Of the Unborn

Title: Tales of an Unborn

Author: Indra Kim (Punisher)

E-mail: Punisher8209@yahoo.com

Ratings: R at most

Disclaimer: The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this story
are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate and Tolkien Enterprises.
No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Note: This is an Elrond/Gil-galad, Erestor/Glorfindel slash story that has
progressively diverging AU elements. While the relationships are accompanied
by plot, action and drama, and the AU elements are kept as consistent to Canon
as possible, if you seriously object to the slash element -- or the particular
pairings -- or the AU elements -- then don’t read the story!

Summary: Former High-King Ereinion Gil-galad returns to Middle-earth, and becomes
an advisor in Rivendell under the preposterous name: "Melpomaen".

From whence Melpomaen came is unknown. It is said he appeared in Mithlond on
the year 442 of the Third Age, with nary a belonging except for the clothes
on his back. For two decades he dwelled in the Gulf of Lhûn as a simple
Elf who preferred his own company over that of others. He then applied for the
position of apprentice scribe to Lord Erestor, and left for Imladris after being
accepted. None, not even Círdan the Shipwright, imagined this silent
and unobtrusive Elf would later become one of the most celebrated figures in
Elvish history…

--Saelbeth, Historian

--- Part one ---

"Really, Finarfin," said Olwë, High King of the Teleri, "Are
you sure one of the slain Finwians was given the grace to return?"

The High King of the Noldor wrenched his eyes away from the foot of the Mahanaxar,
where all of his people, and many of his Vanyar and Teleri kin, gathered around
waiting. Each and every person’s face held a mixture of excitement and
dread, as they discussed in hushed whispers the sanity of Finarfin or which
descendent of Finwë might have a chance to return to the world
of light and living. "Yes, I was told in a dream that I should wait for
him here."

Indeed, for the past two weeks Finarfin had been standing in front of the Ring
of Doom, and refused to give up his wait for any reason. It led all of the Noldor
to travel to Valimar, his mother Indis being one of the first to come and stand
by his side. Eärwen, his wife, pleaded her father to come before making
the trip herself.

Ingwë, High King of the Vanyar, frowned. "I was in the Elder King
(Manwë) and Blessed Lady’s (Varda) audience two weeks ago, but they
didn’t mention this to me. Also, I was led to understand that even the
re-housing of Finrod was an extraordinary exception to the Doom of
Mandos."

"The Valar made exceptions before," said Finarfin, "And you
are not told of every re-housing -- not when so many people return
from the Halls each decade." He cast his eyes back to the Mahanaxar, which
remained closed. "I will wait, until I am deluded by the Valar themselves."

Ingwë studied his grandson, who turned very pale and thin over the weeks.
"Hmmm," he mused, before finally saying, "Be that as it may,
I don’t think it would do you any good if you continue on in this manner;
you may be an Elf of Aman, but your body can only sustain so much fasting and
sleeplessness."

He looked at Finarfin and with a very serious demeanor added: "I am afraid,
Finarfin, I will have to insist that you stop before you do yourself harm."

Finarfin refused to look at him. "Then I am afraid, Grandfather, I will
have to refuse," He replied, "For I will not miss this chance of reunion
for anything."

And before Ingwë could voice any more protests, the doors of gold started
to open, and all eyes fell upon the grey mists that came forth…

---oo00oo---

"So it is true," whispered Amarië, wife of Finrod. She turned
to her husband. "What happens now?"

Finrod looked at her lovingly, his eyes full of longing once thought beyond
hope of fulfillment, but granted by a miracle. "If all goes well, he shall
step forth from the mists of Námo, bathed in the breath of Manwë
and the light of Varda, clad in raiment of pure white."

"Like how I found you under the trees of Eldamar," murmured Amarië.

"Yes," Finrod cupped her cheek. "Just like how you found me…"

They kissed, and then turned to silently watch the mists of Námo cover
the grounds. They were soon engulfed by a very large crowd of fascinated onlookers
who swarmed towards the entrance, trying to find a better spot to see the newly
re-housed when he made his appearance. By the time the doors to Mahanaxar were
fully open, the grey mists were completely hidden underneath the crowd.

