Maedhros was conceived upon the long table in Nerdanel’s workshop. They were surrounded by countless sculptures of her crafting, elegantly shaped and masterfully arranged. As their flames entwined, her last sight was an almost-perfect statue she had sculpted after the smiths in her father’s forge, her husband among them. Meanwhile, he whispered softly in her ear, “I love you so.”

“He shall be Maitimo,” Nerdanel said, gazing at the boy as he tried to stand, already taller than most children of his age.

Maglor was conceived after a grand festival of music. The King of Alqualondë came to Tirion to commemorate the anniversary of the Teleri’s arrival in Aman and the Noldor’s reunion with their long-separated kin. The white city was alive with song for days, Telerin singers and harpers wandering the streets of Tirion, weaving melodies of love and visions of distant shores, setting everyone in a mood of love and longing, so enchanting that she and Fëanor could not but choose to bring forth another child, a testament to their union.

“Makalaurë shall he be,” said Nerdanel, gazing at the dark-haired boy in his crib, “for his voice shall be both mighty and tender, and it will move countless hearts.”

Celegorm was conceived upon the open green fields near the woods of Oromë. She and Fëanor were journeying together once more, after the busy yet rewarding years of raising their first two sons. The change of pace was a welcome refreshment, and she was reminded of the early days of their youth—when they ventured far and wide across the lands of Aman, coming to know each other as their hearts became one. They joined in the light of the Two Trees, near their horses, with long grass and wildflowers strewn about. Their indulgence, however, was unexpectedly interrupted: a large golden hound darted through the woods, startling them as they lay sated and forcing them to rise in haste, scrambling for clothing to cover themselves.

“Tyelkormo, as I perceive,” said Nerdanel, her gaze following the boy as he laughed at his elder brothers, strong and restless. “May the Valar grant him greater patience.”

By the time Caranthir was conceived, they had begun longing for a daughter.

“Three sons,” her husband declared, his unparalleled talent extending in every matter of lore, including the art of numbers, “do you realize how rare it is to have three sons in succession? It stands to reason that the next shall be a daughter.” Then he kissed her and began grazing at her ears and neck. “I would like one who looks just like you.”

The child did resemble her—in complexion, that is to say. Dark-haired, with ruddy cheeks and her features—but he was another son.

“I do not understand,” her husband lamented, incredulous. “I was thinking of a daughter—”

“Which is the same pronoun in our tongue,” she reminded him. “Perhaps you should work on expanding our vocabulary first, my master of words. Meanwhile, I shall name him Carnistir.”

The family accepted it without much fuss or sulking; after all, she and Fëanor were still young and eager, and they could afford more trial and error. The only complication was Celegorm, who insisted on calling his younger brother “little sister” until Caranthir grew old enough to bite him. It took both Maedhros and Maglor to pull them apart.

They tried again; Curufin was conceived in Fëanor’s workshop, next to the forge—in fact, upon the anvil itself. Her skin was streaked with ash and glimmering mineral dust when they finished, satisfied, the heat lingering on her and within her.

“I hope this one looks like you,” she said to him as he lifted her, “for we already have two who bear a clear trace of me, yet none who truly take after you.”

He pressed another kiss to her lips as he carried her to their chamber. “I will love them, no matter whom they resemble—and even more so, if they look like you.”

The newborn did indeed resemble him in every aspect, even in gender.

“Atarinkë you are,” she said, gazing at the sleeping baby surrounded by her four elder sons and her husband, sensing their quiet disappointment.

“Amíl, do you think we will ever have a little sister?” Celegorm asked, unable to hold back, clearly voicing the doubt on everyone’s mind.

“I do not yield to strange odds,” her husband vowed. “Let us try again—if my father could sire daughters, so can I.” This statement was rare indeed, for he seldom acknowledged his father’s other children.

He prepared meticulously, employing all the skills he had mastered over the years. She was brought to the peak of ecstasy, twice as high as she had ever known—twice, as if the very stars sang within her. All the while, he murmured repeatedly of beautiful children like her—unprecedented—with her eyes and copper-red hair like her father’s. When they drifted into dreams, exhausted, she felt something different settle within her and thought their efforts had finally concluded in perfection.

Until it was revealed to be twins—unheard of among the Eldar—and both were boys.

The family was amazed, joyful, and disappointed all at once, her husband most of all.

“I do not suppose you have more left in you, meldanya,” he said, holding her tightly after she gave birth. She knew he had always feared she might give too much of herself to their children, as his mother had, and leave him in the same manner.

“No; we have given all we could,” she replied, cradling her newborn twin sons. “They are Ambarussa, for their red hair, resemblance, and twinhood.”

“At least their names should be different?” her husband protested.

“Then let one be called Umbarto, but which, time will decide.”

