Chapter length: ~3,000 words
A/N: There is a time skip between the last chapter and this one of several years during which Carnistir and Tuilindien live happily, pursuing their various crafts and occupations.
As usual I'm being partially compliant with Laws and Customs of the Eldar. Both POVs in this chapter, which means that for once I managed an equal amount of point-of-view time (3,5 chapters) for both characters.
Warnings: Fear of infertility (I don't know if that's even possible for elves, but the fear is there anyway); Pregnancy (zero physical details); A tiny bit of religiousness (Tuilindien is religious, though I don't often mention it)
Fëa, plural feär = spirit, soul
Chapter VII / Long-looked for
They have not been married for many years when they begin wishing for a baby, quietly at first and then with all their heart. On some level they have wanted children since they were courting, and by the time they were betrothed and Tuilindien's sister had her baby, Carnistir's heart ached at the sight of the little girl who looked so much like Tuilindien.
Not that they aren't happy together, very happy, just the two of them. To Carnistir's constant amazement and relief, his temper and his awkwardness and all the other things that make him clash with other people rarely make him clash with Tuilindien. And it seems that he is capable of what he has most wanted since the day he met her: to make her happy.
The way she comes to sit on his lap at the end of dinner, and nestles against him at night, and asks for his touch with words and without, and lets him rest his head in her lap when he is tired in spirit or body, and sighs and moans and sobs and altogether makes wonderful noises in their bed at night – it all tells him that she is happy with him. Even he cannot mistake those signs.
The way she is eager to tell him of her day and to hear of his, and how she listens and asks questions as best she can though their callings are very different and she doesn't always understand what he does, and how she laughs when he makes the same joke for the hundredth time, or fumbles the delivery of a new one more often than not; and how they rarely run out of things to speak of and when they do, they are content to be silent together.
The way she smiles her quiet little smile, calm and content, as she sets out on the tasks of her day, and the way she welcomes his family when they visit, however noisy or messy they are (Ambarussar grow less messy as they grow older, but show no inclination to stop being so loud), and the way she walks, confident, in the house he built for her, and wanders in the garden she designed, filled with simple happiness he can feel from far away.
And he is happier than he ever hoped for. Before he met her, when he was already of an age when many had met their loved one and married, he didn't dare think much of love and marriage. He can admit it to himself now. He assumed that finding a spouse would not be easy, with his reputation as the least personable of all the house of Finwë and anyway, he had several crafts he wanted to pursue and better himself at, and he…
Hadn't dared to look for a wife and a family of his own, though he couldn't help wanting that. He'd thrown himself into studying and working and told himself and everyone else that that was the reason he didn't try to find love. How fortunate that he just… stumbled upon Tuilindien when they were both escaping the hubbub of a party.
And now they have many years of love and contentment in their marriage behind them already, and more and more they long for a child. Tuilindien asks to hold any baby that she meets, and Carnistir makes plans for a nursery in his head, too many plans to even fit in one room.
But their hope is not immediately granted.
It sometimes takes time, years even, for the desire for children to bear fruit; and it turns out that it does for Carnistir and Tuilindien, for all his murmured hopes and all her whispered prayers.
It doesn't make him angry, miraculously, but it does make him unsettled, and Tuilindien sad.
Carnistir doesn't know who to talk about it with. In the end, as usual when what is on his mind has anything to do with marriage, he finds himself at Makalaurë's house. Failing to think of a polite way to enquire, he asks bluntly, 'How come you and Tinweriel do not have children? You have been married long enough to have more than one.'
To Carnistir's relief, Makalaurë doesn't appear to be offended. 'We haven't found ourselves wanting children', he replies. 'There are so many other things to do.'
Carnistir grins, feeling much lighter now that he has begun the conversation. 'So many songs to write', he says.
'So many dances to choreograph, for Tinweriel.' Makalaurë gestures expansively. 'So many poems to write, too, for me, and performances for us to direct together, and so on.'
'Hmm.' Carnistir thinks. 'I want to do many new things, too. To try design new kinds of buildings, and to build a supply line of that rare limestone Curvo found in the north-east, and…' he shrugs. 'Many things. And Tuilë wants to write a book.'
Makalaurë chuckles. 'The one she's been planning together with Ambarussar? That instructs teachers on how to best teach language to badly behaved children?'
'That's not how she'd describe it', Carnistir laughs. 'But yes, that one. She has been interested in didactics lately. Yet she wants a child more, to nurture and love and raise, and so do I, although I'm… honestly, Cáno, I am terrified that I will not be very good at the nurturing and raising.'
'You will do it in your own way', Makalaurë says with the quiet encouragement that sometimes seems at odds with his other, more flamboyant habits, and makes him Carnistir's favourite brother to seek support from. 'You are a very good husband – it is clear enough for anyone who sees even for a minute how you are with Tuilindien. You are good at taking care of those who are your own.'
