PROMPT: "Welcome to fatherhood." (Feat. Aragorn)
What was supposed to be a simple, pleasant, diplomatic visit from Aragorn goes sideways rather quickly. They had scarcely been able to welcome him to Meduseld with bread and salt before Lothiriel had given a quiet gasp, hand flying to her rounded stomach.
The midwives had predicted the child wouldn't arrive for another two weeks, and that alone has Eomer nearly in a panic, despite Duilin's assurances that it was perfectly normal for the child to come early, that there was minimal risk to either Lothiriel or the babe.
"Children rarely arrive when we plan for them to," Aragorn offers, as if that's in any way helpful. Eomer cannot get the image of Lothiriel-smiling one minute, then nearly white with shock in the next-out of his head, and his friend's flippant comment only serves to set him more on edge.
Aragorn must read some of the irritation on his face, for he winces, reaching out to clap a hand to Eomer's shoulder. "I am sorry, brother. I forget you've not seen as many births as I have."
The only births Eomer's ever witnessed have been of the equine variety, a fact he suspects Aragorn knows. "I think that might be an understatement, Aragorn."
The older man grins. "It's just as well that your Master Healer turned down my offer for assistance. I do not know who looked more aghast at the idea: him or your lovely wife."
That makes Eomer chuckle, despite the lingering panic that's taken residence behind his breastbone. "They would not even allow me into the room."
"Neither would Arwen, when Caewen was born," Aragorn admits. "I suspect both our wives know how little help we would be at the sight of them in pain."
Eomer's mirth vanishes. He knows, logically, that childbirth is something that women have lived through for ages over, that there is no better healer in all of the Mark than Duilin, that Lothiriel comes from a large family with no discernable history of having trouble in the childbed...but still, the sense of helplessness makes his heart race. Bema, how can he not help her? How can he sit, useless and idle, while his queen, his wife, suffers to bring their child into the world?
He flinches at the sudden pressure of Aragorn's hand on his shoulder again. "Come. I will do for you what Legolas and Gimli did for me when I was in your position."
"Surely you would need another person in order to debate whose song about trees is best?" Eomer suggests.
Aragorn snorts. "I have something else in mind."
Something else ends up being food, a large mug of ale, and the latest news from the Hobbits.
"Pippin's courtship of Diamond of Long Cleeve is apparently going well," Aragorn says. "Well, well-enough, given that she has only dumped a bucket of water over his head twice in the past month, as opposed to the usual six times."
Eomer rolls his eyes. "Only Pippin would consider that 'going well'."
"He's prone to optimism, yes," Aragorn agrees. "Though I do feel as though I owe him and Merry my thanks."
Arching an eyebrow, Eomer asks, "Meaning?"
"If not for their antics during our quest, I doubt I would be half as good at managing Caewen's mischief," Aragorn says. "So says Arwen, anyways."
Eomer grins. He has only met Aragorn and Arwen's daughter briefly, but there was no denying that the three-year old has an almost uncanny knack for appearing in places she shouldn't be. He'd nearly choked when her little dark head had appeared from beneath the table in Gondor's councilroom; neither Aragorn nor Faramir had so much as blinked, indicating this was clearly a common occurrence.
Aragorn truly does have a way with Caewen-an easy confidence, a gentleness, that Eomer envies. He has spent time with his friend's children, yes, but the last time Eomer has spent an extended amount of time with a newborn, it was Eowyn. His memories of that are hazy at best, and heavily feature either his mother or father's hands helping him hold her in his lap.
Bema, how he wishes his father were here. Eomund, gone more years now than the ones he lived, with his back-cracking hugs, his booming laugh. Eomer knows he is not as light-hearted as his father had been, nor as reckless. There is still so much he would have liked to ask him: about marriage, life, fatherhood.
Lothiriel will make a wonderful mother. He has seen her with children numerous times-her nephew and niece, Eowyn and Faramir's son, even Caewen herself. Her hands are gentle with them, and the way she speaks to them is never anything less than sincere and interested. But him, as a father….he can hardly picture it. What can he offer a child? Protection, certainly, love, of course...but that gentleness feels beyond him. He has been a warrior all his life, a leader of men, and yet the thought of a tiny babe unnerves him in a way nothing has before.
"Every father alive has had those same thoughts before their first child," Aragorn says, startling Eomer out of his melancholy musings.
Frowning at having been so obvious, he asks, "Did you miraculously acquire Lady Galadriel's mind-reading skills?"
Aragorn smiles, unfazed. "I believe I made a similar face before Caewen was born. Hence Gimli and Legolas's attempts to distract me." He pauses for a moment before reaching over to grip Eomer's hand. "You are not wrong to be afraid, brother. Though my councilors would no doubt disagree with me, there is no greater role than being a parent. Not even the role of king. And it is doubly as terrifying. But also doubly as sweet. You and Lothiriel will be fine, and this babe will be luckier than any I can think of, save one."
"You know, it's impolite to brag about your own parenting skills to your friend who is clearly nervous about his own," Eomer quips back, mood already lightened.
Aragorn shrugs. "It must still be the Ranger in me. A King would never say such a thing."
Snorting, Eomer raises his mug in his friend's direction. "My thanks to Gondor, regardless, for once again coming to Rohan's rescue."
"I only hope Rohan will return the favor, someday," Aragorn answers. "Particularly when it comes time to vet Caewen's suitors."
That sets him laughing, earlier fears lessened. Had Aragorn not been a warrior as well? And yet fatherhood has come to him with ease. Perhaps it will not be so daunting, after all.
Hours later, Eomer all but shoots to his feet when the door to his solar opens, revealing a weary-but-smiling Wilfled. "Congratulations, Eomer King. You have a daughter."
A daughter. Oh, Bema-a little Lothiriel, with her mother's bright eyes and dark hair-"And Lothiriel?" He blurts, gripped with a sudden terror that she is gone, the best part of his life, his wife, his queen, his love-
"Fine," Wilfled answers, squeezing his hand as Aragorn claps a hand to his shoulder. "The midwives are cleaning her up."
"Cleaning-" He starts to say, anxiety making his thoughts hard to follow-
Wilfled's expression is wry. "Surely you would not begrudge the mother of your child a small bit of vanity, Eomer? No woman emerges from the childbed looking or smelling like a bed of flowers."
Reassured, he still makes his way to the door. Before he can reach it, it's opening again, revealing Duilin, with something-no, someone-cradled in his arms.
"Impatient as ever," the older man grumbles. "Though I cannot blame you for wanting to meet this little one as quickly as possible."
Eomer's hands shake as he reaches for her-his daughter-and she feels so impossibly small when Duilin slides her into his arms, pushing gently at him until she's settled comfortably. She is a tiny, wrinkled thing, red-faced and with a dusting of dark hair on her head.
He's never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
Eomer isn't aware that he's crying until Duilin sniffles himself, and Aragorn's hand alights on its now familiar place on his shoulder.
"Welcome to fatherhood," his friend says, and Eomer can only laugh.
(He supposes his reaction isn't out of the ordinary, given that Lothiriel bursts into tears as well the minute he appears in the doorway with their daughter in his arms.
It takes them a minute to get settled, but eventually, they maneuver the babe into Lothiriel's arms, and Lothiriel into his.
"I suppose Aragorn will never want to come back to Edoras for a visit, if this is how he's welcomed," she teases, voice tired but warm with amusement.
"On the contrary," he answers, pressing a kiss to her temple, "how many kings can say a princess was so eager to meet them she insisted on being born early?"
Lothiriel laughs softly, careful not to disturb the babe.
Eomer's earlier worries seem leagues away, with his family in his arms.)