faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

She has been less patient with him on other occasions, snapping and scowling despite her best efforts. She never forgets that all this close attention comes from love and fear rather than a lack of belief in her abilities; Faramir has lost all his near family, and it is not surprising that he should fear to lose her and the babe also. She often reminds herself of this. But sometimes through gritted teeth.

Still, he obeys her for the rest of the day, and for all that the meek "yes, dear" makes her want to throw something at him she is calm enough when they meet later, and lets him pull out a chair for her to sit. Her back is aching even more than it has been wont to of late, and she cannot begrudge that extra help.

"Always," she sighs, resting a hand on her distended belly. It is an old joke by now, though her appetite has calmed somewhat during this last trimester. Nearly at the end of the race, and the finish line cannot come soon enough for Eowyn.

"And is our little one hungry too?" He offers dryly, helping the maid to set up their meal and then dismissing her with thanks.

"At least the nausea of the early days has passed."

"Always," she agrees, a little rueful. She strokes her belly. Truthfully she is not very hungry at the moment, between an all-over ache, and tiredness, and the particular pain in her lower back. But she knows better than to miss a meal. There were one or two times early on in her pregnancy when she fainted from not taking her hunger pangs seriously enough. Which no doubt contributed to Faramir's tendency to hover. She has no desire to repeat the experience.

But her breathing is easier today, which helps, and she takes a long drink of cool, clear water. No more alcohol, not for the past months; it makes the baby kick too much, and she is uncomfortable enough as it is. Also, he kicks enough as it is, every few minutes. "The nausea, I do not miss at all. But I do wonder if I am carrying a bucking foal rather than a baby." Eowyn winces at another, stronger one.

"Must be a boy." He says wryly. "And so my first words to him will be to scold for being so inconsiderate to his mother!"

He keeps to water as well, since she cannot drink, and he offers her first serve, also. He's gotten used to finishing any leftovers since her appetite is not as good as it was.

"I doubt that," she murmurs, then winces at another throb of pain in her lower back. How he the babe even able to aim there? "But even so, I cannot blame him for his impatience. So too would I be, in his place."

She takes a few bites, but they are slow and distracted, and she looks uncomfortable.

"Perhaps my second or third word." He acknowledges, and looks concerned.

"Should I massage your back, love?"

Eowyn glares at him. "You should tend to your meal, and--"

She gasps mid-sentence, abandoning the rebuke. This time the pain in her back is so great that she forgets all else for a moment. When it passes she is pale and clutching the edge of the table, breathing hard.

"Eowyn!" He gasps, for although she has told him not to fuss, this is highly irregular.

"Eowyn, Eowyn, what's happened?"

Eowyn does not, at first, even hear him, much less answer. She is too distracted, first in those first few moments of relief from pain, and next in taking stock. She has had contractions off and on for the past few days, but irregular ones, and the midwives judged them to be false labor rather than true. Which is still a good sign, one that means the babe will be due in the next few days, but while they were irregular and light they told her to pay them no mind, and so she has not.

This is different. It does not feel like a contraction, not such as the others were. It starts at the base of her spine and rolls forward. Is that right? None of the descriptions she was given about labor sounded like this...

Another one begins even as she thinks it. It lasts several seconds, and at the end she is once again left gasping and shaky. "I think--" she manages, her mouth dry. She swallows, and tries again. "You should send for Elana."

The foremost of the midwives among the healers, a stout woman who brooks no nonsense. She and Eowyn have gotten along well, both of them being practical-minded and not inclined to put up with foolishness. Whether this is the babe coming or something else, she will know.

Edited 2019-03-04 22:49 (UTC)

He hovers, hands wringing uselessly, and then she speaks and he pales and nods.

"Now? But... early... going!"

He turns and hurries to the door, calling frantically and giving instructions to one of the servants to hurry before coming back to her side.

"What ... what do you need?"

She seizes his hand and brings it to her forehead, holding it hard in both of hers as though to draw some strength or support from it, some bulwark to put between herself and the strange waves of pain. "I do not--"

There is another wave, and she grits her teeth. She does not scream because she is a shieldmaiden and daughter of Rohan. It is not that the pain is greater than other hurts she has experienced, though it is significant; it is that it is different, and oddly located.

