#parent-child

Éomer grunted in response and his knee stilled, but the anxious energy merely transferred to his hands instead. He began to chew a fingernail, stopping only to turn every so often and look at the closed door at the far end of the room, staring intensely as though he could will it to open if he simply watched it closely enough.

“It is not unusual for these things to take many hours,” Elfhelm said, reading the thought behind Éomer’s repeated looks. “You just have to be patient and try not to think too hard about what may be happening in there right now. Put that part out of your mind and focus your thoughts instead on how happy you will be when this is over.”

Just at that moment, another wail rang out, starting as a sharp, loud cry and fading into a desperate, guttural sob. All color drained from Éomer’s face.

“I don’t know how you expect me to ignore that!” He sputtered out the last word, flinging a hand in the direction of the cries. “Surely something is going horribly wrong, and instead of helping I’m just sitting here, utterly useless. It is intolerable.”

He stood to rush from the room, but Elfhelm rose with him and blocked his path with a firm palm on his chest. 

“I understand how you’re feeling. Believe me, I do. I’ve been through this before, you know. But as distressing as it is, what you’re hearing is normal. This is a painful business. And the people who are already in that room know far more than you do about how to handle it. Bryttalif is an expert. She will let you know if and when you need to be in there.”

Éomer sank back down into his chair, elbows on his knees with his eyes to the ground and his fingers laced through his hair behind his head. He took several deep breaths, blowing out each exhalation through gritted teeth. “It does not seem fair,” he murmured. “Maybe I should be glad to have the easy part, but I would take her pain from her in an instant if I could.”

Elfhelm gripped his shoulder. “I know you would.” 

They sat in silence for a time, each lost in his own thoughts, until the sound of a turning doorknob was finally heard and both men rocketed to their feet. With his heart in his throat, Éomer watched Bryttalif step into the room, wearing a blood-stained apron and wiping her hands with a dampened towel. She dropped into a brief curtsy before raising her eyes to speak, and Éomer felt as though he lived several lifetimes in those final few seconds of waiting. 

“Éomer King, it is my honor to tell you that you have a beautiful baby girl.” She smiled broadly. “The queen is recovering, and she and your daughter are waiting to see you now.”

“A daughter?” Éomer’s face transformed in an instant, glowing with happiness, relief, and a thousand other feelings he could not have articulated. “I have a daughter!” He turned to Elfhelm and threw himself into the older man’s arms, burying his face in Elfhelm’s shoulder to hide his tears. They stood quietly together for several long moments before Éomer broke away and bounded joyfully over to Bryttalif, lifting her up and spinning her around as she laughed and blushed. 

Elfhelm watched Éomer’s elation with bemused pride before once again putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Don’t waste your time out here with us, my boy. Get in there and see your wife and child! And tell Mereliss I love her and will be waiting here if she needs me.”

Éomer nodded and hurried off behind Bryttalif, back on her feet and headed into the bedchamber next door.  After showing him in, the midwife and her assistant quietly excused themselves to allow the new family a moment of privacy. 

From the doorway, Éomer observed his wife, her hair gathered in a sloppy bun and a slight sheen of sweat still on her forehead but radiant with exhausted triumph. In her arms was the baby she had carried and delivered for him, swaddled already in a warm blanket against the drafty coolness of the chamber. He felt overwhelmed by love–for Mereliss, for their baby, for Elfhelm and Bryttalif, for anyone and everything in the world that had brought him to this moment of pure happiness.

He came to Mereliss’s side and gently tucked some loose tresses behind her ear. She looked up at the touch and leaned her cheek into his palm with a smile.

“I named her Sigewyn. I hope you approve.”

Sigewyn. Joyful victory. He could not have imagined a better choice. 

“It is perfect, just as you are perfect and she is perfect and my life right now is perfect.”

Mereliss patted the bed next to her. “Would you like to hold your daughter?” 

He slowly lowered himself to the bed, feeling abruptly nervous, almost bashful. When he 

had carefully lifted Sigewyn from Mereliss’s chest and laid her awkwardly in the crook of his arm, he looked back at his wife. “I…is this…am I doing this right?”

She beamed at him. “You look wonderful together.”

With Sigewyn in his arms, he was immediately more aware of his own body. His imposing strength and size presented a stark contrast to the impossibly tiny, delicate infant that was now nestled against his chest, whose head fit easily into the palm of his rough hand. And though he had a natural and graceful agility in his ordinary life, while brandishing a sword or swinging in and out of a saddle, he felt suddenly clumsy and tentative as though the simplest movement on his part could hurt or disturb this most precious of fragile things. He kept motionless, even slowing his breathing to a slow, shallow pace, but his eyes actively soaked in every detail, and he was instantly besotted with all that he saw, from her rounded little cheeks to the dusting of golden hair on her head and her large hazel eyes that matched his own. Contented tears slipped from his chin and onto the blanket that protected his newest, greatest treasure.

Mereliss reached up to brush a tear from his cheek, and he laughed a little at himself as he sniffled. “Look at me, head over heels already. She’s just like her mother—it took less than an instant for her to fully own my heart.” 

Mereliss smiled. “I am happy to share it with her.”

He thought quietly for a moment before inhaling a long, shaky breath and blowing it out again slowly, trying to master his feelings. “I wish that my parents could see her.” It came out almost as a whisper.

“Me too.” She leaned over to kiss his shoulder. “But a part of them lives on in her now. She will carry on their legacy.”

He nodded and looked back down at Sigewyn. She would, in fact, grow up to have Éomund’s indomitable courage and Théodwyn’s infectious laugh, just as she would be tenacious like Éowyn and quick-witted like Mereliss. She would have Éomer’s own easy ability to make friends, and Elfhelm’s unflagging optimism.  She would become a strong and capable woman, the first to inherit the throne of Rohan and rule as queen in her own right. But none of that mattered now, not to him. There was nothing she needed to do, no way that she had to look or think or act, in order to earn his love.