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“Sit still, yelya,” Maedhros scolded gently. In his lap, Erien’s squirming settled somewhat, though not entirely. Across from them on the bed, sitting in Fingon’s lap, Gil stuck his tongue out at his sister, and Erien responded in kind.
“Atto,” Gil complained, “Erien’s being rude!”
“You started it!” Erien cried.
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Hush,” Fingon said, but his lips quivered in a just-barely-held-back smile. “You’ve both been very patient, and we’re almost done. Can you behave just a bit longer?”
“It’s taking forever,” Erien whined.
Maedhros tied off the last of her braids. “There was are,” he pronounced.
“Done?” his daughter asked hopefully.
“Not quite,” Fingon said. “Gil, go sit with Atya.”
“Am I done?” Gil asked.
“Yes, darling.”
“Come here, yonya.” Maedhros opened his arms, and Gil shuffled over to snuggle into his embrace. Maedhros’ heart filled with warmth as he held his baby close, newly-braided hair tucked just under his chin. He was so glad he could be here, with his family. He was so glad he had been given the gift of his children. He was so glad he had been born with this hröa, that he might bring them into the world.
Erien chewed on a nail as Fingon put the finishing touches on her crown of braids. Maedhros had grown adept at braiding one-handed, but for an occasion like this, Fingon made sure everything was exactly in place.
“Done,” Fingon said, and immediately Erien leapt off the bed and rushed out the door. Gil was quick to jump out of Maedhros’ arms and follow his sister, heedless of their fathers’ admonitions to not run inside.
Maedhros and Fingon exchanged a look of fond exasperation. “I’ll catch them,” Fingon said, striding after them. “You finish up with your own hair.”
Maedhros pouted. “What if I wanted your hands in my hair?”
Fingon winked at him over his shoulder. “Later,” he promised. “After the announcement.”
Maedhros smiled, watching his husband hurry away after their twin children, and then went to fix his hair.
“Atya?”
At the sound of his daughter’s voice, Maedhros turned to kneel beside her. “Yes, yelya?”
She fidgeted, not meeting his eyes, but grabbed his hand. “Will you...will you hold my hand? When I say it?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Maedhros said. “I know how scary it can be. My atya was there for me, when I told everyone I was a nér.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “And—I’m not scared.” Now she looked up, green eyes blazing, and in that moment she looked so much like her grandmother that Maedhros could have wept. “I just—want you there. Because I’m your daughter. Your only daughter.”
“That you are,” Maedhros agreed. “And I am so proud of you, my Erien. You know your fëa and your future, and you are brave enough to face it.” He sighed. “I am only sorry that we did not know you were a girl all along. That you had to pretend to be someone else for too long.”
He remembered the aching confusion of being misrepresented all too well. He hadn’t wanted to put the same burden onto his own children, but raising them without any gender at all would have been impossibly difficult. Instead he and Fingon had assured their babies that they were there for them, always, and would support them in whatever ways their fëar manifested. He hoped that made up for the initial mistake, in Erien’s case.
(If only he had the insight Fëanor had shown in knowing that Curufin was truly a nér, despite the hröa he was given. After Maedhros had shared his true nature, Fëanor had been much more careful with his other children’s fëar, and he had been so deeply connected with his fifth child that he knew from before Curufin’s birth that he was male.
Yet Maedhros, despite his concern for his children, despite having birthed them from his own hröa, despite everything—he had not known Erien was a little nís, not until she told them.
“It’s how you support her that matters,” Fingon assured him, but Maedhros could not help but still feel he had failed her.)
Erien only shrugged. “I’m only seven,” she said. “You were way older when you told everyone! It’s fine, Atya. Being Finbor wasn’t so bad. I just like being Erien better!”
“We love you however you are,” Fingon said, coming up from behind and bending to kiss his daughter’s crown of braids, the way only a father would. Gil nodded, and gave his twin a quick hug, pulling one of those braids the way only a brother would.
“You’re cooler as a sister,” he declared. “This way I get to be the favorite son!”
“The only son,” Erien retorted. She smirked, and added, “But I’m the only girl in the whole family! Even cousin Tyelpë’s a boy!”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Maedhros said. (He did not mention Idril or Aredhel, both gone for centuries now, long before the twins were born. And they would remember Lalwen soon enough.) “It’s almost time.”
Erien clutched his hand even tighter, and the four of them walked together into the dining hall where all their loved ones were gathered.
Fingon and Gil-galad took their seats, but Maedhros and Erien remained standing. Fingolfin, sitting at the head of the table, looked at them curiously.
“Come, sit,” he invited. “I promise I won’t go into any speeches like my father would!”
“Not until the second course, at least,” quipped Lalwen, sitting to his left.
“Actually, we have a speech,” Maedhros said, and nodded to Erien.
“Oh?” Fingolfin blinked. “Finbor, what is it?”
“Not Finbor,” she said firmly, and the fire of her spirit flared up bright and tall. Maedhros squeezed her hand, lending her all his strength and love as she continued.
