Disclaimer: Recognizable characters, places, concepts, and events are the
property of the J.R.R. Tolkien estate.
Author's Notes: Thank you to Juda and "smiley face" for your reviews on Chapter 3. I really do enjoy reading everyone's comments...and it does give me that little push to dish up another chapter!
I know that this chapter is short...I'm hoping to upload Chapter 5 later tonight or tomorrow.
Rated for angst----this is over, for the most part. (Probably could have passed for PG.)
Thank you for reading! As always, any questions are welcome!
---Aranel
aranels@hotmail.com
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
Chapter 4~*~Weak and Weary
It felt bitingly cold and yet unbearably humid. And it was dark. Not a single star. Where were they? Thilómë raised a hand to pick away the hair sticking to her neck, only to feel strong, smooth fingers grasp around her own.
She struggled to open her eyes. Her eyelids seemed so heavy, and it took so much effort. It would have been so much easier just to stay in the dark. She strained against the dull ache around her eyes. At first everything came in a blur: the sites, the sounds, the memories...what had she been doing when she drifted off? And where was she?
"Thilómë." She felt her fingers squeezed tighter, and the face of her husband came into focus. Immediately everything surged back: the pain, the weariness, the brief glance at her fading newborn son.
Closing her eyes again, Thilómë exhaled in a low, mournful moan. Thranduil cupped her clammy chin in his hand, concerned, "Are you in pain? What's the matter?"
"The baby!" the words came softly, but full of sorrow. Thilómë turned her face from her husband in remorse. She had lost not one, but two children. Precious treasures of the Elven race, and she had not enough spirit to keep them. Why was Eru Ilúvatar so swift to reclaim his gifts? The tears that had not come earlier began to pool beneath her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
"Shhh," Thranduil turned her face back towards himself, and gently dabbed the tears away with the edge of the bed sheet. Thilómë forced her eyes open again, and her husband's face looked calm and serene, comforting. Before she could wonder why he wasn't grieving, he spoke again, "Look."
With that, Thranduil lifted something carefully from beside the bed, bringing it into her field of vision.
The feeling in her heart was too great for words. It seemed as though all the green things of spring had suddenly taken root there and burst into full bloom. The warmth of the Sun glowed there, and all the waves of the Sea washed her misery away.
"Let me see him," Thilómë slowly pushed herself up against the pillows and held out her unsteady hands.
Thranduil lowered the infant into her arms. The look on his wife's face was wonderful; she was nearly glowing with joy. After four days of waiting for her to wake up, he was glad he had been so near when she finally opened her eyes.
"He's beautiful," Thilómë stared down at their son.
Thranduil smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and unwrapping the blankets around the baby with his free hand, "He has all his fingers and toes, just like all little elflings...not much hair though." Thilómë nearly laughed, and he kissed her briefly.
It would be difficult to tell her what the healers had said. Perhaps it would be better to wait, and let her savor these first moments. Thranduil massaged his wife's shoulder, drifting into deep thought. Thilómë was so weak now, and it might not be good to give her something to worry about. She needed rest, real rest, peaceful and unhindered. And yet...would it be right not to tell her?
"Thilómë..." Thranduil started hesitantly, "There's something I must tell you..."
"What is it?" Thilómë looked towards him with surprise in her eyes. Her eyes...they held such a sparkle now, and yet seemed so weary.
Thranduil drew in a breath of air, and found it difficult to meet her gaze, "They, the healers, say that his spirit is weak, weaker than they have seen a baby before." Seeing the alarmed look in Thilómë's eyes and the way she suddenly pulled the baby to herself, Thranduil quickly put in, "He will live. But it will take many years for his spirit to grow and strengthen. And it will have its effects."
Thilómë looked down at her son again. She traced a finger across the perfect little face. Smiling wanly, she glanced up at Thranduil again, "It is enough to hold him, to know that he will still be here to hold tomorrow, and the days after that."
Author's Notes: Thank you to Juda and "smiley face" for your reviews on Chapter 3. I really do enjoy reading everyone's comments...and it does give me that little push to dish up another chapter!
I know that this chapter is short...I'm hoping to upload Chapter 5 later tonight or tomorrow.
Rated for angst----this is over, for the most part. (Probably could have passed for PG.)
Thank you for reading! As always, any questions are welcome!
---Aranel
aranels@hotmail.com
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
Chapter 4~*~Weak and Weary
It felt bitingly cold and yet unbearably humid. And it was dark. Not a single star. Where were they? Thilómë raised a hand to pick away the hair sticking to her neck, only to feel strong, smooth fingers grasp around her own.
She struggled to open her eyes. Her eyelids seemed so heavy, and it took so much effort. It would have been so much easier just to stay in the dark. She strained against the dull ache around her eyes. At first everything came in a blur: the sites, the sounds, the memories...what had she been doing when she drifted off? And where was she?
"Thilómë." She felt her fingers squeezed tighter, and the face of her husband came into focus. Immediately everything surged back: the pain, the weariness, the brief glance at her fading newborn son.
Closing her eyes again, Thilómë exhaled in a low, mournful moan. Thranduil cupped her clammy chin in his hand, concerned, "Are you in pain? What's the matter?"
"The baby!" the words came softly, but full of sorrow. Thilómë turned her face from her husband in remorse. She had lost not one, but two children. Precious treasures of the Elven race, and she had not enough spirit to keep them. Why was Eru Ilúvatar so swift to reclaim his gifts? The tears that had not come earlier began to pool beneath her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
"Shhh," Thranduil turned her face back towards himself, and gently dabbed the tears away with the edge of the bed sheet. Thilómë forced her eyes open again, and her husband's face looked calm and serene, comforting. Before she could wonder why he wasn't grieving, he spoke again, "Look."
With that, Thranduil lifted something carefully from beside the bed, bringing it into her field of vision.
The feeling in her heart was too great for words. It seemed as though all the green things of spring had suddenly taken root there and burst into full bloom. The warmth of the Sun glowed there, and all the waves of the Sea washed her misery away.
"Let me see him," Thilómë slowly pushed herself up against the pillows and held out her unsteady hands.
Thranduil lowered the infant into her arms. The look on his wife's face was wonderful; she was nearly glowing with joy. After four days of waiting for her to wake up, he was glad he had been so near when she finally opened her eyes.
"He's beautiful," Thilómë stared down at their son.
Thranduil smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders and unwrapping the blankets around the baby with his free hand, "He has all his fingers and toes, just like all little elflings...not much hair though." Thilómë nearly laughed, and he kissed her briefly.
It would be difficult to tell her what the healers had said. Perhaps it would be better to wait, and let her savor these first moments. Thranduil massaged his wife's shoulder, drifting into deep thought. Thilómë was so weak now, and it might not be good to give her something to worry about. She needed rest, real rest, peaceful and unhindered. And yet...would it be right not to tell her?
"Thilómë..." Thranduil started hesitantly, "There's something I must tell you..."
"What is it?" Thilómë looked towards him with surprise in her eyes. Her eyes...they held such a sparkle now, and yet seemed so weary.
Thranduil drew in a breath of air, and found it difficult to meet her gaze, "They, the healers, say that his spirit is weak, weaker than they have seen a baby before." Seeing the alarmed look in Thilómë's eyes and the way she suddenly pulled the baby to herself, Thranduil quickly put in, "He will live. But it will take many years for his spirit to grow and strengthen. And it will have its effects."
Thilómë looked down at her son again. She traced a finger across the perfect little face. Smiling wanly, she glanced up at Thranduil again, "It is enough to hold him, to know that he will still be here to hold tomorrow, and the days after that."
