Chapter 29: Overdue Arrivals


Kíli was in the washroom of the Elvenking's guest suite subduing three sennights' growth of unruly beard with a razor when Fíli burst through the door.

"Message for you, from Mum," he said, waving something pinched between finger and thumb of his good right hand; his left arm still had to remain immobilized in a sling.

Kíli threw down razor and comb and snatched at the tiny roll of paper, unrolled it so fast he nearly tore it.

Kíli, (it read) Your son is not born yet (translation error to blame). Tauriel still delays the birth, but cannot wait much longer. For Durin's sake, come home immediately or you will miss it. Mum (T. is still well, but hurry!)

Heart thudding fast, he looked up at Fíli. "She hasn't had the babe yet," he stammered. "A mistake. I might still make it!" He ran out of the washroom, through bedroom and parlor, to the entrance of the suite where a pair of his own dwarven guards waited outside.

"I've got to leave," he said to Sigthorn. "Tauriel's still—" He didn't finish, but dashed down the hall to catch the arm of a passing elf.

"Please, will you carry a message to the stables for me?" he said.

The elf regarded him with a mixture of alarm and astonishment on his face, and Kíli suddenly worried that he had perhaps offended a nobleman by addressing him no differently than a servant.

"It's my wife—Tauriel," Kíli rushed on, too impatient to trouble with social graces; surely the elf would understand. "She's ready to give birth. I have to go home. Ask them to prepare a mount for me. I'll be forever in your debt."

An amused smile softened the elf's proud features then. "Yes, Your Highness," he said. "I expect your steed will be ready by the time you have finished dressing." His eyes flicked deliberately down, then back to Kíli's face.

The dwarf prince felt his cheeks redden: he was, he suddenly remembered, wearing nothing but his small clothes, and his face was still smudged with lather.

There was a splutter of laughter behind him, and Kíli spun round to see Fíli slumped against the open chamber door. Sigthorn, too, seemed to be quaking from some internal struggle.

"Err, sorry, I—" Kíli said, but when he turned back again, the elf was already gone on his errand.

"Well, don't just stand there snickering like a pair of half-wit goblins," Kíli shouted at his companions as he ran back into the suite. "Help me get ready!"

In a quarter of an hour, Kíli was dressed and fitted with most of his gear; he would gather his weapons in the armory, on his way to the stables. Before he stepped out the door, Fíli caught him in a firm, one-armed hug.

"Maker's speed," Fíli said. "I hope you're in time. But no matter what, you'll be a good father."

"Thanks, Fí." He clasped his brother's arm, knocked foreheads, and hurried out.

In the stables, he found not one, but five mounts, plus four elven guards waiting for him.

"We're Tauriel's friends," one of them, a female with chestnut hair, told him. "We'd have come with you for her sake, even if our king and your Master Dwalin had not asked it of us."

"Thank you." Kíli glanced at their steeds, four horses and a pony for himself. "Have you a horse I could ride?" he asked, turning to the chestnut elleth. "We would go faster that way."

"Take mine," another guard said. "She's docile, and you'll travel faster with just four."

Kíli nodded his thanks.

"Have you ridden a horse before?" the elleth asked as Kíli approached the animal and let it smell him.

"No. But I'm a good rider; as long as you can get me into the saddle, I'll be fine."

She laughed. "I think I see why Tauriel likes you."


It will be today, Tauriel knew as she awakened. She could feel all the muscles at her midsection coiling tight, readying for their upcoming task. We cannot wait any longer.

She dressed in her most comfortable gown and sat down to breakfast, determined to say nothing yet. She understood there was little for the midwives to do until the labor had progressed somewhat further. Besides, to admit she was on the brink of labor was to admit Kíli had nearly run out of time, and Tauriel could not bear to face that thought before it was absolutely unavoidable.

Yet as she was stirring her untasted tea for the dozenth time, the honey long-since dissolved, Morwen said, "Are you feeling well? You haven't touched a thing."

"I am fine." Tauriel raised the cup to her lips, but her hand trembled visibly.

"No, you're not." Morwen set down her half-eaten scone and came near. "Is it the babe? Is it his time?"

Tauriel was about to answer in the negative, when a cramp in her lower back drew a little gasp of surprise from her lips.

"Tauriel?"

"This isn't how I wanted it!" She set down her teacup, scattering a few droplets of tea across the tablecloth, and closed her hands over her belly, as if her hold could stop Galadion from leaving her womb. She could feel the tears hovering on her lashes. "Kíli should be here! This birth should be my choice, not something that just happens to me. Morwen, I'm frightened. I don't know if I can do this when there is part of me that does not want it yet."

