Chapter Text
The stench of blood. The thick, metallic, organic heat, in his Halls. The iron grip he held over himself wavered in the face of this. But there was no enemy to fight and no sanctuary to flee to. Not when the blood came from his own wife's endlessly contorting form, tearing itself apart to bring their child into the world.
For hours, his wife had struggled; his wilful, courageous love battling her own muscles into submission. Hours – but truly Thranduil had no notion of the length of time. No Sun warmed their faces, no nightly noises filtered through the thick rock walls of this part of their fortress home. He timed the seconds in his wife's harsh pants, the minutes in her groans.
“Thranduil, it burns.” Her gritted teeth contorted the syllables into hisses. Her forehead was damp as it came to rest upon his shoulder.
“That is a good sign.” Thranduil turned towards the thêl nestad, whose methodical instructions had calmed the labouring she-elf more effectively than his own supplications. “It means it is nearly time. You will meet your heir soon, my King.”
Against his side, his wife's shoulders pulled back, a new determination preparing. “You amaze me,” he murmured to the she-elf who had won his heart, so many centuries ago. She had spent so long trying the mask the pain thundering through her bulging body, but the involuntary sounds ripped from her just grew in number and volume, and her grasping and writhing pulled at the rustling sheets. For hours upon end.
And then, at last, a gush and a grunt louder than the rest, desperate puffing for air, and... “Why are you weeping?” Thranduil could not help but ask, the question torn from him in fear.
Sobs had taken over his wife's body, sobs she could not speak through, and no one was talking to him. The thêl nestad was walking away, and his wife was crying. He could sense no new life come into the room, and he was frozen, reliant upon others for information, clarity.
Towelling on skin, vigorously rubbed. Echoing taps on flesh, hard slaps. And a thin squall of protest. Relief so strong its rush raised goosebumps.
“You did it,” Thranduil breathed the words. He wanted to hold her to him, press kisses to her brow, worship her as the miracle in his life she surely was. But he did not know how hurt the effort had left her, and he would not cause her more pain. So he stayed motionless, until she slipped her hand into his.
“I am fine, Thranduil.” She knew. Of course she knew. The scent of her blood was thick enough to taste, and he wanted to steal her back to their rooms away from it, and she had known that. He was glad she had thought to birth away from their most personal place. It would have haunted him for weeks.
“As is your Prince.” The thêl nestad returned, a quietly protesting bundle in her arms.
“A Prince. We have a son.” The Elven King, assured now that the movement would not harm her further, brushed his fingers across his wife's forehead, clearing her face of errant hair, before claiming the softest of kisses from cracked, bitten lips. How many moans had she hidden behind her teeth, as if he could not hear how her breathing strained?
“Would you hold him?”
Any hesitation, any fear, swept away beneath the desire to be close to his child. He held out his arms, and a surprising weight was tucked into them. His son. His son. Ion tín. “Mae govannen, penneth. I have been waiting for you.”
Thranduil kept half an ear on the thêl nestad, who was tending to his wife. Water sopped gently against the sides of a wooden bucket. Careful, oh so careful, he traced the new, damp skin of his son's face, exploring the features he would never gaze upon with featherlight touches.
“Sit with me,” came his wife's request. “Let me see him.” She had not moved from the bed's centre. There was room for Thranduil to perch, to reveal the being she had brought forth. “Fîn chín. Hind chín,” she whispered to him. “If he had not just come from me – something I can hardly forget – I would hardly believe he had a touch of me at all.”
“Do not curse the boy so,” Thranduil teased. He heard the soft wool the elfling had been wrapped in moved aside by her fingers, the stroke of skin against skin.
“All ten fingers and all ten toes. Oh, he has the smallest fingernails.” Her voice lowered again, her nose coming to Thranduil's ear. “Relax. You do not have to strain to hear each breath. They will still be drawn in and blown out a millennia hence.”
Thranduil had not even realised he had been doing so, until he released the tension it caused. But she had known. Of course she had. “I have to tell the court.” He made to pass the child to his wife, for he did not want to take his first steps with that precious load in his arms before others for the first time. It was a new weight, and so delicate.
“Dartho. Five minutes. We have a lifetime to be the Royal family. For five minutes, let us just be us.”
“Leave us,” Thranduil instructed the thêl nestad. “If my wife is tended to, we will have five minutes alone.”
“Trass ú. I am fine.” She was smiling as she spoke. Thranduil had always loved that sound. “Just tired.”
They sat together, quiet, content, and Thranduil found himself counting each of his son's breaths once more, despite his wife's scolding. Each a little miracle. Air huffed in and out a tiny, perfect pair of lungs, the blood pulsed through, drawn by a strong heart.
So focused on the infant's breaths was he that he did not realise his wife's had ceased. He did not see her eyes close.
Translations:
thêl nestad -“Healing sister”
Ion t í n - “His son”
Mae govannen, penneth - “Welcome, little one”
Fîn c hí n . Hind c hí n - “Your hair. Your eyes.”
Dartho - “Wait.”
Trass ú - “Worry not.”