The King and Queen spent a last night in Ithilien, readying the wains for departure at first light. Faramir declared that the evening should be spent sociably, and that all who still remained in the manor house should put aside thoughts of politics and diplomacy and take pleasure in one another's company. "For," he explained, "there will be much time in the coming weeks to think on matters of sovereign import, and it is best to do so with clear and untroubled hearts. We have brought the negotiations to a peaceful close and thus have fulfilled our task. Let us now be merry." Aragorn could find no fault with this logic.

The evening meal was a relatively casual affair. Faramir had instructed the cooks to set dishes of food in the servery and had then given the waitstaff a holiday evening. The rulers of Gondor and Ithilien served themselves from the array of dishes, and Elboron and Olwyn were allowed to join them at the meal. Aragorn found himself unexpectedly flattered when Elboron insisted upon sitting next to him. As he listened to the boy's cheerful recounting of his day's lessons in reading and horsemanship, he decided that he would enjoy fatherhood.

"Your children are a credit to you, Faramir," he said.

Faramir gave a wry half-smile. "Nay, not to me," he replied. "It is my eternal good fortune that they take after their mother."

"Perhaps. Although this one --" Aragorn ruffled Elboron's hair. "-- has your mother's eyes, I think. Oof!" Elboron, encouraged by the attention, had climbed into the King's lap, inadvertently kneeing him slightly in the groin.

"Elboron!" Éowyn snapped. "Be careful! A King is not a climbing tree."

"His grandmother's eyes and his late uncle's temperament," Faramir said, moving to lift Elboron back down to his own seat. Aragorn waved him away and adjusted Elboron to a more comfortable position on his lap.

"He is most welcome," he said to Faramir. Then, turning his attention to Elboron, he said, "The King once sat in the lap of the wisest Lord of Middle-Earth, and you may sit in the lap of the King. But only until the King has a child of his own. Then you must be a big, strong boy and help keep guard over the King's child. Can you do that?"

"Yes I can!" Elboron declared. "Mama has already promised me a spear for my next birthday."

"See that she teaches you to use it well," Aragorn said, and Éowyn laughed.

In the wagon on the way back to Minas Tirith, Arwen arranged the skirts of her maternity gown and drew her lap desk from the pack at her feet. Aragorn watched with guilty amusement as she struggled to adjust it so that her belly would not interfere with her writing. When she finally had it placed to her satisfaction, she withdrew a manuscript and began to write.

"You were working on that text during our trip to Ithilien," Aragorn said after a while. "I asked you what you wrote, and you would not tell me. Will you tell me now?"

Arwen smiled impishly at him. "Certainly," she said, "although I will not bear any responsibility if you feel at all discomfited upon learning of what I write."

"Arwen, I have lived many years as a Ranger in the Wild. I have seen wonders and horrors beyond the scope of most mortal Men. I do not think that I can be discomfited as easily as you think."

Arwen gave him a significant look, and arranged her face into a prim smile. "Very well, oh worldly one," she said. "The women of Minas Tirith and Ithilien have very kindly showered me with all sorts of advice concerning the bearing and raising of children. At the suggestion of Halandir your Archivist, I am compiling this wisdom into a text that may be preserved so as to be of use to further generations of mothers."

"That is kind of you."

"In addition, at the request of certain of the ladies of the Princess of Ithilien's court, I am preparing a short introduction concerning the begetting of children." Arwen flashed Aragorn a look out of the corner of her eye and began to read choice selections from her manuscript.

As she read, Aragorn felt his ears burn and his belly contract in sympathy for the ordeals he heard about. He had thought himself learned in matters of healing, but he had only lately begun to appreciate the limits of his ability. Elrond had trained him thoroughly in the arts of healing battle injuries and certain diseases, but Aragorn had had very little experience with the complaints peculiar to women. He comforted himself by remembering that some of what Arwen read was new to her as well.

When she had finished, he swallowed back his astonishment and glanced at Arwen. She was looking at him rather expectantly. "It is well written," he said. "Very informative. I am sure it will be of great use for future generations."