Occasionally, there were those who stepped further back -- and the few Sindarin
Elves who chose to live with their Teleri Kin in Valinor were still unwilling
to accept that one of those Elves who brought them much woe was allowed to return.

"I could live a thousand Ages, but nothing would match this moment,"
said Ingwë, his voice more thouul tul than emotional. "Could this
be a sign that all the dead will return, one day?"

"I wouldn’t call that good news," muttered Olwë, eyes
flashing.

"Come now, all was forgiven, and only waiting to be forgotten."

Olwë snorted" A pity then, that I will never forget so long my fëa
exists."

Ingwë didn’t reply, and made a gesture that asked for silence. As
if on cue, all the living beings gathered around Mahanaxar ceased to make any
noise. Not even the softest chatter of birds or chipper of insects could be
heard.

The winds of Manwë genteelly but firmly pushed the crowd of Elves to retreat
several feet away. Once a clearing as made, the mists of Námo gathered
and molded, forming a figure that resembled an Elf-lord. The figure was tall
-- taller than the tallest Elf by twofold -- and its hands were clasped together
in a manner that suggested it was holding something with great care. All eyes
converged to those smoky, pale hands.

Then they were all blinded. Light -- endlessly bright and fathomlessly warm
light -- filled the air. A few let out startled cries. Many fell to their knees
and bowed before the figure, covering their eyes behind their robe-sleeves.
Only Finarfin could open his eyes and see the figure’s black outline and
the source of the light, which was a great ball of white flame burning in the
figure’s hands.

Then the voice of Námo spoke.

"Come forth, Finarfin, son of Finwë!"

Finarfin took several steps forward, and then knelt on the ground, caring not
where he stood. A few minutes later he felt, rather than saw, the figure approach,
and stretch one hand holding the white flame towards him. Up front, the flame
seemed perilously hot as well as infinitely cold. Yet Finarfin was gripped by
an odd compulsion to reach out and touch it.

"Behold!" proclaimed the voice of Námo. "This child,
who is beloved to me, I return to thee. From him thou shalt find hope for happiness,
and only from him thou shalt find hope in the future."

The ball of flame drifted away from the smoky figure’s outstretched hand,
and hovered over Finarfin’s bloodless ones. Then the grey mists that once
formed the hand molted, and enveloped the white flame within its transparent
folds. Once the flame was completely covered, the mist slowly changed from its
formlessness to a shape that looked like a very young Elf-child’s body.

"And let all ye Elves beware!" the voice of Námo further cried,
"A time shalt come, when the choices of this child will bring changes to
Eä, and all who dwell in it, be it for mending or further marring. So ere
he leaves these shores, heed his words and hinder not his ways; for naught but
everlasting regret and crushing sorrow will come, if thou art tried to intervene,
regardless of thine intentions."

And so it was said. The Elves bowed to those words in deference. The figure
-- now without a hand -- disintegrated back into a formless mist, which in turn
was carried away by the winds of Manwë. The mists on the ground circled
around Finarfin, turning faster and faster with each revolution. Finally it
created a tall opaque cylinder that touched the heavens. The wall was broken
occasionally, like cloud openings, and showed what was happening within.

Finarfin continued to kneel on the ground, his hair flying wildly in the air
and arms ready to receive the smoky figure of a child. Before his very eyes
the mists solidified, and became thicker, swirling sluggishly beneath an invisible
mold. It also became increasingly difficult to make out the flame that burned
inside the pale mists.

The moment the flame was completely obscured, Finarfin began to feel the warmth
coming from Elven flesh on his finger-tips. The sensation first came like sprinkles
of fine sand on a windy day, and then it spread across his palms and forearms.
Amidst the roar of winds, he could hear a rapid heartbeat that was not his own.

