106. Ósanwe and the Music of Life
Finally Legolas got up from his chair and left the room.
How could his mortal friends stand this agonizing time of waiting?
The elf started pacing the hallway. The hallway was spacious and well-lit with lanterns, set in elegantly crafted sconces at regular intervals . No sooty torches in the palace of Meduseld. The carpet under his feet was thick and soft. His swift steps made no noise at all, as he wore only light leather slippers even in the depth of winter.
He tried to remember the last birth of an elvish child he had witnessed, but failed. Although the Sindar living in Eryn Lasgalen were still fairly numerous, not many couples had chosen to create new life during the years of growing darkness in the Third Age. And he could not remember ever having heard of an elvish woman screaming with pain… indeed, the only elvish woman who had died – had laid down her hröa as a consequence of giving birth was a name of ancient legends to him…
A birth ought to mean the beginning of live and not the painful end of a life! Or two!
Unconsciously his way had led him to the royal apartments. He was greeted by royal guardsmen. One of them he recognized, Helmichis, the fair haired captain of Lothíriel's guard. Helmichis was pale and his eyes were wide and dark with barely suppressed emotion. Legolas looked away.
For a moment he considered turning back and retracing his steps to the sitting room where the others waited in silence.
But in the next instant a door down the hallway opened – the door Legolas remembered from the festivities of Lothíriel's and Éomer's wedding. A scene of drunken laughter, good-natured ribaldry and flushed, happy faces flashed through his mind. Now the familiar figure of the tall, broad-shouldered king of the Mark stumbled out of that door. Opposite of the door was a window to the inner courtyard of Meduseld. Éomer leaned heavily on the windowsill, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped and shaking.
Legolas hastened to stand next to his friend. "Mellon nîn, how fares your wife?"
Éomer slowly turned towards his friend. The expression on his face was terrible to behold. He was pale, his face a frozen mask of pain and shock, his eyes black pits of despair. Here was a man, a warrior and a hero who was close to collapsing into a heap and sobbing like a child.
Legolas had to exert a conscious effort not to recoil at the sight of so much helpless pain.
"The babe has not turned. The healer says there is nothing we can do. When Lothíriel is dying she is going to try and cut the child from her body." As Éomer rasped out those words in an almost voiceless whisper, his eyes filled with tears and he turned away from his friend in an almost violent movement.
Legolas felt his heart flood with pity. Ai! What a strange gift Ilúvatar had given to the Secondborn! To live in such painful circumstance and for such a short, almost infinitesimal moment in time – and with no knowledge of whither their journey might take them from Arda?
"Is there really nothing we can do?" Even as he spoke those words, he wondered if he had not done better to keep quiet. Éomer jerked around to face him again, anger born of despair rising beneath his helpless grief.
Suddenly a cool draft touched Legolas' neck. The door to the bedchamber opened once more and the healer stepped out of the room. Legolas knew Elaine of Tarnost. Her skills as a healer were spoken of even in Eryn Lasgalen, and there were a number of rangers in Ithilien who had to thank her for their lives. It was said that in Elaine the skills of Mithrellas had returned to Middle-earth. But Legolas only had to look at her face to know that even her skills were defeated at the moment.
Elaine was not pale; her face was flushed with effort, a few dark strands of her hair had escaped from the knot. There was a spot of blood on her high forehead and her apron was covered with dark spots of dried blood and crusts of slime. She looked into his eyes and for a strange moment, Legolas experienced a sensation that almost equalled that moment of instant connection that marks the meeting of two of the Firstborn. Almost… A fleeting moment of rapport, then it was gone.
But it was enough to make him repeat his question. "Is there really nothing we can do?"
Elaine went very still. In that, too, she seemed more like one of his people than one of the Secondborn, Legolas mused. Maybe the tale of Mithrellas, the elvish ancestress of the line of Dol Amroth was true after all? He had suspected it was true after his first meeting with the Prince, but in Imrahil's niece the sense of elvish blood was much stronger.
