Fic: An Inevitable Outcome
Dec. 31st, 2014 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grav_ityWell, here we are. Thank you so much for tagging along with me in this. Your support through my long silence was very much appreciated. I loved writing this series, and I am sad to finish it, but it is finished. Hopefully someone else writes Fili/Sigrid now. :)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
+++
Chapter 6
It is taking far too long.
Ten years of living in Erebor, of learning its rock and bones, has given him a perfect sense of each moment that passes, even in the darkest corridors or mine shafts. Thorin sets him to shoveling coal, which is a mistake, because the work evens out his heart-rate and makes it even easier for him to measure minutes. By the time the King Under the Mountain realizes his error, they have filled quite a few hoppers, but each of them knows exactly how long it has taken, and so no one’s nerves are soothed.
They are returning their shovels to the quartermaster, who resolutely bows to Thorin and does not meet Fili’s eyes, when Dwalin appears.
“Kili is coming up the causeway with Bard,” he reports. “They will be at the Gate soon.”
Sending Kili to Dale had been Balin’s idea. In addition to getting him out of Tauriel’s hair, a dwarf messenger in place of a raven will allow the guardsmen on the wall plenty of time to see the approach, which in turn allows Bard plenty of time to set his affairs in order before coming to the Mountain. The only problem is that the journey there and back again takes a number of hours that everyone knows, which only further serves to hammer home and it has been too long since Sigrid went into labour.
“It will take time,” Dis had said, pulling him towards the door as she spoke. “You must promise me that you will keep your head.”
Fili had only nodded, staring dumbly at Sigrid’s face which was already white with pain. Elrond had teas and medicines that would numb the edge of it, but they had not had time to take effect yet. She had gripped his hand so hard.
It is only now that Fili understands. When Kili was born, Fili was young enough that he didn’t know any better. Thorin took him to the forge and let him play with the bellows for hours and never complained about the wasted coal. He’d finally fallen asleep in the empty coal scuttle and Thorin had carried him home to his new sibling. He wishes for such oblivion now, because his every nerve is screaming with worry and there is nothing he can do to quiet them.
“Fili!” Thorin is saying, and Fili can tell from his tone that he has said it more than once. He must keep his head. “Come, nephew. We must go up.”
They ascend by the stairs, which takes longer, and so Bard is already waiting in Fili’s receiving room when they arrive. Kili is pouring ale, heavily watered if Fili knows his mother, and he takes the cup when it is offered to him. Bard lifts his own cup in a silent toast, or prayer, and Fili responds. He’s covered in coal dust, but he doesn’t care.
A runner brings a plate of food. It’s too early for dinner, but Fili knows they passed over luncheon. He has no idea if Bard managed to eat. Men measure time by the sun, not by the feel of stone, and Fili wonders if Bard will lose track of time now that he is underground. It would be a mercy if he did, but Fili cannot.
The door open and Tilda comes in. She throws herself into her father’s arms, and he holds her tight against his broad chest. Her hands are too cleanly scrubbed, like someone had made sure she would bear no trace of the birthing room once she left it.
“Lord Elrond says that Sigrid is doing well,” Tilda says. “She is strong, and the babe’s heartbeat is strong too. Oin says that Sigrid’s labour will not be as easy as a dwarrowdam’s would be, but he thinks the progress is good.”
Dwalin breathes out harshly, and Thorin relaxes into his chair, but neither Fili nor Bard are any less on edge.
“Da, I must return,” Tilda says. “You have to let me go.”
Bard presses a kiss to his youngest daughter’s forehead, and finally releases her. She smiles briefly at Kili, and then kisses Fili’s cheek.
“From Sigrid,” she says, and her smile is true.
Fili pulls her forehead to his. Now that she is close, he can see that there are unshed tears in her eyes. He doesn’t think they are tears from grief, but he is too much a coward right now to ask her. Instead, he makes himself smile in reply to hers, and hopes that his looks genuines, as her does. He must keep his head. He has promised, and so he must do it.