And also it is that though she has not confided it to Faramir for not wanting to increase his own worry, she is afraid of this. To fight a battle, that takes one kind of courage. To ensure, that takes another, and for Eowyn it is much harder. She does not like not knowing what to expect, and there is so much at stake.

So she holds Faramir's hand, wincing and clamping it hard as another wave of pain rolls forward, gasping for breath when it passes. "Just...wait with me. Please."

(ooc: probably both?)

"Always." He assures her, wincing as her grip crushes his but not protesting.

Outside, frantic feet are running, as he holds her, and then at last, the calm tones of the midwife, who comes in and immediately takes charge, chasing Faramir out to get hot water while she helps Eowyn to the birthing stool and out of her gowns so she can examine her.

After that frantic beginning, nothing happens for a long while.

Eowyn has to laugh a little when Faramir is sent to fetch hot water. She has used that tactic herself--it sends the over-anxious father away while making him feel he is doing something useful. There is a tale in the healer's hall of a father-to-be who was sent to chop wood for a fire, and who kept at it for a solid two hours in his distraction. Hopefully Faramir will fare better, but for now she must leave his care to others, for she has her own work to attend. No doubt when he returns they will find some other way to keep him busy.

For once, Eowyn is entirely biddable and obedient. She sits and is examined most intimately. She drinks the tea she is given willingly and it dulls the pain a little. She walks. She kneels, or sits. Sometimes she rests. She gasps and winces and squeezes the hand of whoever is holding her fingers at any given moment. She misses Faramir, and also jests about him with the women, because one of the best ways to cope with this pain that no man will ever experience is to blame him for it.

There is fear deep down under everything, and she overrules it.

And hours pass, and hours more, until the night is half over, and Elana is beginning to look concerned, and Eowyn is near to dropping with exhaustion and impatience.

Faramir returns, of course, and is sent off again and again on small chores. But even he knows the day drags on.

He won't barge in where he might cause trouble, but more than not, his face is seen peeking around the door as he delivers whatever items he has been sent for this time.

Faramir might try to peek around the door; but Elana is of the opinion that men have no place in a birthing room and would only get underfoot, and has told her assistants and even Faramir's own guards to keep him out. The last thing the Lady needs is a fretful distraction lurking, the more so as she might hurt his feelings. Eowyn is fretful herself, and snappish. Elana and her women are impervious to any barbed remarks, knowing them to be nothing personal.

And more time passes, with Faramir having nothing to look at but a closed door. One of the women comes out every few hours on one pretext or another and, younger and more sympathetic, makes a point of seeking out her lord and telling him how things go on. And then how they don't go on. It is all taking longer than it should, and if that is uncommon still it is not dangerous, she says.

Her voice is firm as she says it but there is concern in her eyes, and her lip is chapped from where she has bitten at it.

When it is near dawn and no one has been seen for a few hours, not even the kindly attendant, there is suddenly a scream. And then, a few seconds later, another, and the sounds of activity in the room. And then a third.

The scream brings him to his feet from where he had been sitting outside, praying.

"Eowyn! Eowyn! Damnit, let me see her! EOWYN!"

Healer's orders or no, no one is inclined to stand in the way the normally gentle Prince of Ithilien when he looks like that. The door opens.

Éowyn is balanced on the birthing stool, supported by two women. Her hair is pulled back, her face red and sweaty, and every inch of her is drawn with pain and exhaustion. But her eyes burn fiercely, with an almost enraged determination that would be familiar to anyone who ever saw her on a battlefield. Elana kneels before her, on layers of spread cloth. Whatever orders or encouragement she is giving, Éowyn doesn't hear. She gasps, closes her eyes and hisses, then screams again, with effort and pain and a sort of fury.

One of the women holding her is the one who has spoken to Faramir off and on in the evening, and when she sees him in the doorway she immediately gestures for him to come take her place.

"Eowyn." He breathes, and obediently comes to take the lady's place by her side, not wanting to disrupt her concerts overly.

"I am here, beloved." He murmurs. "I know you can do this."

Eowyn did not notice when he entered the room, and truthfully she does not hear what he says, not the specific words. But she recognizes his body as soon as it's supporting hers, and she leans against him at once, closing her eyes for a minute as she gasps for breath and wraps an arm back around his neck. The other woman who was helping her moves, and they all shift so it is Faramir alone kneeling behind his wife as she rests her weight back against him.