Finally Elaine replied, keeping her voice very calm and very careful. "There might be something. I had the good fortune to spend some time with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond, talking about matters of healing; in Minas Tirith, three years ago, when King Elessar was crowned and married."
"But you just said –" Éomer's eyes flashed with wild fire. Legolas put his hand on his friend's arm to stay him. He could see in the healer's eyes that whatever she had thought of was not something she had the power to accomplish.
"My lord," Elaine said hurriedly. "It is a thing of the Firstborn, something I only heard speak of, something I have never seen –"
Legolas inhaled deeply. A thing of the Firstborn. "Go on, my lady. What is it you thought of? Both the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond are healers of the greatest renown among my people. If they told you of something that might be done yet, then we should attempt it."
We?
Again there was this spark of almost-knowledge in Elaine's eyes, an ancient, almost faded connection of blood and power. "They said that Elves can reach the minds of men and beast – and even unborn babes. The babe has not turned, but I felt it moving just a moment ago. It is weak to be sure, and the contractions have squeezed it terribly, lying almost diagonally as it does. If you, my lord, can reach the child in the womb, if you maybe could tell it to turn, now that Lothíriel is unconscious and the contractions have stopped for the moment, maybe there is a chance that it be born and live –"
"And Lothíriel?" Éomer interrupted.
A look of deep compassion swept over the healer's tired face. "I do not know, my lord. Her life rests in Eru's hands. She has lost a lot of blood and she is very weak. If she can survive a final effort to give birth – should my lord Legolas be able to inspire the child to turn – I cannot tell." She lowered her head. "I am sorry, my lord, that I cannot give you more hopeful an answer."
Legolas stood and allowed the healer's words to sink into his mind.
Could he reach a babe's feä? Could he – as he was able to will a horse to run where he willed it to go – make a babe turn towards the way of life?
He had never thought of using mind-speech in such a way. And why should he have?
Suddenly an icy shiver of fear washed down his back. If he had sought the blessed numbness of aquapahtie when Lothíriel's screams and pain had torn his heart, he would not be able to even attempt what Elaine now asked of him.
For a moment Legolas had to close his eyes. Calm be the heart. The beating of his heart slowed to a heavy, regular rhythm. Easy be breath. His breath flowed lightly and freely. Powerful be feä and hröa. He felt energy flood through his mind and body again.
He opened his eyes and met Elaine's gaze. "Lead me to Lothíriel. I will do my best to accomplish what you suggest."
Elaine inclined her head and turned for the sleeping chamber once more.
When Legolas made to follow her, it was Éomer who held him for another moment, a shaking, cold hand on the elf's arm. "Thank you, my friend," the proud king whispered and this time he did not even try to hide his tears.
Legolas nodded in silence.
Oh, mellon nîn, but what if I cannot bring about what the healer suggested?
She only heard talk of it! Two of the greatest healers of my people were the ones she heard talk about this! I am not a healer; my road has always been that of a warrior, and only lately that of a gardener!
But Legolas did not voice his thoughts and entered the royal bed chamber behind Elaine.
oooOooo
The room was filled with the stench of fear, blood, various bodily fluids and a strangely familiar fecund smell. After a moment's deliberation, he realized that this humid not-quite stench reminded him of the breaking of the waters, when his beloved horses were about to foal.
Legolas swallowed hard and had to suppress the urge to gag.
Lothíriel lay on the bed, unmoving, naked, inert.
A servant girl was straightening new sheets on the bed and in a corner of the room Legolas caught sight of a basket filled with soiled and bloody sheets and blankets.
Lady Míriel of Dol Amroth sat at Lothíriel's left side and held her hand. But, Legolas realized, not to give comfort to the young queen. She was making sure that Lothíriel's heart was still beating, her fingers tenderly searching for a pulse.
Sorcha, another of Lothíriel's ladies in waiting, was just finishing washing Lothíriel's unresisting body.