At long last, the solid weight of a body rested upon Finarfin’s arms.
The King quickly clutched the body to his chest. He didn’t remember closing
his eybut but when he opened them he found a living, breathing body of an Elf-child
less than fifteen summers old in his embrace.

The clouds parted and vanished, and the tears gathered in Finarfin’s
eyes sparkled under the sunlight. Raising one trembling hand, he brushed away
the dark honey-brown hair that covered the child’s face.

Though he never seen him this young, he recognized the face.

‘Ai, how could this be?’

‘I thought you were lost to me forever…’

"Gil-galad!" he shouted. "Ereinion Gil-galad has returned!"

A roar of confused whispered broke out. There were some cries of welcome, and
some shouts of protest. Many broke into songs of relief and hope. Many more
danced in joy.

Very few, however, noticed Finarfin.

The great impromptu celebration at the foot of Mahanaxar made it a difficult
matter to see or hear the King. But Finrod rushed to his father the moment he
heard Gil-galad’s name, and was the only one to see him weep to the heavens
without restraint…

…and then fall bonelessly to the floor -- unconscious, with the reincarnated
child clutched fiercely to his chest.

---oo00oo---

Finarfin woke up to the familiar scents of his bedroom. A strange ingrained
sense of caution allowed him to show no outward sign of his return to consciousness.
With his eyes half-glazed, and breathing slow and regular, he listened carefully
for anything that could tell him who was near and what was happening. He heard
voices, but they were muffled and distant, so he surmised the speakers were
in another room.

But the speakers … they were talking about…!

In shock, Finarfin’s eyes flew upon. Ereinion! They were talking about
Ereinion! But … why would they suddenly care about Ereinion?

"… me, Ingwë," said the voice of Olwë, "But
in retrospect, I should have known one of our descendents would eventually
return from the Halls."

There was a reply from someone who he surmised as Ingwë -- his grandfather
who hesitated to condemn his dream as a hallucination, but couldn’t bring
himself to accept its implications. But Finarfin was no longer following the
conversation. His thoughts were fixed on Olwë’s words about the Halls…

«Mandos…» he thought. The Halls of Mandos; from whence Ereinion
was released; from within which his great-grandson dwelled for four-hundred
odd years. In those Halls his soul was cleansed of the filth it inevitably accumulated
in Arda marred, and now he was born anew, though all that he remembered -- and
that he had experienced -- from his previous life was still part of him, as
he embarked upon this new chance of life.

A life held a new purpose.

"But why was he re-housed in such a young body?" a woman’s
voice intruded Finarfin’s thoughts, "This never happened before,
and what if he retains the mind of a full-fledged ellon?" Ah. Eärwen,
concerned for their great-grandchild. Finarfin smiled faintly.

"Excellent question," replied Ingwë’s voice. "What
is your opinion, Lady Anaire?"

"I’m not sure," Anaire answered. "He sleeps with his eyes
closed, like all other children of his apparent age, and those who are recently
re-housed. Beyond that, I cannot say."

"But his hröa is so young!" protested Eärwen, "And
his fëa must be at least three thousand years old if he is a day. How can
this be?"

Ingwë’s voice replied, "Ah, Eärwen, already so protective
of him?" Finarfin could almost hear the smile on the Ingwë’s
face. "He was so created by the Valar -- they must have had their reasons."

"But for one who had lived three millennia to begin his life again in
a child’s body…" came the protest.

"How can we know if it will raise problems until he wakes up?" Ingwë
countered. "We will not discover them until then, at least. And, if he
suffered from severe enough shock during his re-housing, he may not even be
able to recall his previous life, no matter how many years may pass. The mind
doesn’t often remember things it truly doesn’t wish to."

«He will not be so fortunate…» thought Finarfin.

"For now," Ingwë continued, "I don’t think we can
accomplish anything tonight. Ereinion rests peacefully, beyond any conceivable
danger for the first time in his living existence, I would imagine. Let it be
so, and partake rest ourselves."