“Tell her that I love her,” he says, and then Tilda is gone.
It is taking too long. There is nothing to do but wait.
+++
They have put her in the bathing room, because it is the warmest place, and because between her early contractions, Elrond had counseled that she be put into the tub for respite. It is comforting to still be at home. They had discussed the possibility of the infirmary, but Oin had only said that he could get more dwarflings to run his errands for him, and that she must be as much at ease as she could be.
In the beginning, when Sigrid was more mobile, she had walked circles around the tub, leaning on the shoulders of her ladies, or on the arm of Elrond, or Tauriel. She learns the room’s modified layout on her rounds past the the birthing bricks, the pile of linens, and the table where Oin and Elrond have laid out their tools and tinctures. Tilda is too slight to bear her weight, and so had been charged with keeping the linens sorted, ensuring clean ones were at hand and the soiled ones were sent out of the room. Now, as the hours drag on, it takes both elves to guide her steps and keep her steady on the humid stone.
Dis will tolerate nothing short of perfection, and has been dismissing the other dwarrowdams if they begin to look worried about Sigrid’s progress. Tauriel has been designated the new message runner on the grounds that no one in the corridors will stop her for information, though Tilda had taken one message herself when their father arrived. She reported back that both Bard and Fili sent their love, and Sigrid did not ask how they were faring. She is not sure she can spare the effort to care. Gloin’s wife is managing supplies from the infirmary, as well as overseeing the runners and the kitchen staff. Besides Sigrid, it is only Dis, Oin, Elrond and Tilda who remain.
The contractions are coming so close together now that Sigrid does not have time to make it from the bricks to her chair between them. Instead, she slumps in Dis’s grip when the pain lessens, only to be pushed back into her squat when her muscles clench to begin again, and Oin or Elrond take the other place beside her.
Tilda looks awful, which can only mean that Sigrid looks worse, but she tries to speak to her sister when she can, and is glad that when Dis tells stories about dwarf history and legend, her voice is loud enough that both sisters can hear it. Sigrid hopes she will remember the words and the songs, that they will not disappear beneath the waves of pain that wash over her, but she knows that if she asks, Dis will gladly sing them all again. Sigrid and her child will learn dwarven songs together, if all goes well, and Sigrid will make sure the babe knows the tales of Men as well.
“Sigrid, drink this,” Oin says, and Sigrid obediently swallows the few mouthfuls of water infused with whatever herb Elrond has decided it is time for. She can no longer taste them, but she is glad for the cool water in the heat of the room.
Hours ago, each draught made her feel stronger, but now it is like feeding kindling to a dying fire: the flare-up is brief and the flame is quickly used. This one eases the ache in her knees, which is not the chiefest of her pains at the moment, but still one she is glad to be spared of, however momentarily. In Dale, the women do no labour on bricks as the dwarrowdams do, but Oin had felt they were the best option, and Elrond had agreed. Sigrid no longer cares. She only wishes for it to be over.
“Come up again, Sigrid,” Dis tells her, and Sigrid wonders if her heart-mother can sense the way her muscles tense the same way all dwarves sense the stones of the Mountain.
“That’s a good lass,” Oin says, bracing her other shoulder. He continues to talk as her contraction overtakes her.
It is the worst one yet, and Sigrid screams to feel it mute all her other pain. She swoons, and it is only the dwarves that keep her on the bricks. It goes on and on, and her legs fail her completely, leaning against Dis to stop from falling.
“I can see it!” Tilda cries, “Sigrid, I can see the top of the head!”
Sigrid’s eyes clear at her sister’s words. She cannot see, of course, but she does not miss the look that passes between Oin and Elrond when they realize that the babe has crowned while she nearly fainted from the pain of it.
“Fili,” she says. “Please.”
It has taken too long. The babe has crowned, and Sigrid has no strength left with which to push.
+++
The Mountain is too quiet. Fili knows that this isn’t possible. The forges burn and the bellows pump great gusts of air. The hammers still fall, and the work of the Dwarves of Erebor continues unceasing. But it feels to him as though everyone is muted, waiting.