"She slipped into unconsciousness a few moments ago, my lord," Elaine explained. "We are trying to use this respite –" Again he felt that he could almost touch her thought: "If a respite it is…" –
The healer exhaled shakily, then continued. "We are using this respite to make her as comfortable as possible."
Legolas stared at Lothíriel's body. He had never seen a naked woman like that before.
He had, of course, glanced at a few pretty ellith in the public baths, both in Eryn Lasgalen and on visits to Lothlórien. But even that had been in passing, never at leisure, never to really look at their bodies… He had never seen an elf like this, so completely exposed… and a mortal woman?
Legolas had chosen the path of a warrior early in life and in the ever deepening darkness of the Third Age he had closed his heart to the ellith, the girls and women of his people, lest he and his chosen one be separated all too soon by the Sundering Seas and the endless darkness of Námo's halls. And now, in the early days of the Fourth Age, the sea longing was an endless pain in his heart that would drown any sweeter emotion long before it could blossom.
Indeed, Legolas had almost resigned himself to the fact that for his eyes to enjoy the charm of a naked female body and his hands to roam those gentle curves, he would have to pin his hopes to the white shores of the Blessed Realm.
But now he looked upon Lothíriel's naked body and found it hard to suppress both shock and fascination.
She looked so small lying in that huge four poster bed!
Sorcha moved away from Lothíriel's body and began to braid up the queen's tangled, long brown hair again, now and again gently stroking her friend's forehead.
Lothíriel's womb seemed huge and bloated in comparison to the rest of her body, and thick blue veins stood out from the pale skin like paths circling a high white mountain. Her breasts, obviously swollen with milk, rested above her distended belly like gourds, the nipples almost red and the size of cherries.
But her lips were almost blue and he could not discern the ebb and flow of her breath. Though she was still alive, for he did feel the weak, lingering touch of her feä.
He stood and stared, until he realized that the women in the room were all looking at him, staring at him, as he in turn stared at Lothíriel.
He forced himself to breathe evenly.
"I will try what you suggested, my lady," he said finally, glancing back at Elaine.
"Please, my lord," Elaine replied and gestured him to the bed.
How to go about this?
Again Legolas felt himself almost overwhelmed with an unfamiliar and all the more frightening feeling of helplessness close to panic.
To touch another's mind – the swift-polite touch of Elda meeting Elda, the reassuring, directing thoughts that accompany the gentle caresses with which an elf controlled his steed – it was a matter that was as natural to him as the gift of speech that had given the Firstborn their earliest name as a people, the Quendi, the speakers.
But how to touch a feä that was not yet born, a being he could not touch, a being he could not see?
Legolas took another step towards the bed, feeling awkward to look down upon Lothíriel's prone body, relaxed into exhausted unconsciousness. They had propped many cushions up behind her back, so that she was elevated into an almost sitting position. Her legs were spread far apart and he could not help but notice the swollen, bloody flesh between them, and the gaping, empty hole. Fresh blankets had been carefully stuffed under her lower body. Blood trickled from her body. Not much. But she was obviously torn somewhere inside.
It did not feel right to see her thus, exposed, unconscious, completely helpless.
A memory of the war against Harad flashed through his mind, an evening at the border of Harondor, the southern-most province of Gondor they were trying to keep safe…
…a camp-fire and a dreamy-eyed Éomer who had probably more than just one ale too many and was all too ready to confide to his friends just what he loved best about his Lothíriel.
And indeed, it seemed that there was nothing Éomer did not love best about her. The way she could not sing or sew. The way she smiled. The curves of her hips and the roundness of her thighs – especially when those thighs locked him tight against her body… Upon that remark happy drunken laughter had overwhelmed Éomer and a deep longing had started burning in his eyes for all to see who could. They had joined in his laughter, and then it had been Faramir's turn to elaborate on the virtues of his beautiful Rohirric wife, grinningly ignoring the stern scowl of his ever protective brother-in-law…
Legolas came back to the present with a start, his gaze again on Lothíriel's blue lips and her drawn face.
It was not right to see her thus, exposed, naked, as only her husband should see her.
