It is a family joke that Maitimo was the easiest birth of the seven. None of Fëanáro's children question this, not even Maitimo himself. After all, he is steady and patient, the best little-brother wrangler and the favourite small-child babysitter. Of course it would be him, out of all of them, who gave their mother the least amount of trouble even in the womb.
Most do not remember Nerdanel’s pregnancy, for she spent the bulk of it at Mahtan’s house, far away from the eyes and speculation of Tirion’s court. Safely hidden among her family, Fëanáro watched with growing horror as things began to go wrong. The baby’s spirit seemed to share Fëanáro’s fire, burning white-hot inside of Nerdanel. For months she lay in bed, feverish, delirious.
Fëanáro refused to leave her side, trying to coax drops of water between her dry, cracked lips. “Please, love,” he begged. “Just a little more, only one more sip. Please.”
Nerdanel placed his hand on her stomach. “Do you feel him, Fëanáro? He is so strong already. Too strong for someone like me.”
“No, no, you must not speak that way. He will need you. I need you.” He kissed her forehead. Be kind to your mother, little one, he thought, placing a hand on her stomach. He could feel the baby burning like a coal within her. Gentle your flame! Please. I do not want you to be born with my grief. I do not know if I have the strength of my own father to carry on if my wife dies.
Please, please, do not die.
It was a close thing, a night of screaming and blood and too much pain, but in the end Nerdanel survived the birth of their child. She smiled up at Fëanáro, soaked in sweat, glowing with pride. “Look at him, Fëanáro,” she said, her eyes half-closed. “Look at our child. Our perfect Maitimo.”
“He is the most wonderful child in the world,” said Fëanáro, his heart breaking open with love. That love sat side-by-side with terror, for Nerdanel remained weak and could not leave her bed for a whole year. But soon, she recovered, returning to her craft and chasing their little one around the hallways of their house.
Fëanáro would have been happy with just the one. To ask for more felt like asking for trouble, and Fëanáro did not want to risk Nerdanel’s life. Not a second time. But Nerdanel wanted more children.
“You promised me at least four,” she reminded Fëanáro, half-teasing and half-serious. “And our Maitimo needs a sibling or three to get into trouble with. Look at how perfect our little one is! How can you not want more?”
“I do want more children,” said Fëanáro. “Of course I do. But I do not want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” promised Nerdanel, stronger than iron.
And so Makalaurë was soon born, screaming loud enough to shake the windowpanes, and then Tyelkormo, always full of energy, and then Carnister and Curufinwë and the twins. Each birth sent Fëanáro into a spiral of worry; each one ending in relief and joy.
None of them as terrifying or hard as Maitimo’s had been.
No one knew the truth and Fëanáro, who did not want his first-born to grow up under the same shadows as he had, was more than happy to spread the lie. Finwë and Nerdanel and Mahtan agreed. Let Maitimo never know how close he came to killing his mother. Let him live free of such a stain.
Let the white-fire of his soul burn bright and remain ignorant of the truth.