There was a murmur, some of protest and others of agreement. There seemed to
be three or more people present, so Finarfin mentally increased the number of
people in the other room. Quiet scraping of wood against marble and soft murmurs
reached his ears, the latter dwindling with the increased distance. Finarfin
half-raised himself from his bed, and soon afterwards Eärwen came in, an
Elf-child in her arms.

They sat close to each other that night, and Finarfin listened to Eärwen’s
haunting lullaby as he stroked Ereinion’s hair. Eärwen was like that
-- always compassionate and dutiful. He knew he could trust her to take care
of Ereinion.

But could he tell her -- tell anyone -- the appointed future of the child?

---oo00oo---

Careful not to wake his sleeping wife, Finarfin opened his eyes and watched
the child sleeping between them. Much of him looked familiar … and yet
so different. The Ereinion he remembered was tall and thin -- almost underfed
looking at times. His skin had been as pale as moonstones and hair darker than
any of his children, though he still had the memory of gold in his brown tresses.
Ereinion as a child was still pale, but he had rosy hints on both cheeks, which
were soft and round with childish chubbiness. Perhaps in Valinor, he wouldn’t
mature to look as gaunt as he did in his previous life.

Letting his eyes loose focus, Finarfin turned his thoughts inwards and considered
the situation. Should he tell someone what Ereinion was reborn to do? Tell them
why he had to do it? «Nay,» he thought. «It was hard enough
for everyone to accept his re-housing, but if they learn it is to potentially
discredit the reason why they were against it… even the warnings of Námo
will not be enough to suppress their outrage.»

Indeed, though more than three thousand years had passed since the first kinslaying,
most of the Teleri were not ready to forgive, let alone forget, the deeds of
the Exiled Noldor. The forgiveness at the end of the Firse wae was mostly for
the sake of the Sindar who suffered under Morgoth’s tyranny in Middle-earth,
and even now the past-Exiles were shunned, if not persecuted, despite being
pardoned by the Valar.

And that was a thought that never failed to sadden him. For the Noldor-intolerance
in Aman had come to the point where, even acting or thinking like the Noldor
of old was something to be ashamed of, or at least, something that was deeply
discouraged. Now his people hardly attempted anything new, and none dared to
ask questions that delved into the mysteries of Arda’s making. If time
went on and the Eldar continued to be this way, there would no longer be any
true Noldor left in the world.

«What kind of place would that be?» Finarfin wondered. «The
Noldor no longer experimenting and researching new lore and crafts … could
we call ourselves Noldor by then? The Teleri and Vanyar may live so static without
complaint, but what o peo people? Must they be denied their very heart and soul?
We cannot live only for new songs and poetry, and fair boats: we must create
and delve and ask. Go out and try new and strange things,
just to understand.»

If only his father was here … if his brothers were here … then
his people wouldn’t be in such a state of stagnation. «Especially
Fëanor; he wouldn’t have let this stand in his way,»
Finarfin thought. «In fact, he’d probably do fey things just to
annoy the ‘boring farts’.» He noted that the times he thought
of Fëanor in such a wistful manner was steadily increasing with each passing
year. But then, for all the reported lack of love between the half-sons of Finwë,
they had many happy moments that belied such a belief. Finarfin, for one, had
many fond memories of his oldest brother since his childhood. Of course it all
stopped when Morgoth came and destroyed everything…

And there came another thought, and a rather unsettling one at that.
Much of the last years of the Time of Trees filled him with questions: Why did
Fingolfin talk against Fëanor without ever telling him? Why did Fëanor wh who never listened to Morgoth, use his arguments to raise the Noldor to Exile?
Why did he risk exile and kinslaying to fight against a Vala, even
one as corrupt as Morgoth? And if he was mad, why did Fëanor command a
calculated attack against the Teleri, but irrationally abandon
Fingolfin and his host? All such behavior didn’t fit well with the brothers
he remembered. Everyone else attributed them to Fëanor’s fell pride
and madness, and for the last case, his insanity after committing murder
for the first time, but Finarfin questioned those explanations as well.