“I am not a boy,” she declared. “I am a nís! Or I will be, when I’m all grown. Atya and Atto helped me braid my hair like a lady, and I am Gil’s sister, not his brother.”
There was a murmur of surprise—but then Maglor began to clap, and everyone else followed: all of Maedhros’ brothers, and his nephew, and Fingolfin and Lalwen and Finrod, the lone Arafinwëan who could make it to this gathering.
“Wonderful,” Lalwen proclaimed. “I’m no longer the only lady in the house!”
“What’s your name, child?” asked Curufin, who like Maedhros had gone through this sort of announcement before.
“Atya and Atto said I could pick my new name,” Erien said, beaming. “So I picked Erien! Because I’m their only daughter!”
“Does that make you Erion?” Tyelpë whispered to his other cousin.
“No,” Gil said, puffing out his chest. “I just took her old names! Now I’m Finbor!”
“And from ‘Erien,’ we’ve adapted some Quenya names,” Fingon put in. “Ariën from me...”
“...and Erëamíriel from me,” Maedhros finished. He had, once upon a time, been called Tatyamíriel, and knew this was what his father would have wanted for his only granddaughter. “We did ask if she wanted to keep her Finwë name, but—”
“—Gil can have it,” Erien said firmly. “Velcafinwë is lame.”
“I liked it,” Maedhros said mildly. And he thought it was a bit silly for Gil to have two Finwë names, but he’d only chosen Cantafinwë out of tradition, anyway. Maybe it was better this way. Although for such a little lad, his son certainly had an overabundance of names! Ereinion, Gil-galad, Artanáro, Cantafinwë; and now Finbor and Velcafinwë too!
Erien let go of Maedhros’ hand and plopped down in a chair next to her brother. “I’m hungry,” she declared. “Can we eat now?”
“Of course, Erien,” Fingolfin agreed, and motioned for the meal to begin. “Thank you for sharing your new name. I’m delighted to have another granddaughter!”
“You’re welcome, Haru,” Erien said. “Ooh, potatoes! Yum!”
Later that night, after many celebrations, a few speeches, and ultimately the least chaotic family reunion in literal Ages, Maedhros and Fingon unbraided their children’s hair and tucked them into bed.
Hair care was a sacred, intimate tradition among the Noldor; one did not go out in public with unbound hair, and only those closest to one’s heart were allowed to touch it. Maedhros had grown up arranging his brothers’ braids, had fallen asleep with his mother’s hands in his hair, had dreamed of Findekáno’s gold-ribboned locks and wept when his dearest love first allowed him to caress them.
Each time he combed through Gil’s hair or tucked a stray strand behind Erien’s ear, he cherished them, and remembered every sacrifice that had led him here, to his family. This time was no different, and with Fingon beside him, a steady presence in his fëa, their joy was redoubled.
“Thanks, Atya,” Gil mumbled as Maedhros combed out his fiery curls. Their twins were identical, like their uncles the Ambarussat, with the same red color passed down from Nerdanel but Anairë’s coiled texture.
Maedhros kissed his cheek. “Anything for my favorite son,” he whispered, making Gil giggle.
Erien was already asleep, exhausted from her big day and all the attention her extended family had given her. Fingon hadn’t bothered to change her into a nightgown, just helped her out of her dinner-wear and bundled her into bed in just her underclothes. Her hair, still mostly braided (if pulled down from its crown), was covered in her tiny blue sleeping cap.
Gil put on his own matching cap and lay his head down on his pillow, eyes drooping. “G’night, Atya,” he yawned. “G’night, Atto.”
“Love you, elen-nincë,” Fingon murmured, and kissed his brow. Maedhros blew out his candle, then let his husband tug him out of the childrens’ room and into their own.
At once Fingon was on him, kissing him tenderly, his hands fisting in Maedhros’ long, straight red locks. Maedhros moaned, going weak at the knees and falling down onto them before Fingon could ask. He gazed up at his prince, his husband, his Finno in utter devotion, every nerve on his scalp tingling.
As he preferred, his hair this night remained mostly unadorned save for his customary copper circlet and the single wavy braid that marked him as a nér in the Noldorin fashion. Fingon had many of those braids, among others symbolizing his status, his marriage, his many honors among Men and elves. He kept them in for months at a time, tightly binding his curly hair against his head. Maedhros had once thought that must be dreadfully uncomfortable to sleep in, but not long after their relationship began Fingon explained that his sleep cap cushioned the the jewelry, and that he had long since grown used to the style. Maedhros did not complain: he did love the gold.
“My liege,” he rasped, leaning his head back so his long, pale neck was exposed.
Fingon laughed quietly, sinking down to kneel beside Maedhros. “Russo,” he said fondly. “You know I like our games, but tonight let’s just be us. Let’s just be Gil and Erien’s fathers, so proud of our babies.”
“So long as you’ll still pull my hair,” Maedhros growled, and nipped his lip.
Fingon laughed, his smile brighter than the sun, and Maedhros knew his husband would give him—just as he gave their children—anything and everything he desired.