They are no longer speaking. Balin gave up after an hour of smothered conversation, unable to draw Bard or Thorin out. Dwalin left without a word some time ago, and Fili knows that he has gone to the practice arena. He spares a moment’s thought for the health of any who spar against the guard captain this day, and wishes he could seek out the same sort of relief. Instead, he stays where he is, ready if they should need him, though for what he is afraid to even think.
Tauriel brings them news infrequently, the time between her appearances stretching out. She lingers at Kili’s side each time she comes, speaking too low for anyone else to hear, but not even Thorin can miss the way their fingers tangle together as they talk.
Someone, Balin probably, has had Fili’s fiddle brought in. It’s not one of his good ones, nor is it the favoured one that he plays for Sigrid when she asks for a tune in the evenings. It is a fiddle that no one will miss, should Fili grip it too tightly or turn the strings too far. He leaves it where it lies. Any music he might play now would be too full up of worry and nerves. Anxiety does not translate well through from bow to string, and he will not torture himself, much less everyone else, with any noise he might produce.
But it is too quiet. It is too quiet, and he cannot bring himself to play or talk or anything. He only sits, and listens to the stone, and wishes that he could be so unyielding as it appears to be. He knows there are flaws and instabilities in it, but they are deeply buried and carefully controlled. He feels like he will fly apart for lack of anything to do. He starts to recite the stones and precious metals in his head, but it sounds too much like a child’s lesson, too similar to that which he and Kili and learned at Balin’s knee. He tries his lineage instead, but every time he reaches into his memory for a name, the only one he can recall is hers.
Sigrid, Sigrid, Sigrid.
A messenger, not Tauriel, comes into the room.
“My lords,” she says. “My prince, you are called for.”
And then he is running, because he can tell by her face that it is not good news.
+++
“Sigrid, you must push,” Dis tells her, over and over. “We will hold you up. You will not fall. But you must push, now.”
She wants to. It is the strangest feeling because she wants to, but she has nothing left. There is a pressure at her mouth, and she feels a warm drink slide between her lips. This one is different from everything else that Elrond has given her thus far, and it smells wonderful. She feels stronger immediately, and bears down upon the bricks. Dis staggers, caught surprised by the sudden burst of strength, but Elrond was ready for it, and they do not fall.
“What did you give her?” Oin demands.
“Miruvor,” Elrond tells him. “It is a restorative cordial.”
“Why didn’t you give it to her before?” Tilda asks. She has folded and re-folded the receiving blanket so many times that it creases under her fingers.
“Because it is too potent,” Elrond says. “She will push now, but she will not save any of her strength for herself.”
It hovers there for a moment, and then Sigrid bears down again.
“I am sorry, Sigrid,” Elrond says to her. “But if you did not push, we would have lost your both.”
She cannot find the breath to tell him that he has done well, that she is grateful. She can only push and push again, her throat raw from screaming.
“Just one more, Sigrid,” Dis says. “One more.”
She does, and there is a new sound, piercing the haze around Sigrid’s mind. She has never heard it before, and yet now that she does, she knows that it is entirely familiar. Dis pulls her off the bricks to finally rest, and Oin continues to coach her through the lesser pressure of the contractions that still wreak havoc across her belly. She swoons again, and wakes to Oin cutting a thread and Dis wrapping the afterbirth in one of the blankets Tilda had made ready for it. She is exhausted, but her heart is racing and will not calm. She wants only to sleep, to sleep at last, but the noise pulls at her and will not let her drift away.
Then there is a scuffle by the door, and Fili bursts into the room.
+++
Elrond is holding the babe in his arms when Fili throws the bathing room door open. The Elf Lord can see a moment of indecision in the prince’s eyes, whether to go to the baby or to his wife, but Elrond makes the decision for him. With a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, he guides the prince across the stones, and places the baby in his mother’s arms.