"Thank you," Arwen said graciously. "Is that all that is on your mind?"

Aragorn blinked and stared out of the wagon at the slowly passing scenery. "Nine months," he said. "There is much that can happen in nine months. A war may be fought, or a child may be born."

Arwen's smile fell, and she dropped her gaze to her hands. "More than that," she said softly.

"More?"

"Among the Elves, a child is carried for a full year before birth. But you are not of Elf-kind, and I am not entirely an Elf either. I do not know precisely how long I will carry this child."

Aragorn turned back to his wife. Despite her visit with Éowyn, he could see some of her apprehension still lurking in her eyes. He put an arm around her, twining his fingers into her long hair, and laid his other hand on her belly.

"Do not despair, beloved," he said. "Whenever our child chooses to make his appearance, we will be waiting to receive him with love."

The next months passed reasonably peacefully. Aragorn busied himself readying the surveillance teams to be sent into Harad and overseeing the year's harvest and the subsequent festivals. Towards the end of the fall harvest, he made an Inspection of the Royal Granaries. Normally, such affairs did not last very long; several speeches would be made and the King would move on, having lent a small bit of glamour to the granary workers' day. Aragorn especially enjoyed his Inspections of the granary, as many of the men who worked there were Dúnedain of the North or veterans of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields who had known him before his coronation and respected him for his leadership, not merely for his rank.

This time, after he had made his speech and was preparing to leave, two granary workers moved to bar the door. Aragorn stopped, puzzled, and looked to his accompanying lords for an explanation. They looked blankly back at him. He turned to the granary workers and found that they were, to a man, grinning ear to ear.

"My Lord King," the foreman, Bregalad of the Dúnedain, began formally. "As we have ever been faithful servants and have kept our places at the King's side through all the dark days of watchfulness and war, allow us now to present the King with a token of our respect and devotion for the coming days of joy." He motioned to the side, and two of the Dúnedain came forth bearing a hand-carved wooden cradle, which they presented to Aragorn.

Aragorn took the cradle and opened his mouth to give a speech of thanks, but the words caught in his throat as he examined the lovely thing. The wood was dark and sturdy, and the sharp edges of the boards had been richly carved with vines and flowers that decorated the cradle even as they blunted its corners. A handsomely carved bow arched over the cradle.

"The bow is for draping things over," Bregalad explained. "In the winter, put a blanket over the cradle, and it keeps the baby warm. In the summer, a lighter cloth keeps flies away and gives the baby shade. Dangle ribbons from it to amuse the child."

Aragorn ran his finger along the delicate carving of the bow. Soon, a child would sleep in this cradle, and it would be his child. Somehow, touching the cradle seemed to make the baby more real in Aragorn's mind. There would be a new little person in the world soon, and this would be his bed. "This is beautiful," he said at last. "How can I thank you enough?"

"There is no need," Bregalad said. "For long years, the Dúnedain enjoyed the leadership of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He led the troops to victory on the Pelennor, and he has seen that his loyal soldiers are provided for in the days of peace. This cradle is but a small token of the thanks that we owe our King." He bowed low before Aragorn.

"Rise, Bregalad," Aragorn said. He clasped Bregalad's hand in his own. "Though you do not require it of me, yet I still thank you. This is a beautiful thing that you have made, and the Queen and I will not forget your kindness." So saying, he raised his hand in salute and left the granary with his entourage. Two of the Dúnedain followed, bearing the cradle back to the Citadel.

As Aragorn had expected, Arwen was delighted by the cradle. He set it on the floor of the royal bedchamber and nudged it with his foot to set it rocking. Arwen laughed and carefully maneuvered her growing bulk down to the floor so she could examine it. As she leaned over, though, she gave a small gasp and put her hand to her abdomen. Aragorn was by her side in an instant.

"Is something amiss?"

"Nay," Arwen said calmly. "Our child has awoken, and he begins to turn and kick." She took Aragorn's hand and placed it at a certain spot on her belly. Sure enough, Aragorn could feel the scrapes and blows of the child moving within his wife. He gazed at her in awe, which soon turned to astonishment as a small lump appeared on the side of Arwen's belly. The lump shot across to the other side and disappeared. Aragorn stared. Arwen laughed.

