The healers return before long, to take away Faramir and Elboron both, to scold Eowyn into finishing her meal and taking more rest, but her heart is a bit lighter this time as she submits.
The next two weeks pass in a haze. She remains kept largely to her bed for the greater part of it--much to her dislike, but when she does try to stand she is able to take only a few halting steps, and those with assistance. It crosses her mind more than once that she has had a nearer escape than the healers have admitted, if she lost so much blood as to leave her thus weakened.
The thought only makes her all the more determined. Every day she tests herself, walks a little further, a little more unaided. It is slow, faltering progress, but progress all the same.
Learning to mother Elboron is made of the same uncertain progress. She can do little to take an active part, while in the healers' care. He is brought to her whenever she asks, whenever possible, and she feeds him as she may, or sometimes simply holds him as he sleeps, his fingers wrapped hard around her thumb. He still does not look like either herself or Faramir, to her eyes, aside from his dark swatch of hair; he looks only like himself. Like her, he mostly eats and sleeps just now, a thought that makes her smile. Very well; they will both take the time they need.
Gradually her milk flows stronger. Gradually her steps grow longer. Gradually Elboron spends more time awake, looking around him, curious about the world.
They both grow stronger, until a day a few weeks later when Eowyn is again able to walk to the orchard of her own accord. Still slower, and not alone, but still under her own power, and Faramir's company and a few of his White Company to keep a discreet guard are no hardship to bear. The days have grown cold once more, and winter approaches.
But they are all wrapped warmly, the sun is shining through a break in the branches, and the trees provide protection from the wind. She and Faramir rest on a blanket on the ground with the remnants of a small picnic between them, Elboron lying on his back and staring up at them with the curious, faintly dubious expression babies have. They make faces, and he tries to imitate them, batting his fists restlessly at the air; and Eowyn laughs, the sound as strong as old, ringing merrily through the clearing.
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timeasmymeasure
/makes something up, maybe a month after the birth
Date: 2019-05-08 10:52 am (UTC)The next two weeks pass in a haze. She remains kept largely to her bed for the greater part of it--much to her dislike, but when she does try to stand she is able to take only a few halting steps, and those with assistance. It crosses her mind more than once that she has had a nearer escape than the healers have admitted, if she lost so much blood as to leave her thus weakened.
The thought only makes her all the more determined. Every day she tests herself, walks a little further, a little more unaided. It is slow, faltering progress, but progress all the same.
Learning to mother Elboron is made of the same uncertain progress. She can do little to take an active part, while in the healers' care. He is brought to her whenever she asks, whenever possible, and she feeds him as she may, or sometimes simply holds him as he sleeps, his fingers wrapped hard around her thumb. He still does not look like either herself or Faramir, to her eyes, aside from his dark swatch of hair; he looks only like himself. Like her, he mostly eats and sleeps just now, a thought that makes her smile. Very well; they will both take the time they need.
Gradually her milk flows stronger. Gradually her steps grow longer. Gradually Elboron spends more time awake, looking around him, curious about the world.
They both grow stronger, until a day a few weeks later when Eowyn is again able to walk to the orchard of her own accord. Still slower, and not alone, but still under her own power, and Faramir's company and a few of his White Company to keep a discreet guard are no hardship to bear. The days have grown cold once more, and winter approaches.
But they are all wrapped warmly, the sun is shining through a break in the branches, and the trees provide protection from the wind. She and Faramir rest on a blanket on the ground with the remnants of a small picnic between them, Elboron lying on his back and staring up at them with the curious, faintly dubious expression babies have. They make faces, and he tries to imitate them, batting his fists restlessly at the air; and Eowyn laughs, the sound as strong as old, ringing merrily through the clearing.