Finarfin knew that if he voiced such thoughts, he would receive violent censure
from all the Elves in Valinor. The one consolation he had, and the sole reason
why he continued to hold on to his doubts, was that the Valar hadn’t condemned
him for having them. Since the day his extended family fell and died like autumn
leaves in Middle-earth, he lifted prayers for their release and voiced his questions.
And for a long time he didn’t receive any indication that they would grant
his wishes, but nor was he given any answers or chastisement for his questions.

Then came the fateful night.

Finarfin closed his eyes, and started to recall the dream he had two hundred
years ago…

---oo00oo---

He had fallen asleep that night, right after lifting his usual prayers. It
was the most peculiar dream, in which he was led by one of the Maia of Irmo
to the dreamy landscapes of Lórien. Once there he wandered the gardens
alone, feeling lost and bewildered. It was as if he was searching for something
or someone, though he knew not what or whom he searched.

After wandering for what seemed like a very long time, Finarfin came upon a
clearing surrounded by silvery trees crowned with leaves of crystal. The trees
shimmered and glowed in the night, and though somewhat lesser in their sublimity
than Telperion and Laurelin of old, the lights they emitted were hallow. For
yet another while Finarfin stood there, enamored in their beauty.

He was still enamored in them when felt the presence of the Valar.

"Hail, Finarfin, Finwë’s son," echoed the voice of Manwë,
gentle as a summer breeze, "Long have you lifted prayers s, ws, waiting
for answers in vain. The millennium upon millennia of silence has not deterred
thee, and because of that you are blessed."

Finarfin fell to his knees, overwhelmed and shocked. "After all these
years, my prayers are granted at last?" he whispered.

"Yes and no," replied Manwë’s voice, "We are not
here to announce your brothers’ release, for the time is not yet ripe
for either of them to return. Instead we are here to give you answers, though
it may not seem to you as such."

Though to some level he had expected such an answer, Finarfin couldn’t
help but feel crushing disappointment at the Vala’s words. "I would
be a fool if I wished a premature return," he took a deep breath, before
asking: "But can you tell me, at the very least, when they shall
be released?"

The air around Finarfin seemed to turn sad. "No, we cannot."

"Why?" asked Finarfin, feeling desperate and a little cheated.

"Because that day is unknown to us," Manwë replied.

"I don’t understand!" Finarfin cried. "I thought the slain
must serve a period penance and reflection in the Halls, and once it is served
they are released, if they so desire and not so doomed like my father. Don’t
you know how long they must serve?"

"Again -- yes and no," answered the voice of Manwë.

At this point, Finarfin couldn’t decide if the Valar were out to get
him, or if this whole episode was a trick his subconscious concocted for self-torment.
But then he stopped, calmed himself, and started thinking.

It was obvious that the conversation was going around in circles. In fact,
it seemed to have started on the wrong note. Also, Manwë said that the
Valar was there to give him answers, not lead him towards wisdom as
they often did these days. All this meant Finarfin was not asking the right
questions…

…and he should stop dictating the tone of the discussion.

"Lord and Ladies of the West, please forgive my foolishness," said
Finarfin, kneeling before the invisible Valar. "What is that you need to
tell me?"

"Many things," they said. "And strange though it may sound,
we do not have enough time. It is a good thing you realized your folly ere it
was too late."

There was a moment of silence. Though he couldn’t swear it, Finarfin
thought the Valar were smiling at him during that moment.

---oo00oo---

"What we are about to tell you, is a long and complicated," said
Manwë̵voicvoice. "It also greatly concerns Námo, thus he
shall explain."

Finarfin inclined his head to show that he was listening. As he waited, the
summer scents in the air changed to have the crispness of winter.

"The matter which I am about to tell you, begins with the Unborn,"
Námo began.

Finarfin tilted his head, knowing not what Námo meant by ‘Unborn’.

