Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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A Little Light

Content warning: pregnancy/childbirth. Nothing graphic, but if it's not your jam, skip to the end so you can get your answer about the baby. Searching on 'beautiful' should do it.

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Curufinwë smiled at the mid-summer sun. The year had passed surprisingly peacefully.

The first few months he and Celeborn had been able to occupy themselves in building the house that would be their winter shelter. He had learned much of Sindarin methods of construction, and suspected he could use what Celeborn had taught him to improve the shelters in the outlying marches of Himlad. He was particularly intrigued by the ingenious stoves that minimized use of fuel while maximizing heat.

Artanis had needed those weeks simply to come to terms with what was happening. While she had been useful and nearly her normal self by times, there had been just as many days when she was so introspective that she hardly moved save when Curufinwë or Celeborn insisted on it. Fortunately, as the days grew shorter, she had found some semblance of balance. If she was less enthusiastic than most new mothers, she was at least fully engaged in the world again.

Autumn had seen all three of them putting up as much food as they could against winter – and he and Celeborn trying to convince Artanis that she should rest and let them do more of the work. They hadn’t succeeded as often as they would have liked, but they had prevailed more often than Curufinwë would have predicted. (It had occurred to him that Artanis might be learning there were some rules there was no getting around, no matter how she behaved. The process of growing her son and the energy it required from her was no different for her than it was for any other nis.)

They’d smoked, dried, and potted meat and fish, and dried or stored produce and wild grain. Celeborn had planted a few things he said could be grown through the winter – mainly root vegetables, but a few greens as well – in suitably sheltered spots. Artë had sung to them, coaxing them to grow somewhat faster than usual while the weather was still good. Curufin had chopped wood and stacked it at the ready for their heating and cooking needs.

Once the true cold came, they spent much of their time inside. Curufin taught Celeborn a few strategy games, and they used the games and song to while away the long weeks, keeping careful eyes on their provisions to ensure that while Artanis ate as she should, there was also no risk that the food would run out before the weather warmed.

By spring, Artanis had all but given up arguing the need for her to both rest and eat more than usual. With the return of the sun, and isolated as they were, life had been almost idyllic. They foraged or fished at need, and the days slid by without incident.

Things had gone so smoothly that Curufinwë had begun to believe against his own initial misgivings that they would actually get away with his mad scheme. For now, at least – he seriously doubted the ruse would hold up against their elders should her parents or his ever encounter the child, and he wasn’t too sure their uncle Nolofinwë wouldn’t see through it either. (Indis would certainly spot the truth at once if she came face to face with the child. Fortunately, the only way Curufinwë could imagine that happening was if the boy was permitted to make the journey to Aman.)

Then summer returned, and Artanis entered the most awkward stage of pregnancy. She complained often and at length that her entire body felt ungainly, bigger than she was used to, and above all – and this seemed specific to her, for Tyelpë had been born in summer as well yet Silmë had made no such complaints – that it was too hot.

It probably didn’t help that the house had been built with winter in mind.

“This is entirely your fault,” Artanis pointed out crankily, not for the first time that day or even that week.

“Indeed,” Curufinwë agreed. “It is indisputably my fault for insisting that we put up a small house in a Noldorin style rather than shelter you in a tent or on a talan for the duration of your pregnancy. It is also my fault for building with the chill of winter in mind rather than the warmth of summer. And while we’re at it, I admit it is also my fault we did not put a window in the roof that you might see the stars at night.”

He and Celeborn had had a spirited back and forth the previous summer about what exactly the building should look like. (To their mutual surprise, Artanis had largely left them to it, weighing in only on the occasional point she felt strongly about.) It had ended with Curufinwë bowing to Celeborn’s greater experience of building for conditions in Beleriand but adding a few improvements of his own to the basic design. It had certainly made winter more bearable – and more importantly to his mind, ensured that Artanis was not troubled by any reminders of the cold on the Ice. It had been tighter quarters than she was accustomed to, but comfortable enough.

