Baby Talk

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Baby Talk

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written solely love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and situations used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises. The author receives no money or other remuneration for presenting this work but the pleasure of enjoying the Professor's creations. This work is the intellectual property of the author and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

It has become impossible to get comfortable.

You sit, you stand, you walk, you try and find some position that eases your aching back, some position that enables you to breathe deeply at least once, some angle at which it does not feel as if you are about to explode, but it is to no avail. You are constantly hungry and constantly running to the water closet. You feel a burning energy to set the smial to rights and tidy everything up, but you can barely see your toes, let alone bend to pick something up from the floor. You are impatient and irritable, and it is no wonder none of your sisters want to be around you at this time. In fact everyone seems to be ill-tempered lately, even those of you who have not been ‘blessed’.

Everyone, that is, except Frodo.

He seems oblivious to your irritation and has been walking around for the past 6 months in a sort of happy fog. As his ladies have grown heavier, slower, and rounder, his joy has blossomed like a budding flower. Even October passed with hardly a twinge of pain. He was so blissful he didn’t even notice the anniversary until someone asked him how he fared. You are thankful that your present discomforts have at least given him that – it is good to know someone is benefiting from your dilemma!

It is late in the day and you are tired. You made yourself some tea and have retired to the westernmost room of the smial – where the angled winter sun streams into the round windows brightening the room. It is peaceful and quiet here; one of the few places where you can feel at ease these days. Luckily someone before you stoked the fire so the room is warm but not oppressive. It is odd, but you have always felt the winter’s cold so keenly, even here on the blessed isle, but this year it is as if you have taken a furnace into your body. You settle into the overstuffed chair and run a tired hand over your swollen belly. In a way, you have got a little furnace inside you – fueled by the unquenchable love you bear your lord. Perhaps the warmth you feel is another benefit unlooked for.

You can’t sit normally in the chair. If you try, you won’t be able to breathe, but you can’t lean back without something against your back. It aches enough already without inviting more pain. Awkwardly you stuff pillows into the corners of the chair until you can feel them firmly supporting you and then you lean back with a sigh. It IS comfortable sitting this way, even if it probably looks foolish. You close your eyes and try and relax your tired muscles one by one.

Your tea is beside the chair on a small table, and, now that you have gotten yourself comfortable, you reach for it. Unfortunately, this reclining angle makes it impossible for you to get your hands on the cup. You will have to sit up again. You sigh, debating with yourself whether the tea is worth the effort and blow a puff of frustrated breath into your curly bangs.

“Shall I get that for you?”

You would have jumped, if you’d been able, but the surprise of hearing Frodo’s voice in the room does make your abdomen twitch painfully. You wince and reach down to where the twinge started and rub the taunt skin beneath your skirt.

“Oh, don’t DO that!” you chide him with a not quite teasing tone. “I am uncomfortable enough already. You are going to wake her up and she will start kicking me on top of it!”

Frodo reaches over the chair and picks up the cup of tea. The warm musk of him falls heavily out of the folds of his dark woolen jacket onto your upturned face. Your pregnancy has made many once beloved scents intolerable to you, but not the sweet perfume of his body. That has become a precious, comfortable balm that sooths your apprehensions. When Frodo is near, you know everything will be all right. You close your eyes dreamily and take a long draft of his warm smell. He comes around the chair to stand before you, cup in hand.

“Is she kicking now?” he asks with the wonder of a child. His eyes are bright with curiosity and something else; an eagerness and wonder the likes of which you have never seen there before. From the beginning he was certain you carried a girl child. He has been so confident of this that you have come to believe it yourself.

“A little,” you admit. “Though I imagine she is just getting started. You woke her from a fine sleep and once she gets her bearings, she will begin to make my life miserable.” You reach for the tea. “Thanks a lot.”

He smiles, but doesn’t look apologetic. The eager gleam and boyish charm still light his smile, but there is an intensity there as well. He is studying your enormous belly, as if looking for some sign of movement. You laugh, no longer even the slightest bit annoyed, and reach for his hand.

“It’s here, Frodo…” You take his soft fingers in yours and place his hand over the place where the tickles are strongest. “Do you feel it?” you whisper.

He kneels and lays his ear next to his hand on your womb. His face is very close to yours and when he looks into your eyes, the intensity of his gaze shocks you. Suddenly you know what it is that you see there. Fierce pride and possessiveness. You are his. This baby that grows inside you is his. With a flash of empathy that almost makes you sob you realize how rare and precious this feeling must be to him. So long an orphan, alone and neglected for years, he has lived most his life off the kindness of others. He has had little that he could ever really call his own. Even Bag End, though he was master of it, was Bilbo’s before it was his. But you… and your sisters… and each of these laden wombs ARE his… wholly and completely. His warm, gentle fingers spread wonderingly over your tightly stretched skin. Dutifully, your baby flutters and rolls some mysterious body part under your beloved’s hand. His smile broadens and you can almost see him glowing from within.