"Shh, meldis." Morwen took her friend's hand and rubbed it. "I know you can. You are one of the bravest that I know. And we will all be here beside you."

Tauriel drew in a long, shaking breath.

"How long have the spasms been coming?" Morwen asked, her long experience as steward allowing her to remain calm and practical under this domestic crisis.

"This was the first."

"Then you still have some hours yet. I will fetch the midwives after breakfast. Now you should eat something. Ídhel said it is permitted. You will need the energy." She placed a pastry on Tauriel's empty plate.

Tauriel lifted her fork and poked at the pastry, scattering buttery crumbs. This was Kíli's favorite breakfast treat, flaky dough folded around apple filling and drizzled with white icing. For all the Valar's sake, Kíli, where are you?

She forced down the pastry along with a bit of cold roast; then she rose from the table. "Send Ídhel and Bersa to me atop the Great Gate. I'm going to watch for him."

Morwen did not argue.


Outside the mountain, it was a fair fall day, the bright sun keeping the chill from the winds that gusted now and again, rippling the golden grasses of the valley below. Tauriel inhaled, drawing comfort from the familiar toasted scents of harvest time and fallen leaves. She was glad at least that her child might come into the world on such a beautiful day. It would have been worse, she felt, to birth him into a storm, alone as she was. Though if Kíli had been here, she knew she would not have cared a nut for the weather. With him beside her she would have felt safe as a she-bear in her den, no matter how the elements might have raged above the mountain.

Both midwives, satisfied that the labor was progressing normally, had consented to their patient's remaining upon the rampart watch, for now. Tauriel settled into a rhythm: pace from north end of the wall to south, then back to north, pausing above the center of the gate to study the road where it first rose into view at the end of the valley. Then pace again to the south end…

She trusted that Kíli was flying to her even now. The raven, bearing Dís's corrected message, must have reached Tauroth yesterday evening. Riding at a comfortable pace, it was a full two day's journey from there to Erebor, but with haste, Kíli might shorten that time. Even so, his dwarven pony could only carry him so fast. He might make it home today and yet be too late.

The spasms, which had been light and short at first, soon grew more intense. After several attacks so strong that she had to stand still and grip the wall till the stone bit into her fingers, she visited the midwives in the nearby guard chamber that they had appropriated as their private consulting room.

"Should my spasms be coming so hard yet?" she asked. It had been only two hours since she had felt that initial tensing of birth muscles. "Already they are—" Another spasm hit her, and she let out a soft whimper. It felt as if she were being crushed from the inside, as if some great hand had fixed itself on Galadion to wrench him forcibly from her.

After examining her, Bersa clucked thoughtfully. "Your womb is hardly open, love. You shouldn't have such pains yet." She shook her head gently, and Tauriel gathered that she was more than a little concerned. "I believe you should take a tincture of—"

Tauriel did not hear what remedy Bersa prescribed. Every muscle of her frame seemed to clench, hot pain flaring out from her center, along her back and sides, through her hips and down even to her knees. She heard a strangled groan, and realized only afterwards that it had been her own.

"Tauriel!"

She opened her eyes to see Morwen's distressed face above her where she lay on the mattress someone had brought in here from the barracks.

"Tauriel, what is it?"

The laboring elleth gasped for breath. "I feel like an overdrawn bow, about to snap," she said. "My muscles are pulled so tight."

Ídhel stepped near and laid a warm hand on her patient. "You must let your womb relax," she said. "Right now, you are fighting against your own body, and so you feel such pains. You must will that Galadion be born. If you cannot, you will suffer without need, and then tire yourself before the true work begins, putting yourself and the babe at risk."

Her tone grew tender, sympathetic. "Though it is not of your choosing, this is the day Pânadar has decreed for Galadion's birth. I grieve with you that Kíli is not here, but we must trust that there is still good in this. And Kíli may still make it. It will be some hours yet before the babe truly arrives."

Tauriel pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the mattress. Her muscles were relaxing from their last spasm, and she focused on that sensation of release as she breathed slow and deep. It had been so frightening to feel her body acting without her will, as though it had turned enemy on her, to tear her apart.

"Now, when the next spasm comes, do not resist it," Ídhel said. "Ride with it, as with a river's current. This part will all be instinct, if you allow it. Think only of how happy you will be when Galadion is safely in your arms."

Tauriel nodded. Could Galadion sense his mother's reluctance? She did not wish him to feel unwelcome. Since that morning when she had first recognized his light within her, she had looked forward to this moment, when he should finally arrive in the world, as a joyful one. She must not let her gladness be taken from her.

