faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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.

He's distracted still, but he looks down and his eyes soften.

"My son? Hello, little one."

He breathes, captivated immediately.

The baby has a red, scrunched face, as babies do, but has been cleaned himself by someone and wrapped in warm, fine wool. As Faramir holds him he sleepily opens his eyes. Blue, as any babe's are, but clear and surprisingly focused as he looks up at his father.

Then he yawns and mewls again, his eyes closing.

Faramir's eyes are gentle as he touches his son's face, softly tracing his features.

"You have given your mother a hard time of it, little one. I hope she will be well."

The baby does not react, but the attendant smiles at them both, for this is the part of her work that makes the rest worthwhile. "I do not think you need fear," she says quietly. There is hustle in the background, as various people clean the bloody rushes and cloth and set the room to rights. "We are all of us familiar with the White Lady's determination. And her courage!"

She looks over her shoulder at someone, then turns back, smiling. "I think the lady will be in your bedchamber by now, if you would like to see her and verify for yourself that she is well. And then you should sleep also, my lord Prince! It has been a long night."

"Tis true, her courage is unquestionable."

He looks up to smile wearily at her. I never thanked you, but I do so now, for letting me be there for her, little as I could do."

"I do not think your contribution was so small." She smiles kindly. "And I know Lady Eowyn was most glad to have you join her. I thank you for easing our burden. Come; likely she sleeps, and should, for she has great need of rest after her efforts. But your son should greet his naneth."

He yawns himself, and blinks. "Your pardon - I had not felt my own weariness until this moment. You are certain it is alright to disturb her?"

"Let us go and see, and then we may judge," she says. Behind them Elana gives instructions to Eowyn's ladies--how long she should remain abed, what she should eat, what signs to watch for--so they are all able to leave without difficulty. The wet-nurse follows, taking the baby from Faramir with a smiling comment about how he's tired enough that it is a wonder he is yet standing.

When they do reach Faramir and Eowyn's rooms, she is there, deeply asleep. She is still too pale, but her breathing is steady. Another healer sits nearby, sewing something to keep her hands busy, and smiles she looks up at them. "Do not wake her," she says quietly. "There is a camp bed set up for you in the adjoining room, my lord, but we think it best that she sleep alone for now. If you wish I will promise to call for you when she wakes."

He lets his son go reluctantly with a wry comment that he is not the one who has been striving these last hours!

His eyes are soft as he looks on his wife and he nods, stealing close enough to brush a soft kiss to her brow in thanks before retreating.

Eowyn does not stir, then or for some time. It is hours later before she wakes, and when she does it is slow and difficult, for she is wearied beyond anything she has experienced since her battle on the Pelennor. Though it is different; there is not the fearsome, deathly numbing cold she remembers from that, only a sense of exhaustion. As always when waking now she places a hand to her abdomen, as though to check on the babe within--and then she remembers.

It takes effort to sit up, and as soon as she makes the attempt there is a healer's apprentice there to aid her, and to give all the answers Eowyn instantly demands, including the location of her husband and her child, and their state of well-being. She asks next that both be brought to her, that she may see for herself. To fetch Faramir is but a matter of seconds, since he sleeps nearby. Their child is only a few rooms away, but still Eowyn's husband arrives first. She looks up as soon as she hears his footsteps. She is still pale, and resting on many pillows, but otherwise looks herself.

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.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

/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)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(la la la bsing la la)

Re: (la la la bsing la la)

timeskip