“Ambarto, you mean?” her husband asked, frowning.

“Umbarto I spoke; yet do as you wish. It will make no difference.” (1)

For they are fated to be as they are, and we are fated to never have the daughter we so desired.

“It concerns me,” Fingolfin said to Anairë as soon as they returned home from the King’s house, “that so far, all of us have only had sons—me, Ingoldo, and Fëanáro, as we have just learned.”

“Especially in your elder brother’s case—twin sons after having five—I wonder how he will take that,” Anairë said with a soft sigh. “Surely, he will love them,” she added, “but I worry about Nerdanel. Could she even try again, assuming he has not already given up? Seven children… it is almost unthinkable.” She shivered slightly, as though the very thought unsettled her.

Fingolfin nodded in agreement. “I cannot even imagine us having more than four, considering how much Findekáno and Turukáno have taken from you already. But I do think daughters are far too rare in this generation.”

“Fortunately, we still have time and vigor,” Anairë said with a reassuring tone. “The same goes for Eärwen and Ingoldo, though they have more sons than we do.”

“I will speak to Ingoldo about this tomorrow,” Fingolfin said firmly, his voice resolute.

The next day, when Fingolfin found his younger brother in the garden, he quickly realized how awkward the topic was, even though he and Finarfin were no strangers to difficult discussions. To Fingolfin's relief, however, Finarfin seemed more thoughtful and engaged than usual after hearing his elder brother’s concerns about the absence of daughters in their family.

“But this is the will of Eru, is it not?” Finarfin replied after a moment of contemplation. “How can we ever hope to change it?”

“Just as we seek to change anything,” Fingolfin answered. “Help me think of what we can do.”

They pondered together, the wise and noble princes of Tirion, from the time Telperion began to bloom until Laurelin’s light faded. Only their shining eyes betrayed the stirring and kindling of their thoughts as they went to and fro in silent exchange. (1)

“Since we are trying to have daughters, I suppose the ladies may hold the stronger influence?” Finarfin finally ventured, speaking tentatively after much wine and no small measure of embarrassment. “Perhaps it is up to our wives?”

This theory, though unsupported by evidence, sounded plausible enough at first. And when they heard more rumors from the attendants about how their elder brother had managed to father twins, it suddenly seemed well-founded.

“Looks like our elder brother tried too hard, as he does in everything,” Fingolfin remarked with a wry smile. “All right, let us consult with Anairë and Eärwen, and, with the blessing of the Valar, perhaps our concerns will be resolved.”

Fingolfin had anticipated a delicate discourse with his wife, who was ever composed and proper, never embarking on adventures or indulging in the unexpected. (2) To his pleasant surprise, Anairë considered his words only briefly before replying, “I also feel it is time for another child, and preferably a daughter. What should I do?”

“Well, that is the difficult part,” Fingolfin admitted. “If our theory is correct, you shall lead, and I will follow. Be a little creative—different than before.” He stopped himself from adding, but not as different as my elder brother did, unwilling to stifle her imagination.

Anairë was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded with quiet determination. “So be it.”

Fingolfin was taken aback by the spark in her eyes—this was unfamiliar to him, as though his wife had just revealed a side of herself he had never known.

Some time passed, and nothing came of it. Just as the matter was slipping from Fingolfin’s mind, he was caught completely off guard upon entering his bedchamber one day.

A pair of gentle hands covered his eyes from behind, quickly and deftly tying a blindfold over his head. The knot felt intricate and artful, judging by the precise movements he could sense.

“Anairë?” he asked, unable to resist after the initial shock. She gave no reply. Instead, a finger pressed softly against his lips—a clear command to silence. Then, one of her hands slipped into his and began leading him forward.

Disoriented, he could not tell where they were going, but the texture beneath his feet and the faint scents in the air suggested they were heading toward the stables. His guess was confirmed when her guiding hand released him briefly, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a horse being brought forward.

Obeying her silent commands, he mounted, resisting the urge to remove the blindfold or voice the questions racing through his mind. His thoughts spun wildly—wondering what the household staff might think if they saw this—but he quickly realized it was far too late for such concerns. He felt her mount behind him, her arms wrapping around him securely, as though he were a maiden and she, the steadfast, protective partner.

“Steady yourself, meldanya,” she whispered in his ear. Before he could reply, she urged the horse forward with a decisive nudge of her knee, sending it into a sudden gallop.

They raced through the streets of Tirion, veering off the familiar paths that wound around the city, descending steadily toward the green fields of Calacirya. When the breeze carried the faint, salty tang of the sea to his nose, she finally brought the horse to a halt. Gently, she helped him dismount, then guided him to sit on a soft patch of grass.

