulenduri, even if Prince Nelyafinwë has found him.”

I was aware of the methodical Alyu by the bedside, and of Makalaurë departing. The healer was laying crystals upon me, was trying to reach through the weakness of my body to the strength that remained in my spirit, by the touch of his hands. “Send for the Lady Serewen now, “ he suggested. “Or better still; send for Queen Indis. A good friend, and skilled in the art of healing is she. I would have present any who can call upon the Lady Nerdanel in love to strengthen her.”

The darkness sought then to envelope me completely, as if in defiance of Alyu’s words. But those words had the effect of bringing aid, if not in the way the healer had envisaged.

“You will not send for the Lady Indis!”

That commanding, well-known voice was accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps upon the stairs, and a brisk stride down the gallery. I did not need to focus my eyes to know what expression those in the room bore. I did not need to focus my eyes to know Fëanáro was again with me.

“Send for Serewen, if it is your wish, but I will not have that Vanya in my house!” he instructed brusquely.

The power of his presence filled the room of an instant; the sound of his dissatisfaction with the situation colouring every word he spoke.

Then movement – and again Arnónë’s voice, that I knew my lord looked to the babe.

“Tend well to my son, and leave me with my wife. Now be gone!”

There was a rush of departing footsteps, of those seeking urgently to comply with his wishes; then blessed silence.

I sensed him drawing closer to me as a tangible source of warmth.

“Tell me what has happened to thee, Nerdanel. Why art thou so afflicted?”

“Over eager was our son to be born. He has taken all my strength,” I part whispered, part said in thought.

My husband took seat on the bed at my side, leaning forwards in great concern. But too weary was I to say more – even to him.

In fëa I begged of him: ‘Please, Fëanáro, let me be. Too late hast thou come to my aid.’

I began to drift again into that welcoming ocean, until the sharp authority of his voice halted me.

“Think not that I will let thee go, lady wife. I give thee not permission to depart! Though thy hröa is sore wounded by this birth, thy fëa is yet strong. Thou shalt be restored to full strength again.”

I stood in the water that now reached up to my waist, longing most desperately to fall forwards into oblivion, into the care of Námo Mandos. I dearly loved my family, but so consumed was my body and weakened was my spirit that I cared not to live. Yet on the colourless beach behind me, I knew he stood. I could feel the strength of his will focused upon me; sense the brilliant flame of his spirit reaching out to me. He spoke directly into my thoughts, with no small annoyance at my lack of response to him.

“Even in this condition, I will not have thee ignore my words. My gift of strength hast thou long been – and will I not return that strength to thee as needed? This child has cost thee more than I thought possible, Nerdanel. But understand; even if the cold darkness draws thee unto itself, then will I follow to pull thee from Mandos’ grasp. It will be a step to life or to death for both of us.”

I did not want to turn back. At that instant I earnestly desired release, but so compelling was he that I had little choice. Though he had said ‘to life or to death for both of us’, the possibility of his own death had not even touched his mind. So indeed did he mean that both of us would live.

“Nerdanel; come back to me! I will not permit thee to depart.”

And so on that day, his determination was far stronger than the coolness of the seeming death. I could not have disobeyed his wishes; I could not have defied his will. Neither in my right mind did I ever wish to during those years. I turned upon the beach to face him, to reach out to take hold again of life. Though the pain returned the weariness began to diminish, and the coldness was driven far away.

I managed to murmur: "Help me, Finwion. I am so weak.”

And he was become the forbearing, considerate lover again, rather than the masterful High Prince. He kissed my lips - far sweeter a medicine than Arnónë’s potion – then held me to him, stroking my hair and whispering words of encouragement and love. For nigh three hours did he sit thus, pouring his own strength and will into me, drawing me ever more into the vibrancy of life.

Then, when Alyu, Meniel and our sons returned, with Maitimo cradling the babe in his arms, I felt surrounded by such love and care that I was shamed to have caused concern.

Fëanáro took hold of his newborn son, his expression lighting with pleasure at what he beheld. He leant close to me – so that, for the first time, I could clearly see he who had been the cause of my anguish.

