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“I am thinking Haldar, for a name,” Haleth said. “If it is a boy. After my brother.”
Caranthir gave her a look, one that she couldn’t quite understand. He looked almost confused. “Truly?”
“It is traditional.” Haleth shrugged. “A very old name. It comes from an uncle, I think, as well.”
“But so soon?” Caranthir’s brow knit. “Do you not wish to wait? Something might still come to you.”
“I am not likely to change my mind,” Haleth said testily. “It is as good as any other, and means much to me.” And then, catching a glimpse of an almost hurt look on Caranthir’s face, she softens. “But if there is one you favor from your own tongue, I am open to discussion.”
If anything, Caranthir looked even more hurt, and almost angry on top of that. “I wouldn’t dare to presume,” he said, very stiffly. “I would not slight you so.”
Haleth sighed. She hadn’t been intending to set him off; since the fourth month had passed she’d had little energy for their usual sparring. “I will not hold it a slight,” she said. “You must also have those you wish to honor. I know you have suffered much loss.”
“You cannot possibly be suggesting to—to name them after someone.” Now he sounded scandalized. “Someone—dead?”
“Well, what would you name him? Or her?” Haleth demanded. “If it were your choice alone?”
Caranthir flung a hand to the side. “If there is no amilessë apacenyë—if an ataressë must come first, before the amilessë tercenyë—then I shall think of such things then. But to decide an anessë before they are even born—.”
“Words, Caranthir,” she bit out. “You tell me what those words mean now, or so help me this child might well grow up without a father.”
Caranthir froze, looking at her almost guiltily.
Good. He knew better, when her patience was gone along with her energy, like this.
“Anessi,” he said at last, chastened. “True-names, given ones. The—the mother gives the name at birth, if she sees what it is to be, but it does not always happen. That is the amilessë apacenyë, the name of foresight. If it does not, the father gives a name—that is the ataressë. Often it relates to the family, but in part, not whole. And the mother gives the amilessë tercenyë later, the name of insight, if there is no name of foresight. About—some trait of the child.”
“That seems…unnecessarily complicated.” Haleth shook her head. “Which one is yours, then? Caranthir,” she said, weighing the syllables in her mouth.
Caranthir nodded. “Amilessë,” he said. “Carnistir. For,” he gestured up, almost self-conscious, “the flush. Red-faced, like my mother. In skin, not hair.”
Haleth frowned. “I’d name them based on what they look like?” That seemed…unwise. Perhaps not for a child, but children grew up, and could worry over looks and such.
“No, it can be anything,” Caranthir hurried to say. “Any notable trait. My mother was not known for grace in naming, and she had many children. I would say I’m better off than my older brother, named for his quick temper, or my younger one, whose amilessë and ataressë both mark him as like to our father.” He made a face. “But my ataressë—.”
“So you have many?” Haleth interrupted, curious. “It isn’t just—whichever comes first, you have all of these names?”
“One amilessë, one ataressë,” Caranthir clarified. “Carnistir, for my face, Morifinwë—Dark Finwë, for my hair and my grandfather—.”
“You are not convincing me that elves do not name their children by appearance,” Haleth muttered. It seemed a pity. Children were more than their features, after all, and she was under no illusions; a child who resembled too much of either of their kindreds could well struggle among the other.
“There are also epessi,” Carnistir went on, ignoring her interjection. “After-names. Also given names, but these are honorifics, bynames.”
“Ah,” Haleth said. There were those with epithets among her folk as well—the one she now bore first, Halbar, but there were some others of those with special skills. “Like how those visiting elves called you Caranthir-i-Vorn?”
“No, that’s—not a proper epessë,” Caranthir clarified. “It’s a lenition of ‘morn,’ translated from the Quenya. From Morifinwë.”
“All right. Well.” Haleth put her hands on her hips. “I shall name him Haldar if he is a boy, and Hareth if she is a girl. And you can give them some kind of ataressi—.”
“—Ataressë, ataressi would be plural—.”
“Well, Athu forbid this child have a plurality of names,” Haleth muttered. She suspected that would be a losing battle in any case. “Anyway. You give them a name, I give them a name—that’s fine, that’s fair, but I’m not going to count on a vision or name them based on their eye color. And if they don’t like either, they can choose their own.”