It is a comfort, the first she has felt in what seems like days: Faramir's warmth, his strength at her back, his voice soothing in her ear. For a few breathe she simply rests against him, relieved to have him with her.

Then another contraction begins, and she grits her teeth as Elana tells her to push. Her shout is a battle cry.

He supports her and keeps his voice low so as not to disrupt her concentration, focused on bracing her, comforted by her obvious determination.

Things progress, with Elana coaxing and ordering from below, and Faramir supporting and acting as a bulwark from behind, and Eowyn braces herself between them. It is a battle as fierce as any she has ever waged. She does not hear when Elana announces she can see the crown, does not hear the other attendants scurry for cloth and water, does not even hear Faramir's encouragement right in her ears. There is only blood thundering like hooves through her veins, and strain that threatens to split her in two. But she is Eowyn of Rohan and Ithilien and she does not surrender.

A few more tremendous pushes that seem to take all her strength, and she feels he movement, the passing, and as though from a far distance hears a cry. Her body is still breaking apart, and she grits her teeth and rides it through--the afterbirth, that is what this is, she is not yet done--so she keeps going, keeps pushing, but then she is abruptly cold and hears someone say something about blood, but she is dark and cold. For one heartstopping moment she fears to hear the laughter of the Witch-king--but no, there is still that warmth at her back, holding her even though she has no warmth of her own, and that is what she holds onto as she slides into unconsciousness. Faramir.

Faramir holds her steady, though his hands want to shake, voice a meaningless, comforting drone of nonsense encouragement that he keeps up despite wanting to scream.

There is no enemy here to fight, only his wife in his arms doing her own battle.

And then....and then a babe, and he hears his child's first cry, but then, oh then, the blood in his veins turns to ice at the worried chatter and the way Eowyn slumps in his arms.

"Eowyn!" He calls her frantically, look desperately at the midwife.

"What's wrong? Why is she still bleeding?"

"Hold her!" After that order Elana completely ignores Faramir; she has her hands full, one massaging Eowyn's abdomen and the other further down, doing something he can't see from his vantage point. One of the assistants hands her cloths, sponges, whatever she calls for.

After an eternity, the bleeding slows, mostly stops, and Elana sags with relief and exhaustion. She raises her forearm and wipes it against her sweaty forehead, and it leaves a smear of blood on her skin. "She will live," she says, blunt as ever, finally looking up at the man to whom she technically owes fealty for all that she speaks to him as a subordinate. "Such bleeding happens sometimes, particularly after a long and difficult birth. But the Lady is young and strong; I do not think you need fear for her recovery."

So long as Eowyn does not take an infection, Elana does not say--that fate is out of their hands, though she will leave instruction for some things that may help avoid it with all who will attend the lady. There are others in the room now, including some of Eowyn's own ladies of the house, who attempt to pry Faramir from Eowyn that they may clean her and move her to a bed.

"My lord Prince--" This voice is more quiet, the woman who has spoken with him off and on through the evening. Her hand is gentle on his shoulder as she gestures to the corner, where a wet-nurse sits holding a small bundle, now quiet. "Do you not wish to greet your son?"

He does as ordered, pale and pressing desperate begging prayers to her skin. Despite all assurances he is extremely reluctant to be parted from her, terrified of letting go.

It takes a little for the words to penetrate, and he turns dazedly.

"Your pardon?"

She smiles, looking relieved herself. They have worked and waited all through the night, and all are in need of rest. But all their efforts were for this. She leads Faramir over to the side, where the wet-nurse has been tending the new heir of Ithilien.

Carefully the wet-nurse disengages the infant, who mewls a little at the loss of milk but otherwise doesn't protest. He too, it seems, has had a long night.

Then she hands the babe to Faramir, who at last holds his son in his arms.

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time to make Faramir panic. *rubs hands and cackles*

loooooooooooooooool

He's had a blissful time of it since they married. They need *some* difficulty.

true!

honestly I don't know if he should be sent away or stick around! Some of both? Gonna take a while.

Re: honestly I don't know if he should be sent away or stick around! Some of both? Gonna take a whil

Definitely both.

Re: Definitely both.

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/spends too much time reading about medieval childbirth

Re: /spends too much time reading about medieval childbirth

(please forgive me this thread I wanted some stress for them)

Re: (please forgive me this thread I wanted some stress for them)

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time to make Faramir panic. rubs hands and cackles

He's had a blissful time of it since they married. They need some difficulty.