"Galadion, meldeg." She stroked her hands over him. "Darthon an chín ah gûr bara. My sweet, I wait for you with an eager heart."

When she returned to the wall, Tauriel let Morwen bring a stool for her, so that she might sit rather than pace like a caged beast. When the labor spasms came, she gave herself over to them and for a long while they were gentler, bearable again. She felt muscles strain, as when she tried to lift something nearly too heavy for her, but she did not feel she would break apart under the pressure.

Though her gaze still roved to the road's end, she tried to set her eyes more often on nearer sights, which she found herself describing to her son, sometimes in Sindarin, sometimes in Common.

"…and there you can see the river, running out from the mountain's gate. The water rises up so very cold, like secrets whispered in the dark, but here in the sun it flashes like fire, like the gold of your father's mail coat. And there above us on banners of blue is more gold, stitched into the crown and stars of your royal house. You are a prince, you know…"

"How are you, dear?"

Tauriel looked round at her mother-in-law. "I am well enough," she said. "There were some bad moments earlier, but now that I know what I am to do, I feel much better."

Dís nodded, knowing sympathy in her eyes. "It's a strange new experience, birthing a babe. Nothing can prepare you for it. But you will do well, I'm sure."

"I do long to meet Galadion," Tauriel said. "It is thirteen days since I should have held him in my arms." She sighed. "I promised Kíli he should be the first to hold our son."

"I am sorry." Dís came near and looked Tauriel directly in the eye. Seated like this, Tauriel was not so very much above the dwarf woman's height. "If Kíli is too late, forgive him," Dís said gently. "He will not easily forgive himself."

"Yes, I know how he is. I am frustrated by the fate that has divided us now, but I do not blame Kíli. His loyalty to his family—all of you—is something I love in him."

The dwarf princess smiled, and Tauriel felt that she could appreciate, better than ever before, Dís's maternal concern for her son's well-being.

Dís said, "You know, when Fíli was born, Víli was beside me the whole while. I think he was more nervous than I was myself, truth be told, though he did his best to act brave for me.

"But when Kíli came, Víli was away on business to a neighboring dûm when my labor started. I sent for Víli, of course, but Kíli came so fast that he was already born when his father arrived—you see, that boy has been impatient from the very first!

"I actually think Víli was relieved he missed the most anxious part of the birth. Oh, but he was so happy to have a new son. I still remember the joy in his face as he held Kíli for the first time."

"You were not disappointed that he missed the birth?" Tauriel asked after a moment.

"No. We had shared that experience once, and Kíli's birth went well just as it was. Tauriel, if Kíli cannot be here this time, you will have a chance to share a child's birth again one day. Don't be discouraged, my dear." Her look turned mischievous, an expression Tauriel recognized well. "We can agree my Kíli turned out all right even without having his father there, and his son will be just the same."

Tauriel laughed for the first time today. "You must be right," she said. She could take some relief in the knowledge that Kíli's bright spirit had lost nothing, though his parents had been divided at his birth.

Still, every time she allowed herself to gaze down the empty road, she prayed, Please, send him home. Help him keep his promise to me, to us. Till now, he had always come when she needed him most.

Yet as the sun dropped down from noon and shadows stretched longer and longer down the valley, Tauriel knew her time was running out.

"My lady." Bersa put a hand to Tauriel's elbow. "I think you had better come back to your rooms. You're nearing the final stage of labor."

Tauriel shook her head even as she bit back a moan; these last few spasms had become truly painful again. When she could trust herself to speak, she said, "No. I will stay here for as long as I can."

"If you wait much longer, you may not be able to walk back," Bersa said, looking vainly for support first to Ídhel and then to Dís.

"Then I will carry her," said Morwen.

"That won't be necessary."

The five women turned to one of the guards stationed on the wall; he had so far seemed a mere observer to this ongoing drama, though Tauriel knew him from the training ground.

He nodded courteously. "Even with the wee babe as an added passenger, she'll be an easy armful. I am at your service, uzbadnâtha."

"You don't understand." Bersa's voice was tinged with desperation. "The babe could come before you can return."

"Then she shall have it here," Ídhel put in at last. "Morwen, have the things brought to the guardroom."

"But my lady, would you not rather give birth in the comfort and privacy of—"

"Quiet, all of you!' Tauriel cried, her voice sharp.

There, in the silence as they all stared at her, she heard it again: the distant drumming of hooves.

Tauriel flung herself to the rampart edge, eyes on the road. Yes, that was the shape of a horseman! For a moment, her excitement faltered; Kíli would be atop a pony, not a long-striding elven horse as this clearly was. But then she saw how the rider sat short in the stirrups, even as she recognized the dark banner of his hair streaming behind him.