Her kiss found his lips with such forcefulness and fervor that, for a moment, he was almost startled. As he opened his mouth to speak, intending to ask, “Are you sure about this? We do not have to—” she silenced him with another kiss, firmly pushing him onto his back. Her hands guided his to her breast and waist, and only then did he realize she was bare beneath his touch.

The words dissolved into the wind, carried away by the rising anticipation. A strange yet familiar fire kindled within him, and he surrendered himself to her completely, asking no further questions.

When they finished, his blindfold had long since slipped away and now hung loosely around his neck, though the intricate knot remained securely tied. They lay together in the green fields near the exit of Calacirya, where the silver light of Telperion bathed the blades of grass in a soft, grey sheen. Nearby, their horse, a white stallion, grazed peacefully by a stream, while the white city of Tirion stood proudly upon Túna, gleaming like crystal and pearl beneath the radiant light.

“That was... unexpected,” he said, thoroughly satisfied, his fingers tracing the curve of her shoulders. She had been incredible—commanding yet giving, an exquisite display of power and pleasure that was entirely new to him.

“I had some help from Írimë,” she replied, her voice soft and languid as she began to drift into a sated slumber.

“Írimë?” he repeated, sitting up in disbelief. “But she does not even have a lover—”

“You do not need a lover to understand love,” she murmured, her voice growing faint as sleep claimed her. “I have a feeling this will be a daughter, and this time, I shall name her Irissë and make it widely known that she is what we have so greatly desired—you cannot make me keep her amilessë hidden as you did with those of our elder boys.”

“That was only because you named both of them ‘king,’ which would certainly have provoked my elder brother—” he began, but she had already slipped into repose, a familiar sign that a child was taking hold.

“Irissë she is, then,” he whispered as he gently lifted her into his arms. “In fact, that will be her father-name as well.”

It truly turned out to be a girl—a precious daughter. That same year, Finarfin’s daughter was also born. At their celebration afterward, the brothers sat together, watching the little girls play. One golden-haired, the other dark-haired, both still unsteady on their feet as they toddled about, their laughter ringing out brightly against the gentle murmur of conversation.

Nerdanel remained at rest after the birth of her twin sons, but Maedhros and Maglor had come. Maedhros, close in age to Fingolfin and a familiar presence in his house, sat with Fingon, the two exchanging jokes and laughter as longtime friends often do. Meanwhile, Maglor sang a soft marching tune, his light voice carrying through the air as he watched the little girls scramble and play together.

“Now we both have our daughters,” Fingolfin said, raising a toast to his younger brother, who returned the gesture with a grin. “Did you do something extraordinary?”

“Indeed,” Finarfin replied, a twinkle in his eye. “It was one of the boldest things we have ever done—we took a boat from Alqualondë and tried to sail to Tol Eressëa.”

Fingolfin raised a brow, intrigued. That was certainly adventurous. “How did it go?” he asked, his curiosity fully awakened. He had never set foot on the Lonely Isle, the place their ancestors were said to have sailed upon as a living ship during their journey to Aman—or so the tales claimed.

“We never truly made it,” Finarfin admitted with a sheepish smile. “You know I am no great sailor, even though she is. But we did behold its shores and glimpsed a white tower gleaming in the distance.”

He paused, a fond smile tugging at his lips as the memory surfaced. “She said she saw starlight caught in my golden hair, as though the light of the Two Trees had entwined there.”

Fingolfin immediately raised his glass again, deciding the details were more than he needed to hear. “Anyway, to our beautiful daughters,” he said, smoothly steering the conversation back.

“To our beautiful daughters,” Finarfin echoed with a chuckle, raising his glass in turn.

The story below may or may not have happened

After returning to Tirion that day, Fingolfin found the knotted cloth to be quite a nuisance. It was impossible to simply remove it from over his head, and he did not wish to cut it. He spent an entire day trying to untangle the knot, but in the end, he had to leave it hanging around his neck until Anairë awoke three days later.  

Not long after, a peculiar trend began spreading throughout the city: everyone started wearing folded pieces of fine linen around their necks, adorned with beautiful and intricate knots. Alongside this fashion came the tale of Princess Charging. After the birth of Aredhel, the story gained even greater popularity. It was said that a certain Maia, upon hearing of the House of Finwë’s predicament of producing no daughters in the third generation, had personally arrived on a white horse, charging in like a princess, to bestow a few much-needed lessons upon Prince Fingolfin. The results, as the tale went, were immediate and effective—benefiting even the House of Finarfin.

People could not help but remark that, had the Crown Prince not been so hasty and waited a few more years, he might have also benefited from this blessing and perhaps even fathered a pair of twin daughters. For a time, “Do not be hasty” became the city’s most popular greeting—but that, as they say, is a story for another time.