"That is our child," she said.

"He will be quite the acrobat," Aragorn mused.

"Perhaps. But even acrobats must sleep sometime." Arwen ran her hand along the carved edge of the cradle. "This is beautiful. I will write to the men and thank them." She moved to rise, and promptly collapsed. She sat in shock for a moment, then tried once again to stand. Again she fell. Arwen stared at her husband, a look of dismay spreading across her fair Elvish face.

"Estel," she said softly. "I cannot rise."

"I will assist you," Aragorn replied. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and, by dint of some shoving, managed to pull Arwen to her feet.

"Thank you," Arwen said breathlessly, smoothing her gown. Aragorn laid a hand on her belly and smiled.

"I do not think that you will sit on the floor in that manner again until our child is born," he said with a laugh. Arwen tried to maintain a shred of affronted Elven dignity, but after a moment, she gave up and giggled along with him.

As the weeks went on, Arwen's cheeks bloomed as her figure grew ever rounder. Every week she went to the Houses of Healing and submitted to an examination by Ioreth and Doronrîn. The two midwives would listen to the baby's heartbeat through a tube of horn, gently prod Arwen's belly, and answer her questions. Ioreth would measure around what had once been the Queen's waist with a piece of string while Doronrîn busied herself recording Arwen's general health.

After once such examination, Doronrîn took the measuring string from its drawer and unwound it. Silently, she studied Ioreth's marks on it for a long while. By this time, Ioreth had learned that it was of no use to ask Doronrîn to explain her actions until the Elf woman brought the topic up herself. Not wishing to disturb her partner, Ioreth quietly slipped out of the Houses of Healing and went to pay a visit to another mother-to-be on the sixth level of the city.

The woman's ankles had started to swell, and Ioreth sent the husband to fetch the woman's unmarried sister to aid her with her housework. After the sister had arrived and made arrangements for regular visits, Ioreth judged that Doronrîn had had enough time to think over whatever was troubling her now, made her farewell to the family and returned to the Houses.

She found Doronrîn staring at the measuring string as if it had offended her. "Good day," she said pleasantly. Doronrîn looked up sharply, and Ioreth stopped.

"The Queen grows too large too quickly," Doronrîn said.

"She is as large as she should be," Ioreth countered. "Full seven months along she is, and in the pink of health. The child will grow, of course, but I do not think the Queen is overly large. Why, I knew a mother once who --"

"Mistress Ioreth," Doronrîn interrupted. "Were the Queen a daughter of Men, I would find no cause to argue with you. But the fact remains that she is for the most part of Elven blood. Among the Elves, a mother in her seventh month of pregnancy should not be so large as the Queen is now."

Ioreth was silent for a moment. "Do you think that the child will grow for many more months?" she asked.

Doronrîn looked at the ground. "I could not say," she admitted. "I do not think she will carry the child for a full year. I am torn between my concern for the consequences should the child be born into the world ere it is fully ready and my concern that, if it is carried to the full term, that it will grow too large to be born."

Ioreth took a deep breath. "I have delivered large babes," she said, "and I have delivered early ones. But never in all my years have I delivered a child that was both large and prematurely brought forth."

"I suppose there is naught we can do but hope for the best. After all, we are charged with the task of guiding the Queen through something that has not happened in an Age."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Ioreth went to answer it and found Amaethon, the messenger Doronrîn had sent to Imladris three months earlier. He was splattered with mud and smelled of horse, but he bowed deeply to the midwives. "Ladies," he said, "I took your message to the lords Celeborn, Elladan and Elrohir at Imladris. Over many long leagues, I have brought their reply." He took a folded piece of parchment from his pouch and extended it. Doronrîn took it from him, unfolded it and began to read. Ioreth moved to take Amaethon's cloak.