Even though she didn’t mind fighting, Haleth was relieved when Caranthir nodded enthusiastically.
“That will work,” he said. “Chosen-names have fallen out of fashion, and there is some social restriction about use if one is being traditional, but our child will have new paths to tread anyway. It will only be proper if they choose.” He looked almost excited about it. “We can hold them an essecilme. Those still happen, if an anessë becomes ill-fitting.
Haleth decided not to ask about the specifics of any of that. It was early months, yet, and there were more important things.
“I would like something salty,” she said. “I would be happy to get it myself, but—.”
“You aren’t allowed in the kitchen,” Caranthir said as if by rote, already heading for the door. “I do not want to see what poor dish you might eviscerate on a whim with excessive salt. I will bring you something.”
“And the salt cellar,” Haleth said firmly.
Caranthir sighed. “And the salt cellar.”
~
“You are progressing well,” the midwife said, letting Haleth sit up. “The babe seems healthy. I see no cause for worry.” She started gathering up her kit. “Are the usual matters taken care of?”
Haleth nodded. “I have made arrangements. My cousin, Hiril. She has agreed to the guardianship, should there be need. She’ll be here.”
“Wait,” Caranthir said slowly. “Why?” He looked over at Haleth. “You should have whoever you like with you, of course. But what need?”
“If I die,” Haleth said. “She has two children of her own and is very good with them, so she is—Moryo!”
Whatever reaction she had been expecting—which was none—it would not have been for Caranthir to blanch and fall over.
The midwife held up a hand. “Allow me,” she said, gesturing for Haleth to remain seated. She bent down to pull Caranthir upright enough to lean back against the wall.
If Haleth were less concerned, she would have put more mind to being satisfied with the midwife who had agreed to tend to her; very few of her people were confident enough to be in the presence of her lover without being dazzled, never mind to haul him about like any other fainting father.
“I suppose I should have asked,” Caranthir mumbled, eyes vacant. “If you had a—history. Like my own family.”
Haleth tilted her head. “What kind of history?”
“Of—risk,” Caranthir said, looking at her mournfully. “With—childbirth.”
“Only the usual one,” Haleth said. “Nothing worse. My mother bore twins without complication, and only lost one other child. And it didn’t threaten her health—Moryo!”
Caranthir swooned again, face growing impossibly paler. The midwife was holding him upright. She sighed.
“There is no sign of great risk, Lord Caranthir,” she said. “Lady Haleth is young and strong, and she and the child both seem to be in good health. There is always the risk of complications—but it is only the normal levels of risk. Do not let it worry you.”
“That isn’t normal,” Caranthir said faintly. “That our child might die—that you might—.”
“Of course it is,” Haleth said.
“No.” Caranthir shook his head. “My grandmother—my grandmother weakened after my father was born, and died not long after. She was the only one. The only one ever, it—doesn’t happen.”
Both Haleth and the midwife stared at him.
“…Not ever?” the midwife asked, incredulous.
Caranthir shook his head again.
“How?” Haleth asked. “That—it’s just part of life.”
Caranthir looked at her, then, and his eyes were wide and desolate. “How do you expect it? Why would you—why would you ever, if you knew it might be so? The Valar very nearly had to deal with riots, from the stories, that such a terrible thing happened in that land of plenty and safety.” He swallowed. “That such a thing could ever happen.”
“Well, we do not live in the Land of the Gods,” the midwife said briskly. “And we are not elves. And we live, and sometimes with that life comes death.”
Caranthir’s eyes were still locked on Haleth’s. “You can’t die,” he said, something old and very broken in his voice. “You’re not—allowed to.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Haleth folded her arms. “But I don’t plan to.”
“If you’re making plans—,” Caranthir started helplessly.
“It is our way,” Haleth said, speaking very clearly and slowly. “It is a precaution. If I die, I die. If they die, they die. But if I die and they do not—they will not be alone. They will have you, and they will have such kin of mine that will sit by my side until it is done, such kin that will stay by them.”
“It might kill me,” Caranthir said hoarsely. He tried to clear his throat; the resulting sound was more like a sob. “To lose you. It might.”
“It had better not,” Haleth warned, done with the conversation. “I’ll linger just to beat you up if you even think of leaving our child alone.”