“Sing to her…” you whisper softly, and his answering radiant smile catches your breath. He is always beautiful, but here, in the firelight, with the glow of pride and love on his face, he is ethereal. His curls glisten in the fireglow and curl with exuberant health. His cheeks are ruddy and his lips, those perfectly matched arching bows, glow a delicate coral pink. You can see the line of his bright teeth behind them when he smiles, and that darling little gap you adore so. You love him with every fibre of your being and seeing how much joy this child brings him makes the pain and discomfort of your condition more than worth the price.

His speaking voice is like music, but when he sings it has a tone like the clear chime of a bell. The notes of his simple tune flow over you like water. He can sooth the most troubled heart with his sweet song, and so your daughter seems to think as well. He sings directly to your belly, knowing through his sensitive fingers that his child hears him and has stilled. He strokes your swollen body tenderly and his gentle melody smites your heart. You aren’t even aware of the tears streaming down your face until you see his beloved form wavering before your eyes. He looks up and, seeing you weeping, falters in his refrain. He does not ask you what the matter is. He seems to know. The sure strength in his bright blue eyes fills you with comfort. It will be all right. He will always be by your side, and by the side of his daughter, come what may.

“I am told two weeks”, you whisper huskily. “But I would hope for sooner. I think she wants to come out and see her father.”

“And I wish to see her,” he answers. “She will be the first, I should think, though I am not expert on these matters.”

You laugh softly and cringe a bit as your child protests the lack of serenade. “It is my firm belief, my lord, that by the time all is said and done you will be a certified expert.” The baby turns and kicks hard into your diaphragm. You gasp a bit and a crease of concern crosses his beloved face. “Oooo!” you say. “Though I wish your expertise extended to figuring a way to encourage them to be born sooner!”

Frodo reaches up to wipe the tears from your cheek. “I do know of one thing that might encourage her to come out and see us,” he says softly, a tender smile caressing his lips. You look at him inquiringly. At this point, you would welcome anything that might give you respite. Frodo rises from his knees and, leaning carefully over you, gives you a tender, passionate kiss, full on your mouth.

He tastes of warmth and a touch of honey. He is quivering against you, either from eagerness or in an attempt to retain his balance, you cannot tell but the motion sends a flash of electricity up your spine. The intensity of feeling his petal soft lips elicit from you is overwhelming. You have felt anything but attractive these past months, and haven’t even considered approaching him in your current state, but there is no denying the ardor in his trembling kiss, nor the thrill of response rising in you. Desire fills you, your body warms and you ache to feel him against you as once did, but even as you feel these urges a sharp pang clutches your womb.

“Oh, beloved,” you cry and clutch at your belly. Pain and pleasure mingle in your brain, but embarrassment finally wins out over both. “Please don’t start this! I am so clumsy and awkward, and I look a dreadful mess. I couldn’t bear to have you see me thus!”

His brilliant blue eyes, inches from yours, glitter in the halflight as do his lips, moist from your kiss. He smiles tolerantly, with loving tenderness, and as if amused by your shame.

“But you are more beautiful to me right now than you have ever been before,” he says. “And I cherish you for the love you bear me. It was love that brought this little one to us…” He strokes the swell of your abdomen with a warm hand. You tremble to feel it. “How could I not treasure one who gives me so much joy, such peace, and who has at last eased the wanderlust in my heart?”

“…but…?” Your lip trembles too, but how can you argue with this breathtaking beauty when he touches both your body and your heart like this?

“No buts.” His answer is firm. “I will show you how beautiful you are. You will come to my chambers and I will celebrate you, cherish and hold you. You will see my love has not dimmed.” He reaches for your hand to help you to your feet. “And maybe we shall find out if the old wives tale is true?”

You struggle to your feet, still feeling awkward beyond words. “Old wives tale?” you ask.

“Yes,” he smiles. “I may have been a confirmed bachelor for many years, but I have learned a few things.” He wraps his arm around your shoulders protectively. “It has been said that the most sure way to induce a labor is to,… well, engage in the activity that got you this way in the first place.” His cheek colors an engaging pink, and you know yours has flushed similarly. “I suppose,…” he continues coyly. “Well,… I suppose that I have always wondered if there was any truth in it.”

;)

The end.