He continues, 'I am not well-versed in the philosophies or theories of it, but I think that the yearning for a child is similar to how you cannot help falling in love with someone. You are either struck with it, or you are not. Tinweriel and I have not been, and you and Tuilindien have.'
'Tuilindien wants it so very badly that I hate it', Carnistir says helplessly. 'It is harder to bear watching her suffer disappointment day after day than it is to bear my own. I want to do something to help her, but I don't know –'
'There is only one thing to do to have a child, is there not', Makalaurë says drily.
Heat rises to Carnistir's cheeks and he says, 'Don't be smart, Cáno. Of course I know that, and we are –' he waves his hand around stupidly '– certainly trying our best. I only wish I could make her feel better.'
Makalaurë's expression softens. 'Just hold her close and tell her everything will be alright', he says. 'Because it will. You will have your long-looked for baby, even if it takes some time. Be Tuilindien's strength in the meanwhile, if she falters.'
'I know, and I will.' Carnistir takes a deep breath. 'I shall try to be patient.'
'Not your forte, I know', Makalaurë says with a wry smile. 'But you are doing well.'
'Better than Tuilindien, for once. It is very strange.' Carnistir rises from his seat, declining Makalaurë's offer of opening a bottle of wine. He wants to go home to his wife.
He feels better as he rides home through the city, even though he did not speak to Makalaurë of his worst, deeply hidden fear.
The fear that they might simply be too different, he and Tuilindien, for them to have a child together, or that at least it will take a very, very long time for Eru to find a fëa that is fit to be the child of such conflicting personalities.
That unease and fear is only worsened when Curufinwë and Netyarë announce that they are going to have a child. They have been married for several years less than Carnistir and Tuilindien.
Carnistir is glad for them, he is, but there are so many different emotions mixed with his gladness that it is very difficult to express it and congratulate them like he should. Curufinwë's smug grins and declarations of how happy he is to be the first of all his brothers to father a child of a new generation certainly do not make it easier.
Curvo has always been competitive in things that shouldn't be competitions.
It rankles Carnistir to lose, especially in something that causes him grief, too, the not-having that feels like the loss of something he never had.
Tuilindien is lonely in a new way.
She was lonely in Tirion at first when she married Carnistir. She had him, of course, her beloved, the heart of her world as she navigated living in a new city among a new people.
Then she made enough friends and acquaintances, and got to know Carnistir's family better, that the loneliness slowly faded until one day she realised it was gone.
The new loneliness has crept in as slowly as the old one disappeared. Their home has started feeling too large, too empty, too quiet. The unused rooms Carnistir built for their children call to Tuilindien now, and she goes to them and lingers in the doorways, seeing things there that are not there.
She didn't expect the yearning for a child to feel like this: like an absence.
But that is what it is, and one night when Carnistir carries her to bed after brushing her hair, she holds on to him and says, 'My love, I want us to have a baby.'
And even before he speaks – it takes him a moment – there is a wave of delight from him, so strong that Tuilindien is glad she is already lying down so the wash of it through her doesn't make her feel faint, only happy.
'Yes', he says. 'I mean – I want it too. A child of our own. It is time.'
'It is.' She pulls him down to kiss her, and to lose herself in him so they can make something wonderful that is all its own person, theirs to care for.
But despite all their eager expectations and their ardour, that wonderful thing does not happen instantly. It doesn't happen soon; it doesn't happen for several years.
As time passes, they find themselves in the unusual situation of him having to encourage patience and faith and trust in her.
'We will have a child', Carnistir whispers to her, lifting sweaty curls away from her face one night. 'Do not worry, my love.'
She kisses him and wishes she could have him again straightaway. It is so sweet of him to comfort her when she can feel that he is in need of comfort himself; for he is no good at hiding anything from her in moments like this, moments when the sweat is still cooling on their skin and his heart still beats fast under her hand, and the bed is warm from their lovemaking.
He tells her to trust, even though there is worry and doubt in his own heart. His effort at comforting is worth no less because of it. He has strength and tenacity and endurance that spills over easily from him, supporting her, as easily as the anger that with its ferociousness sometimes tires her spirit.
Tuilindien loves him with all her heart and spirit and body, and she tells himself that she can be happy with him without a child until Eru gives them one.
She prays to Eru and to the Valar, though she knows well that all fëar are made by Eru alone, and given by Eru as children of the Eldar. Tuilindien has never prayed to the Father of All before; she never had cause.
She prays and hopes, and she loves Carnistir, and yet she is growing lonely and fearful.
She dislikes her own weakness greatly, and is ashamed of her lack of faith. After all, there is no reason to think that they will not have a child when the time is right.
The disappointment of not finding herself with child, day after day and week after week and year after year, even begins to sour the act of joining her body with Carnistir. That act has been such a delight to her and him alike, that way of being close and finding pleasure in each other. Tuilindien does everything she can to not let it grow sour.
