Faramir paced up and down the narrow passage way. One, two, three... twelve, thirteen, fourteen, turn, one... He hadn't done this since that dread day when he paced the hall of Merethrond, counting the paces as he and Boromir had as children. Of course, then there had been his own life at stake, and the future of Gondor. Now, it felt as though the stakes were far, far higher.
Dreadful tales came back to him. Sad tales of Rangers who had lost their loved ones this way. The grief in the men's eyes. He gave himself a shake. He was sure that if Ioreth was on this side of the wooden door rather than the other, she would give him a dressing down for his foolishness, a dressing down to rival that of any sergeant major he had ever encountered in his callow youth as a young soldier. Eowyn, she would say, was young and healthy, and had child-bearing hips (oh, how he loved the swell of those hips beneath his palms... that was, after all, one of the things that had got them into this situation). She would add that the bairn felt as if it was lying perfectly, head down, back towards Eowyn's belly. She would tell him that women had been doing this since time immemorial. What she would not say, because she had a keen sense of the importance of rank, was that he was being a bloody fool. But her eyes would say it, clearly enough, and he would feel as chastened as if she were Damrod (the Valar rest him) and he that daft young laddie, Anborn.
But for now, all he could do was to pace up and down endlessly... until... until... Suddenly an unmistakable noise penetrated the door and cut through the air. The cry of a newborn babe. He took several swift strides until he came to a halt just beside the door... then stood waiting, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortably like a naughty schoolboy waiting for a dressing down (though why such a feeling should suddenly have assailed him, he had not the faintest inkling). But moments later, the door swung open to reveal Mistress Ioreth.
"You may come in now, your highness," she said, with a slight inclination of her head. Quickly, he stepped inside.
Eowyn sat, not on the bed as he had expected, but leaning against the wall near its foot. Beneath her was a rug, behind the small of her back, a cushion, and there, upon her breast, lay a tiny baby, smaller than Faramir could ever have imagined it was possible for a human being to be. Faramir supposed that he should reach for some poetic language on an occasion as momentous as this, perhaps describe the child as rose pink like a summer's dawn. But in truth, the baby was an angry red, streaked in what appeared to be grey slime, with little tufts of dark hair standing up in wet spikes. Then a pair of deep blue eyes latched onto him, and followed his movements with apparent fascination, and in that instant, for the second time in his life, Faramir fell utterly and irrevocably in love.
"Your son, my lord," said Ioreth.
In a daze, Faramir moved across the room and knelt beside Éowyn, stroking first the baby's cheek, then hers. He knew he must have a totally idiotic grin plastered across his face. Eowyn returned his smile with a weak, tired smile of her own, brushing her damp hair from her forehead with the hand that wasn't holding her son, then reached out for his hand and held it.
"I haven't been this knackered since I had to run away from that bloody mumak. In fact, for a while there I thought I was giving birth to a mumak. I can't believe how small he is – I could have sworn he was at least the size of a mountain troll on the way out." She looked down at the tiny figure, now opening and closing a pink hand seemingly at random, and her eyes filled with tears. But all the while, the smile on her face grew broader. "He is ours... I can't believe it."
Faramir reached across and kissed her forehead, as he had done on the walls that day, then sat back on his heels, holding one of her hands, and stroking the baby's soft skin with his forefinger.
"Do you remember?" she said, freeing her hand in order to wipe her nose with the back of it (Faramir grinned: old soldier's habits die hard). "Boromir asked us to name our first born for him."
And Faramir felt the answering prick of tears in his eyes as he answered in a slightly choked voice. Gently taking the baby in his own arms for the first time, he whispered "Elboron."