"He's come," she breathed.


As his horse galloped down the last stretch of road, Kíli saw the wicket-door within the Great Gate open and then several figures emerge. Tauriel did not appear to be among them, and for a moment he did not know what to feel— relief, excitement, and worry had been fighting in his chest since he had read his mother's note yesterday evening.

He reined up right before the gate and leaped down from his towering mount, whirled towards the door—

His Tauriel was there now: flushed, leaning on Morwen's arm, and still very great with child.

"Taur!" he cried. "I haven't missed— You waited! I'm so sorry. Tauri—" He had to stop and pant for breath, but he caught her hand.

"Kíli," she said, sounding just as breathless if she, too, had been racing down the valley on horseback. "I knew you would come."

"Tauriel, how are—"

Before he could finish the question, she gave a cry and bent forward. Kíli put up his arms, and she let him take her weight.

"Her labor began this morning," Morwen explained. "You're barely in time. We should get her back to your rooms."

Kíli scooped an arm beneath Tauriel's legs, cradling her to his chest, and marched inside the gate. They were the center of a small entourage: along with Morwen, both the midwives were there, as was Kíli's mother; and three or four guardsmen escorted them. Yet Kíli had attention only for his wife, as she shifted slightly in his arms, nestling her face against his neck and looping an arm over his shoulders.

"You smell of sweaty horse," she said, her tone light despite the hitch in her voice.

"The poor animal deserves a long holiday, after the way I raced all the way from Mirkwood," he said. "I left my escort behind in Dale; their mounts were already tired."

"Our elven horses are bred to be resilient. As are you dwarves, meleth nin."

He turned his head to kiss her cheek. "I missed you, Taur."

"Yes," she said and clenched her hand in his shirt front. Kíli urged his legs faster.

"Kíli!"

He looked up to see his brother's wife hurrying along beside him.

"How is Fili?" Sif asked. "I got his note, but I wanted to hear from you, too—"

"He's very good; wants to be home as soon as he can. Probably leaving today. He sends you love. He says—" Kíli considered the exact wording; the past day had been such a blur. "He says he's not leaving your side till you two are caught up with me and Tauriel."

"Kíli, you're making that up."

"I'm not! He really said it."

Kíli thought Tauriel laughed softly against him.

"Oh! Well." Sif was blushing. "I'll let you go, but— Tauri, good luck! I can't wait to see my nephew!"

The path to their rooms was a long one, over causeways and down several long flights of stairs, but Kíli did not falter or slow. His amrâlimê needed him; he was here; he would not fail her.

Back in their suite at last, Kíli set Tauriel down on the bed. All the fine blankets and furs had been removed and fresh towels laid out in their place.

"Help me," she said, tugging at the ties of her gown. He gathered up her skirts and drew them off her, leaving only her light shift. She was breathing more heavily now, and as Kíli took her hand, he felt her tremble.

"Are you afraid?" he asked softly.

"Not any more." Her eyes, as they met his, seemed greener and deeper than ever before, full of some wild enchantment strong enough to swallow him up. "You're with me. And I want to meet our son."

Tauriel looked to Ídhel and said something in Elvish; her words seemed to end in a question. Ídhel answered in the same language, and Tauriel nodded, seemingly reassured.

In response to Kíli's anxious glance, Morwen translated, "She asked if it is time to push."

Kíli did not need to ask what the answer had been, for Tauriel's body tensed and she pressed his hand.

"My wonderful Tauriel." He clasped his other hand over hers. "I know you can do this."

She glanced up at him and nodded, apparently too focused now to speak. There was an intentness, an intensity about her that Kíli had never seen before, not in the heat of battle nor in the throes of passion. Though perhaps when she had healed him— He had the same sense now that she was reaching beyond herself, not only in body, but somehow in soul. If he were able to see with more than just bodily sight, as he had once on the edge of death, would she be radiant with that same inner fire? He knew she was now pouring out her soul's flame in blessing on their child.

While he sensed that she expended much energy of mind and spirit on their son, he could see that her physical exertion was no less. Her skin was soon flushed and damp, her breathing heavy, as from a rigorous sparring match in the arena. She never cried out, but Kíli knew from her knitted brow that she was hurting. It was no wonder, Kíli thought, that they called this process labor.

He wished there were something he could do to help. How unjust that nature left this worst part of the work to a mother alone, when a father had an equal share of responsibility for his babe! At least Tauriel appeared to take comfort from the sound of Kíli's voice, so he kept on with praise and encouragement. He was not sure what all that he said, but then he doubted Tauriel heard his exact words, either; her clouded gaze proved her deep in concentration on her single task.