It was not right, nor proper.
But to leave her thus – unthinkable.
oooOooo
He approached the bed and knelt down at her side. He did not reach to touch her, to keep up at least a vestige of propriety.
He placed his hands – what should he do with his hands?
He placed his hands against the edge of the bed, instinctively searching for a physical connection to Lothíriel and the child that Elaine had promised was still alive in her womb. Then he closed his eyes. Not that it was necessary, but the disconcerted stares of the women in the room, the desperate hope in Éomer's eyes were too distracting. Better to seek the warm dark, but disturbing peace that awaited him behind closed eyelids.
Legolas reached out with his mind.
The swirling thoughts and emotions in the room were almost too much to bear. He had to force himself to delve into the dark depths of his feä, and not to open his eyes again, fleeing from the presence of so much fear and pain as was gathered in this room.
After a few moments he was able to cast aside the thoughts and emotions of those present around him. All their shields were fairly tight, only the very turmoil of their hearts and souls was seething beyond the boundaries the humans had instinctively laid on their feä as they grew older. Of Elaine he sensed nothing at all, her shields were indeed strong enough to ward off any Firstborn but the most powerful. As he had read in his friend's eyes, Éomer was close to breaking down. Legolas did not want to witness this pain feä to feä, though he knew he would, should the worst come to happen.
Of Lothíriel's shields only frayed remnants remained. The pain and fear of more than two days of hard labour had worn away at the fortifications of her feä, she had painstakingly erected under Glorfindel's directions; like a rushing river wears away at even primary rocks, until they are hollow and collapse into scattered pebbles and boulders.
He caught an echo of her last conscious thoughts.
"I have tried. I have done the best I could.
Will I feel it, when they cut open my body to save the child?
Will I perhaps be able to hear it cry at least one time?"
He forced himself to reach beyond these thoughts towards that other life that would be there, still contained within her hröa…
He knew it would be there.
Yet when he touched the child's feä he was still so astonished to feel this youngest of all lives he had ever encountered that he drew back, gasping for breath.
He stared at Lothíriel's body, seeing it suddenly with new eyes. Suddenly he did not see only the unfamiliar, swollen, naked body of his friend's life, unnaturally still when it should be writing with life, with two lives! Suddenly he saw that new life, this new person, as it was curled up inside the womb, confused and weakening, by some strange mishap of fortune not in the position it had to be so that it might be born…
He inhaled deeply.
Healer or not. This child would live. And Lothíriel would not die.
But when he reached out with his mind for a second time, the presence of the young feä had withdrawn. Possibly the mind-touch, slight and swift though it had been had frightened the babe.
Cold fear washed over Legolas again.
Had this short moment of hesitation been fatal?
Had this moment of indecision risked all that could be won here today?
It was an effort to calm his suddenly racing heart and to keep his breath even and light. He knew that he would not be able to resume contact with the child at a distance. He drew a shaky breath and rose to his feet again. Then he turned to Éomer who was watching him from a few feet away, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists.
"I have to touch her. The child is alive, I felt it for a moment, but then it was gone, it withdrew. If I may touch her, I think that might help."
Éomer nodded wordlessly.
Legolas turned to the bed again, and this time, he knelt down on the mattress next to Lothíriel. For the time between two breaths he hesitated again. He realized just how carefully the Lady Míriel who was still sitting on the other side of the bed was not looking at him, in an effort not to add to his discomfiture. But there was no time for him to dwell on any misgivings he might have!
He inhaled again, forcing his breath into the slow relaxed pattern, calming the flow of his thoughts into the soothing rhythm that would make ósanwe easy and clear even across wide distances. Then Legolas placed his palms on Lothíriel's distended belly. The flesh was very hard, cramped muscles pushing against his hands, and the skin was too cold, from loss of blood, exhaustion and shock.
This time, as he reached out, he encountered not even a remnant of thoughts belonging to Lothíriel. But he did not dare to take the time and ascertain the strength left to her. He delved deeper, as deep as he dared.