"The Firstborn seldom conceive children when the world is in danger,"
said Námo. "Thus is the reason why even in Arda marred, the vast
majority of Elf-children are not exposed to darkness and shadow at a tender
age. However, there still exist the few unfortunate children who are corrupted
young, or killed at the time of their birth."

There was a pause before Námo spoke again.

"For those fëar who were corrupted young, there is little we can
do but give them whatever peace they can find in my Halls. It is not much, but
at least there are definite ways in which we can help them. That is not the
case for Unborn fëar, those Elven spirits whose bodies were slain before
they could even gain any memories, let alone realize their own existence."

Silence descended upon Lórien again, and its atmosphere turned heavy
and solemn. Finarfin sat back, reeling over facts he received.

"When the first Unborn fëa came to the Halls of Mandos, we the Valar
discussed the matter with all due urgency," Manwë said. "It was
eventually decided that such unborn souls must return to world of living as
soon as possible, for we feared if they were left houseless too long, they would
never learn how to live. But therein laid another problem: re-embodiment."

"As they do not have any memories, it is neigh impossible to recreate
their previous bodies," Námo explained. "Thus it was necessary
to create their bodies anew through new parents. At first, we endeavored to
incarnate them in Aman, thinking the peace in these lands would calm their fragile
spirits. However --" Námo’s dispassionate voice seemed to
shake just a little -- "all the unborn fëar rejected their Calaquendi
parents and fled their new bodies in mindless terror. It was only when they
were reincarnated through the Moriquendi -- the Avari -- dwelling in Arda, were
they successfully reborn."

"We do not know why the Unborn rejected their new Calaquendi parents,"
said Varda, "But it is my belief that these poor fëar, having been
exposed to the world of spirits during the first moments of their existence,
could not comprehend light. Only in Arda, where the shadow is still present,
could they feel familiarity and return."

"But whatever the reason," said Námo. "That is how the
Unborn became twice-born. But this is not the end to their story."

From there Námo told Finarfin the full tragic history of the Unborn
Elves. The High King of the Noldor quickly understood that, the hardships these
pitiful Elves endured were so harsh that the Valar often wondered if they would
have been better off bodiless to the end of Time.

The first cause of suffering the Unborn Elves in life was the Death Mark they
carried. The Death Mark wasn’t something physical, but a cold aura that
was easily mistaken as darkness. In truth, the cold aura was a perpetual reminder
of their too-early stay at Mandos, and had nothing to do with the shadow. But
all those around them -- even their parents -- learned to fear and hate them
for it.

Being so hated and feared since early childhood was bad enough in and of itself.
But the Unborns’ greatest undoing, their greatest cause of misery, was
that other Elves took their dispassionate state of being -- something that was
inevitable after the numbing influence of Mandos -- as a sign of their inborn
corruption.

It wasn’t that the Unborn were without a heart in which to feel. They
were capable of feeling all the complex emotions available to sentient beings,
as it is their right. Their mental shackle -- disability, if you will -- was
that their emotions were never strong enough to be perceived even by the most
empathetic of Elves. Not knowing this, the Avari branded the Unborn as creatures
of darkness, and cast them out from their communities. The irony of the situation
was that, the Unborn were actually least susceptible to darkness and deception,
for they can comprehend the shadow better thay sey sentient being in Arda without
any fear of being tainted by it.

The first generation of Unborn had been thus exiled, and wandered the lands
of Arda alone -- shunned, unwanted, and unloved. None of them lived to see their
full maturity, and once back in the Halls they pleaded to Námo: ‘I
know not what I have done wrong, but please, do not send me back there as punishment.’
Thus the Valar’s first attempt to reincarnate the Unborn ended with monumental
failure.

The Valar had been understandably reluctant to reincarnate the second generation
of Unborn Elves back in Arda. But Ulmo, whose foresight was greater than any
of the Valar, prophesized that one day the future of Eä will rest upon
the shoulders of an Unborn, and he or she would lead them to a brighter future
fll. ll. He persuaded his fellow Valar to try again. Námo alone listened,
and took full responsibility.