Yet for all Tauriel's effort, nothing much seemed to be happening.

"Does this part normally last so long?" Kíli finally asked. "She's been at this for at least half an hour."

Bersa gave him a sympathetic smile. "First babes are usually a bit slow."

"How long…?"

"I've attended births that took up to two hours, though I'm not predicting that will be the case today. Your wife is very strong and determined."

"Two hours?" Kíli moaned. It didn't seem fair for this pain and struggle to last so long, especially not if Tauriel were so ready as she seemed to him. He looked to Ídhel. "Is it the same for elves?"

"Ellith have more control of their bodies than mortal women," the elven midwife said. "As a consequence, birth is generally a swifter process. Most ellith I have attended birth in a quarter to half an hour. But remember that your babe is a fortnight late. He has grown in that time, not so much to be a danger—I would not have allowed that—but enough that his arrival will be a little more difficult than otherwise."

"Of course." Kíli instantly felt sick. His Tauriel was suffering more than she ought to because he had not been here when he should.

Tauriel tugged on his hand. "Kíli, it is not your fault," she said. "I chose this. I could have birthed him three sennights ago if I had truly wanted to spare myself. But I wanted you here."

"Amrâlimê." He brushed sweaty hair back from her face, then took up a hair clasp from the bedside table and pinned up her braids so they were off her neck. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"You are already giving what I need," Tauriel said as she once again reached for his hand.

Another half hour passed in much the same manner, and then, mercifully, the babe came.

Kíli feared at first that something had gone wrong, for Tauriel suddenly wailed in agony.

Bersa seized her patient's other hand. "That's good, love. He's almost out now."

Tauriel was crushing Kíli's hand with a stronger grip than he had known she possessed, and Kíli had to bite his tongue to keep from releasing his own scream to answer the anguished cries of his wife. If this was what it cost her to bring a child into the world, he couldn't ask her to suffer it again.

"Kíli. Kíli!" He realized Ídhel was shaking his shoulder. "It is time, if you wish to be the first." He stared at her dazedly for a moment before he realized what she meant.

He pressed Tauriel's hand once—thankfully, she was quiet again—and let Ídhel direct him to receive his babe.

Maker! There was Galadion's little head, with a dark fringe of hair and tiny, but very distinctly pointed ears. Tauriel pushed once more, and then Kíli put out his hands for his son.

He found he was trembling, for relief and joy and pride. Here was this tiny, perfect being whom he and Tauriel had made, whom his brave and beautiful Tauriel had just given from her body. He did not deserve such a gift, and yet this babe was his own in a way no-one and nothing had ever been to him.

Galadion stirred and opened his eyes—hazel eyes, Kíli realized, just like his own. Kíli gave a small, undignified sob of wonder, but surely no one heard it for at that moment his son, as if equally astonished by the sight of his sire, released a determined wail.

"Kíli, bring him here," Tauriel said.

He came and laid the babe at her breast.

A moment before, Kíli had felt there could be nothing more wonderful than that first sight of his son. Yet watching Tauriel's eyes spark as her reverent hands cradled their child was more precious still. Tears dropped down her cheeks, and Kíli realized his own eyes were likewise wet.

"Oh, Kíli, he's beautiful," she whispered, her eyes never leaving that little face. "I think I—" She did not finish, clearly lost for words.

Kíli settled onto the edge of the mattress beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. "My Tauriel, I love you," he said, and kissed her. "You are beyond wonderful."


Author's note:

Galadion, meldeg. Darthon an chín ah gûr bara. - "Galadion, my sweet. I wait for you with an eager heart."

Pânadar is the Sindarin equivalent of Ilúvatar, "all-father."

You guys didn't really believe I'd make my darling Kíli miss the birth of his son, did you? ;) I promise there will be plenty of post-birth fluff in the next chapter. Is there any moment you're especially looking forward to?

The alternate title for this chapter is "In which Kíli rides from Mirkwood to Erebor faster than Ross Poldark." Seriously, I don't think that man ever goes slower than a gallop. :D

I commissioned another fanart of Kíli and Tauriel from akita-sensei of Tumblr. If you'd like to see the drawing of a sweet and sleepy Kíli and Tauriel all snuggled up in a bearskin rug, head over to my AO3 page. The picture is posted there as "Bearskin." (Or ask me and I can send you the link.)

A huge thank you to my beta reader, That_Elf_Girl, and to my wonderful readers for all your support, as well! I love hearing from you.

Leave me a review and I'll send a preview of next chapter before it's posted.