The door is crowded, full of dwarves, though Elrond can see where Bard stands behind them.
“Get them out,” he says to Dis and Oin. “Everyone but Tilda and the hound. Tell them all will be well, but get them out.”
Dis wastes no time in throwing her brother, cousins, and son from the suite. Elrond does not imagine they have gone far down the corridor, but at least they are out from underfoot. He and Oin agreed days ago that once the babe was born, Elrond would have full control. Elven healers do not have many births, but they do excel at physicing the gravest of wounds, and since Oin once witnessed such a healing with his own eyes, he knew to concede the point.
Fili has sat down beside Sigrid, uncaring of the mess, and his arms hold hers as she cradles their son. Elrond is not entirely sure she is lucid, but Fili is talking to her, and that will bring her back if she is to come. Tilda has made it as far as the hearthrug, where she is curled up with the hound. Elrond can tell she is crying, but he cannot offer her comfort yet, so he minds his tongue.
“Fili,” he says instead. “We must get them to a better place to rest.”
Fili lifts his wife and son as though they weigh nothing at all, and carries them to bed. He kicks off his boots and crawls in with them.
“Sigrid,” he says. “Love, I need you to wake up now.”
The baby isn’t crying anymore, wrapped and warmed as he is. He’ll need to eat soon, Fili recalls. He notices blood on the sheets, but when he would have raised the alarm, Elrond waved him off.
“She will heal,” the elf says. “Oin will change the dressing when she is stronger.”
Sigrid stirs against him, her own arms still around the baby. Her heart beat is slowing down, becoming less frantic against her ribs. He measures it against his own, and finds that she is resting softer now.
“Barin,” she says, so quietly that he can scarcely hear her, but Elrond smiles.
“Yes,” says Fili. “Hail Prince Under the Mountain.”
+++
The party lasts for nearly a week. Men and women come up from Dale to join the celebrations, and the mining is stopped for three whole days. Sigrid makes only the briefest of appearances, pale and wan on Fili’s arm as he holds their son up before the adoring crowds with the other, but she is stronger every day, and Oin tells them that she will be well enough to return to the stillroom before much longer.
Elrond takes his leave the day the miners return to work. He names Sigrid and Oin elf-friends before he goes, and Kili and Tauriel accompany him as far as the forest eaves. Even with Elrond gone, there is a steady parade of dwarves and other visitors through Fili’s receiving rooms to wish them well and see the baby closer up. He is not at all ashamed to use Sigrid’s fatigue as an excuse to take their leave early, and he can see that she does not mind either, though perhaps he has exaggerated how tired she is.
The baby sleeps in the nursery, where the hound has taken up permanent residence as well. A herd dog, Lord Elrond had said, and it seems the creature has indeed found his herd. Between that guardian and the dwarrowdam who sits by the fire, the babe is secure for the night.
At last, they are alone.
“There will be no more badgers,” Oin had said. “Even if Sigrid could bear another, I don’t think she should.”
They both know better than to protest. Sigrid had felt the miruvor leaving her, and Fili had watched it happen. One dwarfling will be enough for them.
“Will you play?” she asks, and he goes for his fiddle.
She sits in the chair by the fire, as she had done in those early weeks before they knew the way of being married, the way of one another, but the girl who had come to the Mountain is long gone. In her place is the Lady of Dwarves, the Lady of Erebor, his Sigrid, his own, and he would not trade her for anything. He plays a lullabye, and she smiles at him with such affection that he thinks his heart may burst of it. When she falls asleep, he puts the fiddle away, and then, just as carefully, he takes her to bed.
finis
+++
Gravity_Not_Included, December 31, 2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
+++
Chapter 6
It is taking far too long.
Ten years of living in Erebor, of learning its rock and bones, has given him a perfect sense of each moment that passes, even in the darkest corridors or mine shafts. Thorin sets him to shoveling coal, which is a mistake, because the work evens out his heart-rate and makes it even easier for him to measure minutes. By the time the King Under the Mountain realizes his error, they have filled quite a few hoppers, but each of them knows exactly how long it has taken, and so no one’s nerves are soothed.