On the second attempt, Námo revealed himself to the Avari, and forewarned
them to take care of the Unborn, ere they were reincarnated. The Avari perceived
Námo’s great power and worshiped him as a deity thereafter. Námo’s
status as the ‘Great Spirit’ to the Avari ensured the Unborn was
not hounded or ostracized. But the Avari feared rather than loved Námo,
and thought the Unborn were his dark servants. The second generation of Unborn
lived much longer than their predecessors, but they died of grief all the same.

It was only after Námo claimed the Unborn as his people -- his children
-- were efforts to accommodate the Unborn within an Elvish society started to
emerge. Námo often spoke to the Unborn after their births, and from him
they learned foresight, and the ability to read the souls of all beings. Thanks
to these abilities, the Unborn were considered as ‘holy ones’ to
the Avari, and were reverenced. Great effort was put into their upbringing,
and it wasn’t long before the Avari found a way which allowed the Unborn
to live as close to a normal life as they possibly could.

The Valar had rejoiced over the success, and Námo was lauded for his
efforts. It seemed that the Unborn would never have to suffer again. They even
hoped the first and second generation of Unborn would, one day, return to the
land of light and living.

"Then the houseless fëa of an Exile Noldo came to my Halls,"
said Námo. "He was an Unborn."

---oo00oo---

The statement completely winded Finarfin. "Unborn? One of my people is
an Unborn? How can this be!?"

"We know not the circumstances," said Manwë, "Neither do
we know who his first parents were. But he is undoubtedly an Unborn and a Finwian
-- one of your kin."

Finarfin shook his head in utter disbelief. "Sweet Eru…" That
was all he could say.

"Regarding the Unborn, the power of doom is given to me," said Námo,
"Just as the power of doom of the Noldor is given to me. In this matter
I judged his plight as an Unborn overweighed the curse of his ancestors. Therefore
he was reincarnated, but not through an Avari parent. No mean Elf-woman would
have endured his internal flame."

"He was reborn in Middle-earth at its darkest hour," said Vard
&
"And like all those from the house of Finwë, he was strong and steadfast.
He suffered greater heartache than any of his Unborn-predecessors, but he did
not give up. He lived five times longer than any of his kind or kin in Arda,
before he was slain by grief unbearable. Yet even then he did not admit defeat."

"Now, two hundred odd years after his second death, he is ready for another
chance of life," said Manwë. "His soul is cleansed. His hurts
are mended he he chooses to live again, he shall be released, first of all
the Eldar to be thrice-born."

"What is more," Varda continued, "It was clear that he
is the fated Unborn Ulmo had foreseen. Though what role he would play, we know
not."

"This does not necessarily mean, however, that he will become the Fated
Unborn in this Age," said Námo, "There are several
different courses this Age can take, all in some way tied to his choice. But
regardless of his choice now, he will still be the One."

"Now you may ask: where do you fit into the prophecy of the Unborn,
how how will he affect you and your people," Ulmo said. "All that
we can tell you is that by aiding him, he may return that aid in ways you cannot
imagine. Also, for reasons I shall not go here, the Doom of your brothers’
heavily depend upon his choice to either accept another chance of life, or reject
it."

"And only through him," Varda stated, "Will your people find
strength to move on, and you will find the answers to your long-standing doubts."

Finarfin’s heart soared, despite his efforts to calm himself. An unknown
kinsman of his would return, despite the Doom of Mandos, just like his son.
This kinsman would guide him towards the answers to all this questions, and
could bring the Noldor out of their stagnation. He also seemed to have some
power over his brothers’ release, which sounded more hopeful than anything
he heard on the subject so far.

It all sounded too good to be true.

"But beware," warned Manwë, "Your efforts to help him will
be thankless, and by supporting him you could loose the regard of those whom
you hold dear. Also, to find the truth you must give up all that you have known
and cherished, and leave behind all that you have believed in. There is little
I can say that will comfort you, except that in the end, you might
have a chance to reunite with your family … all of them."