The lack of window in the roof was a recent complaint, for she could no longer bear to sleep on the ground, which meant sleeping inside, yet she wanted to see the stars.

“Stop humoring me!” she snapped.

“Beloved,” Celeborn said mildly, “you have reached your fifty-first week. What else is he to do but humor you? It is agreed by elves of good sense everywhere, probably in your Aman too, that a father at this stage of his child’s life is to blame for any and all irritation or discomfort to the child’s mother.”

“You are no better!” she sniffed. “I am going to swim.”

Curufinwë managed not to laugh until she was out of earshot – he still had hopes of begetting another child should he ever be reunited with his wife, and he heartily wished to retain the body parts necessary to do so – but it was a very near thing.

His only regret about Artanis’ behavior in the past few weeks was that he would never be able to share it with anyone but Celeborn. Things that might have been irritating or even maddening in a wife were highly amusing in a younger cousin. And unlike Celeborn, he could be relatively certain he would not be subject to this again.

If anything, he was beginning to think the other ner should thank him, given that the worst of Artanis’ first-time maternal nerves were being vented on him rather than on her husband. Whenever she and Celeborn had their first child, Artanis would be calmer about the experience. At least, he hoped she would.  With luck, he might even be around to see it.

In all truth, his younger son was nowhere near as well-behaved as Tyelpë had been at the same age. This little one rarely let his mother rest through the night anymore. Artanis had been increasingly irritable for lack of adequate sleep since the forty-eighth week. Curufinwë was starting to worry that if the boy kept it up, he was going to end up with a mother-name like Uquildë, or whatever its Sindarin equivalent might be.

He sighed as they watched Artanis flop into the water with a sound of immense relief. The water would take some of the weight of her increasingly unwieldy body – and, no doubt, cool her as well. Hopefully that would improve her temper, at least for a little while.

“Take heart,” Celeborn muttered. “It should only be a few days more. I do not think this is a child who will take his time.”

“We can only hope,” Curufinwë replied tiredly.

Privately, the thought had occurred to him that if the child should be a late one, there just might be another Kinslaying. Artanis was more than ready for this to be over, and she wasn’t the only one.

Fortunately for all three of them, Artanis’ frame of mind was much lightened by her long swim, and she managed to get a decent nap before dinner.

Curufinwë reminded himself firmly when the next round of complaining started that it was nearly over.

---

Celeborn’s prediction turned out to be slightly optimistic. While the child couldn’t be called late, nor was he in any particular hurry. It was another five days before he made any move to come into the light, despite all encouragement from both his parents.

They had just finished an early lunch when the contractions started.

The look on Artanis’ face when she realized what was happening was almost comical.

“But… but I’m not ready!” she exclaimed, as close to panic as Curufinwë had ever seen her. She’d been calmer in Alqualondë, with the world as they’d known it falling apart around her.

“Artanis,” Curufinwë said with as much patience as he could muster. “You have informed us every day for the past week and a half that your greatest desire in the world was to not be pregnant anymore. The necessary step to no longer being pregnant is giving birth. It’s a bit late now to decide otherwise!”

She hissed in frustration as her belly rippled with another contraction.

“If this is painful, I am going to roast you alive,” she informed him in a voice that would have made Morgoth quail.

“I have never heard any mothers complain that birthing was painful,” Celeborn said reassuringly. “Longer than they would have liked, tiring, occasionally uncomfortable, and the word ‘undignified’ is used often, but not painful.”

“As long as you don’t try to fight what your body is attempting to do,” Curufinwë added hastily.

So far as he could remember, that had been one of the midwife’s most often repeated points when she had worked with Silmë to prepare for Tyelpë’s birth.

“Yes,” Celeborn agreed. “Though it may not feel that way, this is a natural process. Trust that your body will do what must be done, and don’t attempt to force it or hurry the process.”

Artanis shot both of them an absolutely filthy look.

“Wonderful. I’m in labor and being lectured by a pair of neri about giving birth. You, Curufinwë Atarinkë, had best hope I do not live to return to Tirion. Because if I do, I am most definitely telling your mother about this!”

