Hair Shout
’I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Círdan mused, studying the swaddled baby in his arms as the two of them sat comfortably in a chair by the window.
A tiny hand stuck out from the blankets and held tightly on to the mariner’s beard—a very natural reaction for a babe, in Maedhros’ opinion, nothing strange about it at all; not many elven beards around, after all—so what was Círdan wondering about?
Maedhros lifted a corner of the blanket to take a closer look at the little one. Then he stopped and had to suppress a chuckle.
Círdan looked up, surprised.
‘That hair...’ Maedhros began, and the mariner nodded encouragingly.
’... must have come from the mother’s side of the family!’ the proud father interrupted, smiling insincerely at Círdan.
Maedhros snorted.
‘Nay, Fingon, your hair looked exactly the same at this age!’ he laughed.
‘Really?’ Círdan’s face lit up in an unexpected smile.
‘Sure. Why do you think his father -’ An elbow in Maedhros’ side interrupted him, but he quickly seized Fingon’s wrist, spinning him around and pushing him into the corner, thus preventing his still struggling cousin from interrupting. Satisfied that he could still beat the young one, Maedhros continued telling the old family joke to the mariner.
‘...why else do you think his father named him “Hair Shout”?’
As laughter resounded through the room, the embarrassed Fingon groaned and ceased resisting Maedhros’ hold.
His tiny son jerked at the sudden noise, then attempted a giggle. The shielding blanket fell away as he wriggled and Fingon smiled at the sight, as did Maedhros. The child’s hair practically stood on end, forming a fuzzy, dark-brown halo around his perfect features.
‘Well, at least the hair looks good on him,’ Fingon said.
Maedhros nodded and released his cousin.
‘It does. I suppose on the whole, he could do worse than take after you,’ he admitted. Joining Círdan at the window, he draped the blanket around the infant again, for it was a chilly day.
Fingon approached, rubbing his wrist. He bent to pick up his son from Círdan’s arms.
‘My little star,’ he whispered and kissed the child.
Maedhros watched his cousin’s usual, proud reserve melt into an expression of love and adoration. He turned abruptly to look out the window, although a sudden mist prevented him from seeing much.
Fingon is not the only one who has much love to give. Does he realize his good fortune?
Perhaps someday, I, too... but no, it can never be. It is too late for that, and much too late for regrets.
The mist cleared and Maedhros composed himself, turning to Círdan to discuss matters of succession. He would have no misunderstandings on the subject.
***
Author's Notes:
I personally believe more in the meaning 'Cunning Commander' than 'Hair Shout'!