The Vala paused, and seemed to scrutinize the Noldorin King before him.

"Do you wish to aid him and seek the truth, despite all this?"

Finarfin sat as still as a white statue, silent and lost in thought. Manwë’s
warnings painted a bleak possible future, and indeed his words gave him little
comfort. But then he remembered his days as a simple prince: the times when
all of his extended family could gather around the courtyards of their private
Manor; his children, nephews and nieces could mingle and enjoy; his mother and
Eärwen could laugh and talk with his sisters and sister-in-laws; Fingolfin
could grumble over Fëanor and his strange antics, while Fëanor blew
up something or a portion of the Manor, as his father watched over them behind
his knowing smile…

What would he pay … what would he risk … to have this again?

Anything. Everything.

"… Yes," he whispered, "Yes."

Afterwards, silence reigned in Lórien.

The Valar spoke no more, and Finarfin couldn’t guess what they were thinking.

Finarfin felt strangely calm.

«My kinsman is making his decision,» he thought. «All I can
do now is to wait…» Finarfin knew instinctively his choice was one
of the many factors that shaped the future, and his kinsman’s decision
was the last of these that would determine its great course.

The silence stretched.

Finally he smelled the scents of a summer breeze in the air.

"Brave choices were made tonight," said Manwë.

With that same unearthly sense of peace, Finarfin closed his eyes and went
limp. Then he felt someone place a hand on his head.

"Two hundred years from today, we shall open the Golden Gate. Come to
the entrance of Mahanaxar. Wait for him there."

All Finarfin could do was nod. He felt incapable of taking anymore information
or emotion.

He did not remember waking up, but he did remember Eärwen looking at him
next morning, asking why he wept…

---oo00oo---

Finarfin had told no one of the dream, but he remembered it. And exactly two
hundred years after the fateful night, he announced his kinsman’s re-housing
and waited at the entrance of the Ring of Doom.

Despite all ridicule.

Despite all doubt.

Now his kinsman -- his great-grandchild -- was alive again, and was completely
dependent upon his guidance until that day he remembered who he was.

And as he watched Ereinion sleep, looking so alive, yet utterly, utterly helpless,
he realized even if there wasn’t so much depending on him, even if he
didn’t hold so much importance, he wouldn’t let anyone harm him.
That he would do anything and everything in his power to let him grow up to
become the best possible person he could be.

He would never fail him.

---oo00oo---

TBC…

Acknowledgement: Much of this was written using a Harry Potter fanfic
called “The Mirror of Maybe” by Midnight Blue as a reference. Thus,
the wordings and tone of this story are quite similar (though the plot itself
is entirely dissimilar) to the aforementioned fanfic.

~~~~Notes~~~~

1) Here, the author accepted the version that Gil-galad was the son of Orodreth,
son of Angrod, son of Finarfin; hence the "great-grandson" business.
But since he's an "Unborn", his parents would have been someone different
in his first life. Care to guess?

2) Indis is either Ingwe's sister or daughter. I selected the daughter option.

3) About the rehousing: Tolkien toyed with the option of incarnating slain
Elves through parents and going through childhood all over again, but rejected
it. The usual rehousing of a spirit should have gone through like Gandalf's
resurrection in the Two Towers. More on the subject can be found in "Morgoth's
Ring" or "CanonNoFanon" website.

4) Mahanxar: The Ring of Doom outside the golden western gates of the city
of the Valar. Here the Powers gathered to hold their great councils, bathed
in the light of the Two Trees while those Trees still stood, and here some of
the most momentous decisions of Arda's history were made. (except from Encyclopedia
of Arda)

4) The Doom of Mandos: To put a long story short, when the Noldor committed
the first kinslaying (1st degree murder?) Mandos (Namo) uttered a prophecy and
curse that fortold their future. It also implied they were never going to be
high on the priority list for rehousing either.

5) Anaire: A Noldorin lady who was Fingolfin's wife, according to some reputable
sources.