They are returning their shovels to the quartermaster, who resolutely bows to Thorin and does not meet Fili’s eyes, when Dwalin appears.
“Kili is coming up the causeway with Bard,” he reports. “They will be at the Gate soon.”
Sending Kili to Dale had been Balin’s idea. In addition to getting him out of Tauriel’s hair, a dwarf messenger in place of a raven will allow the guardsmen on the wall plenty of time to see the approach, which in turn allows Bard plenty of time to set his affairs in order before coming to the Mountain. The only problem is that the journey there and back again takes a number of hours that everyone knows, which only further serves to hammer home and it has been too long since Sigrid went into labour.
“It will take time,” Dis had said, pulling him towards the door as she spoke. “You must promise me that you will keep your head.”
Fili had only nodded, staring dumbly at Sigrid’s face which was already white with pain. Elrond had teas and medicines that would numb the edge of it, but they had not had time to take effect yet. She had gripped his hand so hard.
It is only now that Fili understands. When Kili was born, Fili was young enough that he didn’t know any better. Thorin took him to the forge and let him play with the bellows for hours and never complained about the wasted coal. He’d finally fallen asleep in the empty coal scuttle and Thorin had carried him home to his new sibling. He wishes for such oblivion now, because his every nerve is screaming with worry and there is nothing he can do to quiet them.
“Fili!” Thorin is saying, and Fili can tell from his tone that he has said it more than once. He must keep his head. “Come, nephew. We must go up.”
They ascend by the stairs, which takes longer, and so Bard is already waiting in Fili’s receiving room when they arrive. Kili is pouring ale, heavily watered if Fili knows his mother, and he takes the cup when it is offered to him. Bard lifts his own cup in a silent toast, or prayer, and Fili responds. He’s covered in coal dust, but he doesn’t care.
A runner brings a plate of food. It’s too early for dinner, but Fili knows they passed over luncheon. He has no idea if Bard managed to eat. Men measure time by the sun, not by the feel of stone, and Fili wonders if Bard will lose track of time now that he is underground. It would be a mercy if he did, but Fili cannot.
The door open and Tilda comes in. She throws herself into her father’s arms, and he holds her tight against his broad chest. Her hands are too cleanly scrubbed, like someone had made sure she would bear no trace of the birthing room once she left it.
“Lord Elrond says that Sigrid is doing well,” Tilda says. “She is strong, and the babe’s heartbeat is strong too. Oin says that Sigrid’s labour will not be as easy as a dwarrowdam’s would be, but he thinks the progress is good.”
Dwalin breathes out harshly, and Thorin relaxes into his chair, but neither Fili nor Bard are any less on edge.
“Da, I must return,” Tilda says. “You have to let me go.”
Bard presses a kiss to his youngest daughter’s forehead, and finally releases her. She smiles briefly at Kili, and then kisses Fili’s cheek.
“From Sigrid,” she says, and her smile is true.
Fili pulls her forehead to his. Now that she is close, he can see that there are unshed tears in her eyes. He doesn’t think they are tears from grief, but he is too much a coward right now to ask her. Instead, he makes himself smile in reply to hers, and hopes that his looks genuines, as her does. He must keep his head. He has promised, and so he must do it.
“Tell her that I love her,” he says, and then Tilda is gone.
It is taking too long. There is nothing to do but wait.
+++
They have put her in the bathing room, because it is the warmest place, and because between her early contractions, Elrond had counseled that she be put into the tub for respite. It is comforting to still be at home. They had discussed the possibility of the infirmary, but Oin had only said that he could get more dwarflings to run his errands for him, and that she must be as much at ease as she could be.