“A little image of his father is he – even as we believe he will be like thee, beloved. ”

Already the child had a shock of thick, raven dark hair, the shape of face, the colour of eyes of his sire. His small arms waved in frustration – tiny fingers grasping at my own, as he gave vent to his will to be fed.

Enough strength I had to nurse him, to hold him as I had wished from the start. But the action was enough to tax me that I slumped back against the pillows as Makalaurë stepped to the fore, to make good his claim to hold his latest brother.

“No more!” Fëanáro said to me when we were again alone. “No more children will I have thee bear. Five sons are enough, and more than most have brought forth.”

Before the sleep of healing overtook me, aided by a second potion of Alyu’s making, I murmured my agreement with my husband.

“So be it, Fëanáro.”

And I slept then in his arms.

- - - - - -

I believe I came to better understand Míriel after that birth. It was almost a year before I regained my strength – almost three years before I had fully recovered. Never did I truly wish to depart of life at that time – but I understood what the giving over of all ones strength and creative abilities could cost a mother.

For a long time Fëanáro and I thought that Curvo was to ever be our youngest. Atarinkë I named him – ‘little father’ – for he was like his father to look upon from the first. And as he grew, my name of foresight was mostly proven correct. Curvo was to be the son most dear to Fëanáro’s heart. That son who nigh destroyed me was to be so like his father in form, voice and skill, that Fëanáro gave him his own name.

But in one aspect was I wrong in my naming. Although Curvo had more of his father’s skills and nature than any of his brothers, he did not have his strength of spirit. My fëa had not been consumed by him in the manner Míriel’s had. Nay – the son whose spirit burned most like Fëanáro’s, whose ardour burned more eagerly at times than even his father’s flame – it was Maitimo!

- - - - -

neri – He-Elves

nissi - She-Elves

Curvo / Curufinwë - Curufin. I mostly use Curufin’s father name in this story (Curufinwë, the same as Fëanor’s own name), as it says in HoME 12 that he alone of the sons preferred his father name to his mother name. Nerdanel had called him Atarinkë, meaning ‘little father’, because of his likeness to Fëanor.

Carnistir - Caranthir

Makalaurë - Maglor

Maitimo/ Nelyafinwë - Maedhros

Tyelkormo – Celegorm

Amillë - Mother

Finwion - ‘Son of Finwë’. Fëanor’s childhood name, which in my stories Nerdanel sometimes uses.

Notes: Regarding Nerdanel’s name: I have seen various explanations of the meaning of her name, ranging from ‘Independent woman’ to ‘Daughter of the man (ner) who makes’.( Which I think would actually have been Nerdaniel?) According to HoME 12, some of the early character names have no exact meaning, (Finwë being an example) and Nerdanel may be another example of this. I have personally always thought it meant either ‘She who has a man’s (ner) strength / ability in crafting’, or possibly ‘She who makes men’.

The first interpretation would link with Professor Tolkien’s description of her in Morgoth’s Ring. She has skills in crafts (metal and stonework) which women of the Noldor seldom used; she is said to be strong, free of mind and filled with the desire of knowledge ( p272) Nólemë has suggested ‘Nerdanel’ could mean "a maker of (meaning possessing) manly strength" or "manly maker", both of which seem rather logical and apt to me.

I was recently reminded of the second interpretation by Enelya, who said ‘Nerdanel’ perhaps meant ‘man-forger’. Ner – ‘man’, ‘dan’ – maker, forger – ‘el’ – feminine ending. I really like the idea. : Nerdanel – ‘She who makes men’. This would, of course, refer to her sons, as well as to her sculpting of life-like statues; however it seems to me this name would more likely be given her after she had borne at least a few of her sons – an anessë, or given name, probably given by Fëanáro.

Although I really like this second meaning, I am using the first suggestion – a maker possessing manly strength - in my stories. I am no expert on Quenya though, and could be totally wrong.

Regarding Maitimo: I have taken the idea of his strength of spirit both from The Silmarillion, and from ‘Poems early abandoned’ in The Lays of Beleriand page 135. “..and Maidros tall (the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath: ..”