Caranthir made an attempt to laugh at that. It was very much also a sob, but—
It was an attempt. Haleth would take it.
The midwife clapped her hands together. “All right, then,” she said. “My lady, take your lord for a turn about the gardens. Some fresh air to settle him. I’ll help you bring him out.”
“I can walk,” Caranthir protested as he was hauled to his feet by the midwife’s iron grip.”
“My lord, please,” she said. “I will count it fortunate that you do not have a head wound right now. I do not want to see how a third fall might go.”
~
“Repeat that,” Haleth said, certain it couldn’t be right. “You want to name him what?”
Caranthir was aglow, looking down at their newborn son. Haleth was—happy, of course, but mostly tired.
And now, she was doubting her own hearing.
“It works very well.” Caranthir looked very proud of himself. “In my tongue, ‘hala’ refers to a cast shadow, to the shade, so it is a reference to my father-name, and it continues the manner of ataressi in my family. And it has resonances of your own tongue as well, such lovely ones.”
Haleth was growing increasingly convinced that she had not misheard him. “And you didn’t think it just might be a little bit redundant?”
“Well, he won’t use both. He can pick whichever he prefers.” Caranthir nodded, satisfied. “It even translates…well enough. Halfin will do, even if it isn’t the most etymologically meaningful name in Sindarin. If he ever needs it.”
“Halafinwë Haldar,” Haleth said disbelievingly. “You poor thing.”
“He can take a kilmessë,” Caranthir said. “If he likes.”
“He’d better,” Haleth muttered.
~
“You can put him down, love, you know,” Haleth said.
Carnistir gave her a wild-eyed, incredulous look.
“We have a cradle for a reason,” she pointed out. “It’s been three days. Surely you can’t hold him until he’s old enough to walk. You need to sleep.”
“He’s perfect,” Caranthir gushed.
“Yes, he is,” Haleth said. “And you need sleep.” She gestured towards the cradle at the bedside. “He’ll be fine.”
Caranthir’s tall, red-haired brother—imposing and muscle-bound in such a way that she itched to spar with him the moment she was recovered—swept in.
“I’ll hold him, Moryo,” he said. “You can sleep. I didn’t drop you, after all, not once in the century of your youth.”
“He can go in the cradle,” Haleth pointed out again. “He will be fine. He has to learn to sleep on his own sometime.”
Both elves looked at her, incredulous.
“Perhaps,” Caranthir’s brother said, sounding exceptionally doubtful. “But there is no need.”
He took their son from Caranthir’s arms, holding him as naturally as anything, and shoved Caranthir down to the bed with his left arm. Caranthir must have been tired, because it was exceptionally easy for his brother to do so, and he didn’t move after impacting the blankets.
Haleth sighed and dragged Caranthir across the bed, so he could at least have his head on the pillow and a stray blanket thrown over him if he wasn’t going to undress.
Caranthir’s brother inclined his head to her. “He will be well, my lady. You should both be resting.”
“I know that,” Haleth said, exasperated. “Babies are resilient. He’d be fine in the cradle. Growing takes rest, too.” She prodded Caranthir, who didn’t move—not that it was a surprise given that he hadn’t slept in days. “This one is paranoid, but—Lord Maedhros, you must know that infants do fine, learning to rest on their own.”
“Hmm.” Lord Maedhros looked at the cradle as if it were an untrustworthy place for a child to rest, more so than the arms of a parent who, again, hadn’t slept in four days. “But there is no need. I am here, and Maglor shall be, tomorrow, and then in another week Ambarussar shall arrive.” A very faint smile curved over his handsome, scarred face. “We did not let little Tyelpe down for years, you know. A new child for our house—our father would be wild with joy.”
“I am overjoyed,” Haleth agreed. “And tired.”
“That is why we come,” Lord Maedhros said. “All of us. There is no greater feat than the creation of new life—save the strength needed to bring it to the world. Rest, my lady. Nothing shall befall your son, not so long as any of us draw breath.”
He exhaled deeply, lit eyes sharp with solemnity. “Rest.”
Haleth sighed, but lay back obediently. She turned to settle into Caranthir’s side. There was the light of the door opening, then…
Nothing. Naught but silence and darkness and dragging exhaustion.
“We’ll be all right, love,” she murmured. “He’ll be all right.”