...with a snippet from my WIP Gil-galad rebirth in Valinor / malicious (and strange) compliance with son-of-plothole fic!
The concept from Tolkien's notes in LaCE/NoME of rebirth rather than reembodiment is something esoteric I think deserves poking with a stick as the implications are delightfully messy (to the point that in Tolkien's last writings a few months before his death he decided it caused too many problems and should be thrown out. But no! The complications make it interesting!!!)
Gil-galad is currently known by the name Fingal in this fic, having been reborn to Finrod & Amarië's daughter, Berinya (OC). Amathorn is another OC, who was Gil-galad's chief guard since (his first) childhood.
When Fingal's hands were busy, his mind seemed to wander back to Middle Earth. Typically it was something pleasant, singing a song that he did not fully know the words to but did his childish best to fill in what was still veiled. Occasionally it was outright adorable. Not long ago Amathorn had seen him drawing a river and valley that looked suspiciously like the Bruinen and Imladris while sing songing "Elrond, Elrond, Elrond" as he coloured.
This was not either of those cases.
One moment Fingal was on the floor, drawing the leaves they had seen today when he froze and dropped the pastel. He sat up abruptly, eyes wide and flicking across the room until he came upon Amathorn in the doorway.
"Amathorn," he began, and his voice had lost the childlike quality. "We have not set aside enough stores of grain for winter!"
Fingal got to his feet, hands clasped in front of him they way they had as an adult, as High King, when he was distressed and trying to hide it.
Amathorn crossed the room, scooped his little body up, and bent again for the abandoned paper and colours.
"Fingal," he said, placing deliberate emphasis on his new Amilessë, "there are no shortages of resources in winter here in Aman. The seasons are not that extreme. And even if they were, that is not for you to worry about little Star."
Fingal, although he was much more of a miniature Gil-galad at the moment blinked a few times, and then shook his head. He rubbed at his eyes.
Amathorn handed a green pastel back to him once his hands came away from his face. The child stared at it for a moment, and then grabbed for his paper and squirmed from Amathorn's arms. He flopped back on the floor, but just stared at the leaves on the page rather than continuing to draw.
Amathorn sat beside him, and rested a hand across his tiny shoulders.
"Did you remember something?" He asked.
Fingal would not look at him for a long moment, but his eyes started to well up with tears.
"There was always so much to worry about." He said, his voice small.
"There was," Amathorn agreed. "But not anymore. You are safe in Aman now. No wars. No scarcity. No responsibilities."
Fingal's little face turned up towards him.
"Who takes care of everything then? I didn't - I didn't - Elrond never wanted to," he paused, glancing around conspiratorially. "Elrond never wanted to lead."
Amathorn leaned in closer and kept his voice soft. "Elrond never wanted a crown. He is perfectly content to lead from Imladris. Círdan is taking care of the Havens and helps the Lindon Council when they need it. You need not worry about any of that. You are here to be a child again, remember?"
Memories and moods of Middle Earth had bubbled to the surface before in Fingal, but unlike in the past, this was not dissipating from him quickly. He seemed frozen.
"Come," Amathorn decided. "There is still time before lunch to go put our feet in the stream and look for pebbles to give to your mother. What do you think of that?"
Fingal nodded slowly, but did not move.
"Come on," Amathorn deliberately picked the child up again precariously and tossed him in the air before catching him in a better grip, attempting to jar him out of whatever this was.
Typically Fingal would giggle and clap at being thrown, and ask for it again and again. He did not even smile.
Perhaps the cold water would help.
This was reminding Amathorn more and more of what he had heard Elrond say about how traumatic stress presents itself long after the events take place.
"I died. I think - no, I know. I died, and that is how I came here?" He blinked up at Amathorn.
"Yes, my Star. But you do not need to dwell on that now."
"No! I died! I died! I - I -"
Berinya rushed into the room, no doubt having felt her child's distress. At the sight of her, Fingal burst into tears.
"I died! I really died! I don't remember why!"
Berinya reached for Fingal and Amathorn handed him over. She cuddled him close to her chest, kissing his cheeks and making soothing noises.
It struck Amathorn how unfair it was to have her trying to manage this. How unfair it was for any of them, including Fingal to be suffering through this. He stepped closer to them, taking a little hand, still very soft with childhood, and kissed the palm.
"You do not need to remember that right now. Your memories are veiled for a reason. You previously seemed to recall something of Mandos and what he said to you. Does that help calm you?"
Fingal gave a few more hiccuping sobs.
"Mandos said I would not remember much at first. That it would come back later as I got older. He said - oh!"
The child slumped in her arms.
"Fingal? Fingal!" Berinya cried, shaking him gently and slapping lightly on his body. Amathorn's heart dropped. Berinya was on the floor with him checking for a pulse, and Amathorn joined her, checking breathing. He felt exhalation coming from both his mouth and nose.
"His pulse is strong," Berinya said and relaxed minutely.
"His breathing seems clear too," Amathorn leaned in as Berinya leaned back and put an ear to his chest, listening to tiny lungs. "Yes, his airway sounds normal."
Amathorn sat up, and Berinya put her hand across Fingal's forehead, reaching for his fëa. "He is just- he is only sleeping. He is not unconscious, he did not faint or anything of that sort."
"Strange," Amathorn said, feeling better. "But I will take it."
Berinya ran her hands over the child's body again, checking for unseen injury.
"I suppose we should put him to bed," she said hesitantly.
"I think we would be well within reason to stay with him while he sleeps."
Berinya tucked him in, with his plush Aeglos next to him and Elrond-the-plush-bird in the crook of his arm. She stepped back with a sigh. Amathorn placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
"I am sorry-" he began, but was interrupted by a sharp knocking on the front door.
Berinya looked at Fingal and then back at him, clearly not wanting to leave her son.
"I will go see who it is," he suggested. She nodded.
Amathorn was not sure who he expected to be at the door, but it was not a Maia.
"May I come in?" She asked.
"Um, yes?" Amathorn made a snap judgement to what Berinya would likely want.
The Maia marched past him to Fingal's room. He followed, catching Berinya's startled gaze towards their visitor. The Maia smiled sadly at Fingal, and bent over to touch his forehead.
Fingal's eyes closed. Berinya gasped.
"Peace," said the Maia. "He is unharmed. The veil was growing too thin, my Lord Mandos is working with the help of Lord Irmo to restore those defences. His fëa is strong, and burns very hot. We were unsure how much his lineage may affect the process of rebirth." She smiled, "the little scamp is just causing some mischief. My Lord is seeing to it. He will not remember more than he should when he awakes."
"His lineage?" Berinya asked.
The Maia turned back towards her, cocking her head. "Not all has been revealed to you yet, daughter of Finrod. Or to him. That time will come, but it is not today." She looked back at Fingal's sleeping form, nodded satisfiedly, and vanished.
Berinya looked at Amathorn.
"Do you know…?"
"I do not. Is he the first Finwëan reborn?"
"I believe so. But that doesn't seem like it would affect -"
Amathorn shook his head. "I would not think so," he agreed.
They were both at a loss for further words.
This fic has the prologue posted on AO3 so far, with the much longer fic in progress. You can subscribe to the series here if you're interested! It is a very esoteric answer to son-of-plothole + lots of examination of all the weirdness that would come with rebirth.
