Title: Let my son be called...
Rating: G
Summary: A meta-drabble (500 words). A possible way to rationalise the name 'Melpomaen', which is rather dodgy Elvish, but remains intrinsically a nice name and one I intend to keep using anyway. Please don't take this too seriously; it's just a little fun!
The room fell quiet and the nís fell back against the pillows, closing her eyes briefly in exhaustion. A smile lit up her delicate face as she gazed towards the foot of the bed, clearly awestruck by what she saw. A moment later, the silence was broken by the shrill cries of a newborn.
The midwife in attendance, an elder nís, placed the infant, wrapped in a warm, soft blanket, in its mother's arms. It blinked up at her with cloudy grey eyes, seeming to contemplate her thoughtfully.
The midwife laid a hand on the new mother's arm. "A son," she said gently. "And a fine, strong one at that." As if to prove the point, the infant screwed his eyes up tightly and let out a bawl so loud that the adults present visibly winced. But his mother stroked his head - already covered by fine, dark hair - and he quietened, blinking sleepily. The midwife now turned to the father, who waited wordlessly at his wife's side, a silent source of support to her throughout the birth.
"Do you have a name for him?"
The tall warrior seemed to consider this for some time, glancing out of the window over Gondolin's bright rooftops. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning sun; it was a slender hand, elegant, yet striped with calluses from many hours of swordwork in the service of his Lord, Duilen. "I am Noldorin, yet my wife here is a maiden of the Sindar of Nevrast. My childhood was spent in shining Tirion, speaking Quenya, the Fair Speech whilst her mother tongue is Edhellen, tongue of the Great Lands." He paused, tilting his head as he pondered. "It seems to me that our child will always experience a duality of nature because of his descent, and I wish for his name to reflect that. I desire to name him after the fruit of the mountain currant, the symbol of my family: melpo, roughly, in our tongue, and also after the legendary skill and wisdom of those from my wife's house: maen, of course, in Edhellen. Hence, Melpo-maen."
"You cannot call him that," his wife laughed. "It is senseless!"
"'Tis more meaningful than some names I have heard," the warrior argued. "But if you wish, I could change it." His expression turned to disappointment; the flicker of inspiration in his eyes seemed to dim.
The maiden reached across to squeeze her husband's hand lovingly. "I do not ask you to abandon your suggestion altogether, love; simply make it a little softer to our ears." Her voice was gentle, somewhat rough with exhaustion after the labour, but filled with happiness and love for their new son. "Let him be Melpomaen, if you wish it."
"Melpomaen," the midwife repeated, frowning first and then smiling widely. "Melpomaen - 'tis a fair enough name."
"Aye," the child's father concluded. He pulled himself a little straighter, his mind now made up. "Let our son be named Melpomaen."