"Thank you most kindly, sir Amaethon," she said. "You have worked hard at our bidding, and you are a good man to serve your King and Queen so. I am sure they will agree with me, once they are informed of your service. Come along now, you have ridden a hard road and must have some hot nourishment. And a bath, I think; though anyone may guess which may be heated first, the food or the bathwater. Still, you may shed your boots and cloak while you wait. . . " Still talking, Ioreth led Amaethon into the Houses of Healing.

When she returned, Doronrîn had laid the letter from Imladris on a table. Ioreth glanced at it, but the elegant curves of the Elvish script meant nothing to her. "What does it say?" she asked.

Doronrîn sighed, and her eyes took on a faraway look. Ioreth was suddenly reminded of how very old her partner was, and blushed violently, as she had done when first meeting the Elf woman. "There are none left now in Middle Earth who have direct memory of the births of the children of Elrond," she said. "The Lord Celeborn writes that he had accounts of the births of the Queen and her brothers, and he related those accounts to me."

"What did he say?"

"He wrote that the children were larger than he had expected. The Lady Celebrían labored long and mightily with each birth, and he wrote that the Lord Elrond was sure that it was only the strength and vitality of the Eldar which sustained her."

Ioreth tried to smile, but her eyes betrayed her distress at this news. "But the children were born in the end," she pointed out. "And surely the Queen is blessed with her mother's strength of body."

"Perhaps," Doronrîn said gloomily. "But she has traded the life of the Eldar for the Doom of Men. It may be that even her inborn strength may not be enough to prevent her from laboring even unto death."

Both midwives were silent at that thought. Ioreth had several times attended women whose labors dragged on and on until they were sapped of all their strength and died of exhaustion either with or without producing a living child. Doronrîn's experience with death in childbed was not so extensive, but even she had seen exhausted or injured mothers take leave of their bodies and send their spirits to the profound rest of Mandos. Neither midwife wished to contemplate the same fate befalling the Evenstar. At last, Doronrîn broke the silence.

"Mistress Ioreth," she began, and there was a hesitation in her voice that Ioreth had not heard before.

"Yes?"

"Are you skilled at wielding a chirurgeon's knife?"

Ioreth was immediately suspicious. "Why should you ask me such a question? Do you propose to cut the child from the Queen's living body? Such a thing cannot be done! You would kill her! Are you so afraid for her ability to give birth to this babe that you would murder her?"

"Peace," Doronrîn said, holding up her hand. "I do not propose to murder the Evenstar, Mistress Ioreth. I worry that her strength should fail before the child is born. If this doom should come to pass, there is a way that the child might be saved. However, it is a hard way and would require us both to act dispassionately and with skill. I would know if you thought yourself capable of assisting me in such an act."

"What would you have me do?"

"Should it come to pass that the Queen's strength is expended, her body lies dying and the child not yet born, I will use what grace I have to mask her pain and ease her passage beyond this world. I cannot do that and wield a knife at the same time. In such an instance, I would indeed ask that you attempt to cut the child from her. Do you think yourself capable of doing that, should the choice lie between cutting the mother's dying body and losing the child?"

Ioreth did not speak for a long while. Doronrîn regarded her calmly, with piercing eyes, but did not interfere with her examination of her conscience. Ioreth thought back over all the births she had attended, and recalled in particular those that had ended with a funeral for the young mother and the half-born child still trapped inside her. At last, she faced Doronrîn and stood as straight as her aged bones would allow.

"I am old, Lady Doronrîn," she said, "and I fear that the birth of the royal child may be the last birth I will attend. I do not wish it to end in the deaths of the Queen and the babe. I will do as you say, but only --" and her voice took on a steely tone -- "if the Queen is beyond hope even from Elvish medicine. I have seen the King bring men back from the very brink of death, and I will not give up hope for the Queen easily. I will wield the chirurgeon's knife for you, but I will not do so until the King himself tells me that she is dying and cannot be saved."

Doronrîn nodded gravely. "Thank you," she said. "I swear that I will not suggest this course of action lightly or in haste. We will hold onto the hope that the Queen will indeed be able to deliver her child safely. But should all hope for her fail, we will turn to our last desperate measure to save the child."