In the beginning, when Sigrid was more mobile, she had walked circles around the tub, leaning on the shoulders of her ladies, or on the arm of Elrond, or Tauriel. She learns the room’s modified layout on her rounds past the the birthing bricks, the pile of linens, and the table where Oin and Elrond have laid out their tools and tinctures. Tilda is too slight to bear her weight, and so had been charged with keeping the linens sorted, ensuring clean ones were at hand and the soiled ones were sent out of the room. Now, as the hours drag on, it takes both elves to guide her steps and keep her steady on the humid stone.
Dis will tolerate nothing short of perfection, and has been dismissing the other dwarrowdams if they begin to look worried about Sigrid’s progress. Tauriel has been designated the new message runner on the grounds that no one in the corridors will stop her for information, though Tilda had taken one message herself when their father arrived. She reported back that both Bard and Fili sent their love, and Sigrid did not ask how they were faring. She is not sure she can spare the effort to care. Gloin’s wife is managing supplies from the infirmary, as well as overseeing the runners and the kitchen staff. Besides Sigrid, it is only Dis, Oin, Elrond and Tilda who remain.
The contractions are coming so close together now that Sigrid does not have time to make it from the bricks to her chair between them. Instead, she slumps in Dis’s grip when the pain lessens, only to be pushed back into her squat when her muscles clench to begin again, and Oin or Elrond take the other place beside her.
Tilda looks awful, which can only mean that Sigrid looks worse, but she tries to speak to her sister when she can, and is glad that when Dis tells stories about dwarf history and legend, her voice is loud enough that both sisters can hear it. Sigrid hopes she will remember the words and the songs, that they will not disappear beneath the waves of pain that wash over her, but she knows that if she asks, Dis will gladly sing them all again. Sigrid and her child will learn dwarven songs together, if all goes well, and Sigrid will make sure the babe knows the tales of Men as well.
“Sigrid, drink this,” Oin says, and Sigrid obediently swallows the few mouthfuls of water infused with whatever herb Elrond has decided it is time for. She can no longer taste them, but she is glad for the cool water in the heat of the room.
Hours ago, each draught made her feel stronger, but now it is like feeding kindling to a dying fire: the flare-up is brief and the flame is quickly used. This one eases the ache in her knees, which is not the chiefest of her pains at the moment, but still one she is glad to be spared of, however momentarily. In Dale, the women do no labour on bricks as the dwarrowdams do, but Oin had felt they were the best option, and Elrond had agreed. Sigrid no longer cares. She only wishes for it to be over.
“Come up again, Sigrid,” Dis tells her, and Sigrid wonders if her heart-mother can sense the way her muscles tense the same way all dwarves sense the stones of the Mountain.
“That’s a good lass,” Oin says, bracing her other shoulder. He continues to talk as her contraction overtakes her.
It is the worst one yet, and Sigrid screams to feel it mute all her other pain. She swoons, and it is only the dwarves that keep her on the bricks. It goes on and on, and her legs fail her completely, leaning against Dis to stop from falling.
“I can see it!” Tilda cries, “Sigrid, I can see the top of the head!”
Sigrid’s eyes clear at her sister’s words. She cannot see, of course, but she does not miss the look that passes between Oin and Elrond when they realize that the babe has crowned while she nearly fainted from the pain of it.
“Fili,” she says. “Please.”
It has taken too long. The babe has crowned, and Sigrid has no strength left with which to push.
+++
The Mountain is too quiet. Fili knows that this isn’t possible. The forges burn and the bellows pump great gusts of air. The hammers still fall, and the work of the Dwarves of Erebor continues unceasing. But it feels to him as though everyone is muted, waiting.
They are no longer speaking. Balin gave up after an hour of smothered conversation, unable to draw Bard or Thorin out. Dwalin left without a word some time ago, and Fili knows that he has gone to the practice arena. He spares a moment’s thought for the health of any who spar against the guard captain this day, and wishes he could seek out the same sort of relief. Instead, he stays where he is, ready if they should need him, though for what he is afraid to even think.
Tauriel brings them news infrequently, the time between her appearances stretching out. She lingers at Kili’s side each time she comes, speaking too low for anyone else to hear, but not even Thorin can miss the way their fingers tangle together as they talk.