Just like meeting Carnistir, meeting her child comes when she doesn't expect it.
With Carnistir's support and a large dose of self-discipline, Tuilindien has just managed to talk herself into not worrying for a while, and not praying excessively. So instead of a morning prayer in the orchard where she has built little altars to all the Valar, and often prays to Eru too, she just walks around among the fruit trees she loves. Carnistir has ridden off to a worksite, but she has a quiet day of writing ahead of her.
It rained at night, the pouring rain and whistling wind outside their bedroom windows making their warm bed seem even cosier – Tuilindien still gets cold easily in Tirion – and now in the golden morning light everything shines anew.
It is spring. Tuilindien smells that green scent in the humid air, hears many birds singing on bud-bearing branches, and sees new life growing and blooming all around her; and feels inside her something that was not there yesterday, something that wasn't noticeable just moments ago when Carnistir kissed her goodbye and left, something –
Tuilindien falls to her knees in the wet grass that is just turning green again, and she cries ugly, racking, wordless tears of joy until it hurts.
With those tears and with all of her own fëa that she can gather and control, she tells the tiny spark of life and light inside her how loved they are already, how long longed-for, how welcome and dear and sweet and beautiful. She wraps her own spirit around the small fëa, surrounding them with all her warmth and strength and love. She would lie down and curl up around her stomach physically, too, if the grassy ground wasn't so wet and cool.
She doesn't write a single word the whole day. She cries and she smiles and laughs, all over the garden and house, caring not a whit about how strange the servants must think her.
After some hours of wandering around she gives in to the temptation to linger once again in the doorway of the room next to their bedroom, the large light-filled nursery that they have kept empty of everything but their hopes. Now Carnistir can begin commissioning or building furniture and Tuilindien can ask Netyarë to paint the walls with beautiful colours and sweet images – perhaps some paintings of Tuilindien's parents' home on Taniquetil and her family's farms on the plains of Valinor, to make that side of their heritage familiar to the baby, too.
Tuilindien feels like she cannot wait for Carnistir to get home. She would send word to him but he had several places to go to during the day, so any messenger she sent might just end up chasing him around him.
So she waits. She drags a comfortable chair to the empty nursery – all their furniture is so very sturdy and heavy, difficult to move. Snowdrop comes to investigate, and Tuilindien has to shoo her away with the tip of her slipper so she doesn't get hurt.
Tuilindien sits down in the chair by the window, sets a blanket on her lap, closes her eyes and slips to silent communion with the little fëa inside her, dreaming together of things to come.
Carnistir finds her there, lost to the surrounding world still, their cats napping beside her chair.
From the doorway he asks, warily, probably thinking that she has fallen to some new low of depression, 'Why are you here, Tuilë?'
She shakes herself out of her reverie, but keeps her spirit closed to him for now. She tells him, 'Come here.'
He comes, brows drawn and body tense. He gets so very worried about her.
Softly, Tuilindien says, 'It is nothing bad, my love.'
'Then why are you acting so strange? Tell me.'
She rises. 'I do not even know how to tell you. This morning I went into the garden –' and her words fail her.
She looks into his dark expressive eyes that she hopes their child will have, and she takes his hand and moves it to her stomach. Though she knows that he cannot feel anything there yet: it takes longer for the father.
But he can feel her when she opens herself up to him and lets him feel all her joy in the communion of their two fëar, his and hers.
'Oh', he says in a strangled voice. All his tension is gone, yet he almost shakes. Gently, with more reverence than his fingers hold when they place offerings on altars, he caresses her stomach. 'Are you certain?'
'I could not be uncertain', Tuilindien answers. 'The feeling of another spirit in my body, separate but touching mine, is so strange and distinct and wonderful.'
'I am jealous', Carnistir says, perfectly serious.
'You will feel them soon enough', she comforts him. 'Only for a little while they will be mine alone to watch over and nurture.'
'You will be the best mother', he says with conviction, raising his hand from her middle to hold her face with both hands and kiss her so swiftly that she has not time to assure him that he will be a wonderful parent, too.
It is the happiest kiss.
'How does it feel?' he asks fervently. 'I cannot wait to know. I cannot wait to get to know them.'
Tuilindien smiles, and cries again. This time Carnistir is there to hold her up, and hold her close, and whisper hoarse hopes and plans in her ear.
A/N: You will wrest the trope of elf mothers-to-be feeling the fëa of their child inside them from my cold, dead, still-gripping hands. I used the pronoun 'they' for the child because Tuilindien doesn't know the gender yet.
Thank you for reading, and see you for the sequels. Because I have several planned/partially written, both fluff and more angsty stuff. However, I never know when I manage to finish fics so I don't know when those will be ready to post. No promises.
Also, I might add chapters to this fic later, if I come up with small one-shots about the early years of their marriage.