And there!
A tingling sensation! Pain! Discomfort! Confusion!
A sense of aliveness without self-awareness!
Of course not, a corner of Legolas' mind observed. He – yes, it was a male feä, there was no doubt about that at all – he was much too young to have any awareness of himself, any sense of identity.
But if there was no identity there, no personality – how should he convey the necessity of turning, of moving, of risking even more discomfort?
Words would be of no use at all in this situation!
He had to free himself of the concept of speech, of the sense of reaching out for another being. Although he sensed the feä crying out in his unborn distress and discomfort, there was no coherence there, no sense of time, no sense of space…
Legolas let go of his world.
He let go of the sun and the moon, the bed under his knees, the cold, resisting flesh of Lothíriel under his fingers.
He let go of himself, of the son, the warrior, the gardener, the friend.
He let go of his memories – be they woods or war.
He let go of his feelings – be they desire for the sea or the final refuge he might one day find in love.
Finally there was only his feä left, pure spirit, as he had not been since his earliest days, and maybe not even then.
He flowed towards the unborn feä of his friend's son and engulfed it.
Two drops of rain
or dew, clear and pure in the earliest light of
morning, they clung like pearls to the slender curve of a single blade of
grass, their lifetime, until they met, collided:
mingled,
gleamed as one in the sunrise, for the length of a breath,
an inhalation,
an exhalation
– and fell together.
You have to move, little one.
Not words. Only a sense of movement, of urgency – and love.
Turn around quickly, search for the way out.
But only eager confusion met him.
Where to turn when there are no directions?
No above and no below?
No before, and possibly no afterwards?
Legolas came out of his trance with a gasp.
"He's alive," he rasped, his voice strange and ragged to his ears. "The babe is alive, and he would turn now, but he does not know where to turn to! He has no sense of time or space at all yet!"
oooOooo
"You really touched the babe's mind? His mind?" Elaine's voice held astonished disbelief and immeasurable relief.
Éomer's eyes were fixed on him as if the fate of the world rested in his hands.
Legolas looked at the still form of Lothíriel, the slight twitching of her swollen stomach a tell-tale sign of the feeble efforts of its occupant to do what he had asked: move, turn around…
The fate of Éomer's
world did rest in his hands.
And he had no idea
what else he could do to keep it safe.
Slowly Legolas slid down from the bed and stepped back. Elation at having succeeded in establishing mind-contact with the feä of Éomer's son warred with despair. "How can we help the babe to find the way?"
And if… when the babe has managed to turn in a way that will allow him to be born – will Lothíriel have the strength to push him forth?
"I don't dare to try and guide him with my hands," Elaine said. "When I tried this before, he stopped moving altogether – and Lothíriel is very tight: there is almost no room to manoeuvre. I would tear her even worse than I already did… and then…"
She did not continue. But her comment inspired the other women present to voice their thoughts. A flurry of whispered suggestions was exchanged, of charms and potions and treatments of ancient lore, but all of them were discarded. For according to Elaine all of them were harmful for mother or child or both.
Finally silence settled in the room once more, heavy with defeat.
"There has to be a way!" Éomer's voice was pleading. A fine trembling had taken hold of the strong frame of the warrior. Legolas could see that his friend was on the verge of crying once more. Legolas lowered his head, the memory of the mind-touch painfully fresh.
One touch, and then nothing? Valar, will you really allow fate to be so cruel?
Suddenly a strange noise broke the silence in the room. A sound like a small cough, an awkward clearing of a throat. Legolas raised his eyes again.
The young servant girl, Ini, was making an effort to speak, her cheeks flushed with nervousness. When she spoke, her voice was thin, her words almost garbled, so quickly did she speak. "Me brother's a herdsman, a herdsman of them cows. An' it so happens, he's often alone out in th' pastures with them as they be getting their calves. An' it's right bad if th' calf doesna' turn, right. Th' cow will die, and th' calf, too. An' me brother's no tall, aye, he's right delicate. So he's not strength to reach into them cows and turn th' calves by force. He jus' canna' do that. So he's this trick. An' he swears by it. Says it works every time! Like magic! He calls it th' music of Eru-up-above."