Curufinwë dearly hoped that was an empty threat. His mother would be hugely unamused by this entire situation – and him being older, it would be deemed incontrovertibly his fault. (It didn’t help that his mother’s judgement would more or less agree with his own. He’s had plenty of time to think on his mistakes.)

“Why don’t we walk a bit, my love?” Celeborn suggested. “You are not even close to the part where you need to squat or kneel. That may be some hours yet.”

Curufinwë was grateful to Celeborn for the distraction, though he did wish it had been phrased a bit more carefully...

“Hours?” Artanis demanded indignantly.

“Yes, I am afraid these things take some time,” Celeborn replied, offering her his arm. “If you want me to explain the process in front of your cousin, I can, but I suspect you Noldor think such conversations are somehow shocking in mixed company.”

Artanis reluctantly took his arm, and they set off on a round of the clearing, with Artanis occasionally stopping for a contraction.

Curufinwë had already heard several explanations of the process, and witnessed it at Tyelpe’s birth, but he suspected it was safer for all concerned if he allowed Artanis some distance until the child’s arrival was more imminent.

---

“I can see the head,” Celeborn announced what felt like days later.

Intellectually, Curufinwë knew it had been a mere ten hours. But it felt like much longer. He was sure Silmë’s labor had not taken so long – or had it only seemed shorter because they had been surrounded by their family? The only witnesses to this birth were the stars just beginning to appear overhead.

Though it was traditionally the father who looked for the first sight of the child, Curufinwë had agreed in advance with Celeborn that he should do the honors instead. Eager as Curufinwë was to see his son, he was not looking between his little cousin’s legs. He had chosen to support her instead.

Prude, was Artanis’ silent comment.

In this case, I am quite happy to be a prude, thank you very much. And I’ll remain one. I’ll wait until he’s all the way out, Curufinwë retorted. On that note, push!

With her leaning against him, he could feel the exhaustion she would have sworn blind to anyone else (with the possible exception of Celeborn) that she did not feel.

She was, though, and he could feel she was on the point of asking plaintively how much longer she would have to endure. The only thing holding her back was the thought that this was not a time to sound like a child herself. To Curufinwë’s relief, he saw Celeborn was finally reaching for the baby.

“Once more, beloved, and you can hold your son,” Celeborn told her confidently.

Artanis did as requested, and Celeborn caught the boy with ease, crooning soothingly at the newborn before he could cry.

“There, there, little one. I know that was not entirely pleasant, but it is over now. Your mother is impatient to see you,” he murmured, wrapping the babe snugly in the blanket prepared for him. “I think your father may feel the same.”

Celeborn passed the boy up to his eager parents.

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Artanis breathed, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as thoroughly besotted by the newborn as any other mother catching her first glimpse of her child. “Look at him!”

Curufinwë was only too happy to comply. He was as thrilled at the sight of his son as Artanis. He was so happy he couldn’t even muster any annoyance that after all their worry and precautions, the contrary child had silver hair after all.

Of course he’s contrary, he’s your son, Artanis told him silently.

Mm. That explains his stunning good looks, he replied. And you have never been contrary in your life.

He suspected the only thing that prevented Artanis from smacking him was that it would have required her to take a hand away from her son, and she wasn’t about to do that.

“What are we to call him?” Celeborn asked with a smile.

“Look to his mother,” Curufinwë said, not quite keeping the sadness from his voice. This child would have no father-name, or if he did, it would not be from the father that had begotten him.

They turned expectantly to Artanis. Curufinwë was slightly nervous – if he had to wager, he’d lay odds on Artanis being the one in their generation most likely to bestow a mother-name of foresight.

Please let her see no darkness in his future. Please let him have a good name and a good life, he prayed to any Vala that cared to listen. He did no wrong. Do not punish him for my misdeeds. Please.

“Gildor,” she announced after a long moment staring into the boy’s eyes, one finger laid half-playfully, half-thoughtfully on his little nose. “His name is Gildor.”