Someone, Balin probably, has had Fili’s fiddle brought in. It’s not one of his good ones, nor is it the favoured one that he plays for Sigrid when she asks for a tune in the evenings. It is a fiddle that no one will miss, should Fili grip it too tightly or turn the strings too far. He leaves it where it lies. Any music he might play now would be too full up of worry and nerves. Anxiety does not translate well through from bow to string, and he will not torture himself, much less everyone else, with any noise he might produce.
But it is too quiet. It is too quiet, and he cannot bring himself to play or talk or anything. He only sits, and listens to the stone, and wishes that he could be so unyielding as it appears to be. He knows there are flaws and instabilities in it, but they are deeply buried and carefully controlled. He feels like he will fly apart for lack of anything to do. He starts to recite the stones and precious metals in his head, but it sounds too much like a child’s lesson, too similar to that which he and Kili and learned at Balin’s knee. He tries his lineage instead, but every time he reaches into his memory for a name, the only one he can recall is hers.
Sigrid, Sigrid, Sigrid.
A messenger, not Tauriel, comes into the room.
“My lords,” she says. “My prince, you are called for.”
And then he is running, because he can tell by her face that it is not good news.
+++
“Sigrid, you must push,” Dis tells her, over and over. “We will hold you up. You will not fall. But you must push, now.”
She wants to. It is the strangest feeling because she wants to, but she has nothing left. There is a pressure at her mouth, and she feels a warm drink slide between her lips. This one is different from everything else that Elrond has given her thus far, and it smells wonderful. She feels stronger immediately, and bears down upon the bricks. Dis staggers, caught surprised by the sudden burst of strength, but Elrond was ready for it, and they do not fall.
“What did you give her?” Oin demands.
“Miruvor,” Elrond tells him. “It is a restorative cordial.”
“Why didn’t you give it to her before?” Tilda asks. She has folded and re-folded the receiving blanket so many times that it creases under her fingers.
“Because it is too potent,” Elrond says. “She will push now, but she will not save any of her strength for herself.”
It hovers there for a moment, and then Sigrid bears down again.
“I am sorry, Sigrid,” Elrond says to her. “But if you did not push, we would have lost your both.”
She cannot find the breath to tell him that he has done well, that she is grateful. She can only push and push again, her throat raw from screaming.
“Just one more, Sigrid,” Dis says. “One more.”
She does, and there is a new sound, piercing the haze around Sigrid’s mind. She has never heard it before, and yet now that she does, she knows that it is entirely familiar. Dis pulls her off the bricks to finally rest, and Oin continues to coach her through the lesser pressure of the contractions that still wreak havoc across her belly. She swoons again, and wakes to Oin cutting a thread and Dis wrapping the afterbirth in one of the blankets Tilda had made ready for it. She is exhausted, but her heart is racing and will not calm. She wants only to sleep, to sleep at last, but the noise pulls at her and will not let her drift away.
Then there is a scuffle by the door, and Fili bursts into the room.
+++
Elrond is holding the babe in his arms when Fili throws the bathing room door open. The Elf Lord can see a moment of indecision in the prince’s eyes, whether to go to the baby or to his wife, but Elrond makes the decision for him. With a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, he guides the prince across the stones, and places the baby in his mother’s arms.
The door is crowded, full of dwarves, though Elrond can see where Bard stands behind them.
“Get them out,” he says to Dis and Oin. “Everyone but Tilda and the hound. Tell them all will be well, but get them out.”
Dis wastes no time in throwing her brother, cousins, and son from the suite. Elrond does not imagine they have gone far down the corridor, but at least they are out from underfoot. He and Oin agreed days ago that once the babe was born, Elrond would have full control. Elven healers do not have many births, but they do excel at physicing the gravest of wounds, and since Oin once witnessed such a healing with his own eyes, he knew to concede the point.