Lady Anrid, Elfhelm's wife, had grown visibly more uncomfortable and discomfited with every sentence voiced by the servant girl in the thick dialect of the plains. Now she held her hand up to silence the girl. "Thank you, Ini, but Lady Lothíriel is not a –"
But Elaine was already shaking her head at the lady and Éomer's eyes blazed angrily; the king was ready to clutch at any straw that promised a solution. "No, let her speak, none of you had any suggestion on what to do now. Whatever magic her brother uses cannot be worse than no idea at all!"
Éomer turned to Ini, and kept his voice even and friendly with an almost inhuman effort. Ini stared at her king for a moment, her eyes round with fear, her mouth open. Then she closed her mouth, swallowed hard and continued more slowly, speaking much clearer than before.
"My brother'll play his flute, m' lord. He says as he walks down the side of the cow, very slow like an' he plays that flute, like, along the side of the cow an' then he reaches –" She hesitated, blushed even harder, at having to say such a word in the presence of her king, then continued as quickly as possible. "An' he reaches – its – its backside an' then he keeps a-playin' there, an' he says as it was music as created all life, all new life will turn to the music an' that as he keeps a-playin', weeel, th'calf, it follows the music an' then it pops out like a lark!"
Legolas stared at the servant girl, barely taking in the open-mouthed stares of the women in the room, or the way Lady Anrid averted her gaze in embarrassment for the servant in her charge or Elaine's expression of tense concentration.
"…as it was music as created all life, all new life will turn to the music…"
Indeed, all life in Eä had been sung into existence in Eru Ilúvatar's Ainulindalë. Could it be possible that in this bit of herder-lore the key to saving the life of Lothíriel's babe was hidden?
"In Dol Amroth there is often a harper in the room during a woman's most difficult hours," Lady Míriel remarked thoughtfully. "It is said that it helps with the pains and the babes are quicker to be born."
"'Tis true," Sorcha said. "When I had my Solas, my aunt kept singing to me, and for a time, I remember, I hummed right along with her and it soothed me."
A shared sigh swept through the room, a gentle breeze of hope. All eyes turned to Elaine, awaiting the healer's verdict. "As I recall," the healer said slowly, "Lady Galadriel told me that the Elves use music, too, to – to help the parents focus on the task of bringing forth life she said, I think… At the very least I am sure that it cannot hurt either Lothíriel or the babe –"
At this moment Lothíriel's eyes fluttered in reaction to a contraction rippling across her belly again, no doubt brought on by the sudden movements of the babe. A hoarse moan made everyone jump and the women hurried to the bed.
"Go get the harper, Legolas," Éomer called out and rushed to the bed, kneeling down next to his wife and clasping her hand against his cheek.
Legolas ran from the room.
oooOooo
A/N:
Mind-speech is canon:
If you want to know more about "mind-speech" á la Tolkien, I recommend Tolkien's essay "Osanwe-kenta" or "Ósanwe-centa" in Vinyar Tengwar No.39.
Breech birth:
Many thanks to Narwen and her mother, a real life gynaecologist who answered all my questions!
Last chapter:
Breech birth can be done naturally if the baby's presentation is not too unusual and it is not too big. There are birthing positions that help with getting the baby to turn. The midwife might also try to turn the baby from outside and by reaching inside. But in real life a difficult presentation like Elfwine's would probably call for a caesarean section.
This chapter:
In earlier centuries many women died of complications during childbirth, sometimes simply because of exhaustion after days of labour. Even today many women and children in the poor countries of this world do not survive birth.
Music as a means to get a baby to turn:
That is actually a real life method (!) though of course it would not be used at this stage of delivery. Actually the method apparently involves moving a playing radio (or iPod? grin) over the skin of the belly and downwards, to get the unborn baby to follow the sound and turn around.
oooOooo
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JunoMagic