Fili has sat down beside Sigrid, uncaring of the mess, and his arms hold hers as she cradles their son. Elrond is not entirely sure she is lucid, but Fili is talking to her, and that will bring her back if she is to come. Tilda has made it as far as the hearthrug, where she is curled up with the hound. Elrond can tell she is crying, but he cannot offer her comfort yet, so he minds his tongue.
“Fili,” he says instead. “We must get them to a better place to rest.”
Fili lifts his wife and son as though they weigh nothing at all, and carries them to bed. He kicks off his boots and crawls in with them.
“Sigrid,” he says. “Love, I need you to wake up now.”
The baby isn’t crying anymore, wrapped and warmed as he is. He’ll need to eat soon, Fili recalls. He notices blood on the sheets, but when he would have raised the alarm, Elrond waved him off.
“She will heal,” the elf says. “Oin will change the dressing when she is stronger.”
Sigrid stirs against him, her own arms still around the baby. Her heart beat is slowing down, becoming less frantic against her ribs. He measures it against his own, and finds that she is resting softer now.
“Barin,” she says, so quietly that he can scarcely hear her, but Elrond smiles.
“Yes,” says Fili. “Hail Prince Under the Mountain.”
+++
The party lasts for nearly a week. Men and women come up from Dale to join the celebrations, and the mining is stopped for three whole days. Sigrid makes only the briefest of appearances, pale and wan on Fili’s arm as he holds their son up before the adoring crowds with the other, but she is stronger every day, and Oin tells them that she will be well enough to return to the stillroom before much longer.
Elrond takes his leave the day the miners return to work. He names Sigrid and Oin elf-friends before he goes, and Kili and Tauriel accompany him as far as the forest eaves. Even with Elrond gone, there is a steady parade of dwarves and other visitors through Fili’s receiving rooms to wish them well and see the baby closer up. He is not at all ashamed to use Sigrid’s fatigue as an excuse to take their leave early, and he can see that she does not mind either, though perhaps he has exaggerated how tired she is.
The baby sleeps in the nursery, where the hound has taken up permanent residence as well. A herd dog, Lord Elrond had said, and it seems the creature has indeed found his herd. Between that guardian and the dwarrowdam who sits by the fire, the babe is secure for the night.
At last, they are alone.
“There will be no more badgers,” Oin had said. “Even if Sigrid could bear another, I don’t think she should.”
They both know better than to protest. Sigrid had felt the miruvor leaving her, and Fili had watched it happen. One dwarfling will be enough for them.
“Will you play?” she asks, and he goes for his fiddle.
She sits in the chair by the fire, as she had done in those early weeks before they knew the way of being married, the way of one another, but the girl who had come to the Mountain is long gone. In her place is the Lady of Dwarves, the Lady of Erebor, his Sigrid, his own, and he would not trade her for anything. He plays a lullabye, and she smiles at him with such affection that he thinks his heart may burst of it. When she falls asleep, he puts the fiddle away, and then, just as carefully, he takes her to bed.
finis
+++
Gravity_Not_Included, December 31, 2014
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Date: 2015-01-01 12:32 am (UTC)Whew! That was so suspenseful, but I knew you'd write a gentle, happy ending. What a marvelous, creative story.
Happy New Year!
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Date: 2015-01-01 04:56 pm (UTC)Happy New Year!
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Date: 2015-01-01 12:58 am (UTC)Elrond to the rescue! Though Oin seemed to be doing pretty well there, all things considered. Still, always useful to have an elf-man-lord-healer around.
:D I'm glad you hit your desired deadline.
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Date: 2015-01-01 04:58 pm (UTC)And yes, I had the pair of healers figured out pretty early on (Oin would have been able to save the baby, Elrond would have been able to save Sigrid...together THE WORLD!).
DEADLINE, UGH. And I can't even take today off because I am travelling tomorrow!
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Date: 2015-01-01 07:53 pm (UTC)Good luck!
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Date: 2015-01-01 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-01 04:59 pm (UTC)Bilbo-the-Hound. I had a hunch that would go over well. ;)
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Date: 2015-01-01 10:36 pm (UTC)