This is a sequel to my fics Your spirit calling out to mine, Fascination, and This life that we've created (they can be found through my profile) and probably makes more sense if you've read them.

Some keywords for the whole fic: Pregnancy, Babies, Romance, Family, Angst and fluff, Happy ending

Chapter length: ~2,400 words

A/N: This continues from directly where This life that we've created ended. The first chapter is the angstiest: the fic gets progressively happier.

At the end of the chapter, there is discussion on how I incorporate Tolkien's writings on the effects of childbearing for elven women in this fic.

Warnings for the whole fic: Pregnancy, obviously; very few physical details, but there is some discussion of how bearing a child mentally feels to an elven woman. Childbirth happens in the fic, but there is no description of it.

Fëa = spirit, soul; hröa = body

Chapter I / The shadow behind his shoulder

After the first day when she cries of joy several times when she realises that she is expecting, Tuilindien does not cry during her pregnancy. She is ecstatically happy, so happy that even days of feeling exhausted and unwell do little to dampen her mood.

'Do not worry', she tells Carnistir when he looks almost scared when he comes home and finds her resting on a settee again, for the fourth day in a row. 'This is completely normal.'

He pulls a chair next to her. There is nervousness, still, in his eyes; Tuilindien knows it is there because of Míriel. Though Fëanáro and Nerdanel had seven children, and Nerdanel is hale and well, there is still a fear in the hearts of Fëanáro and his sons that other Eldar do not have to bear.

Tuilindien takes Carnistir's hand. 'All will be well', she assures him. 'For me, and for Netyarë. You and Curvo worry for naught.'

'It didn't occur to my grandfather to worry, and he should have', is all that Carnistir says, though the dark clouds in him seem to subside a little.

'Your worrying will not help me, not that I need help in anything but in the completely normal process of us both supporting our child as they grow', Tuilindien says, for she thinks that in this matter as in many others it is best not to indulge his dark mood overmuch. She sits up. 'Come sit by me, my love, and talk to me without words, and I will speak to our child's fëa on your behalf.'

He comes, and holds her close. As their hearts beat together and their spirits hold conference, he rumbles aloud, 'I wish I could feel them already.'

Tuilindien smiles against his shoulder. Her hasty Noldo; but this time, she completely understands the impatience.

'Soon', she comforts him. 'By all accounts you'll feel them soon.'

'Have you felt anything new today?'

He asks that every day. Tuilindien hides another smile in the fine linen of his tunic. 'Not really', she says. 'There is little of anything definite to feel yet, anyway. Only very general sensations of… growth, and a will to grow and live. And some confusion. Netyarë told me she feels the same things.'

(Netyarë realised she was pregnant only seven weeks before Tuilindien. It has already brought the two of them much closer than before, talking about the strangeness and wonder of being with child, and all their hopes and expectations.)

'It must be confusing, being a fëa inside another's hröa', Carnistir muses. 'It is for the best that we don't remember it when we grow older.'

'Yes.' Finding herself too tired to think of things to say aloud, Tuilindien leans against her beloved and sends images and thoughts of love to him and their child alike.

She does not worry that anything unusual or dangerous will happen to her; she is too happy to worry, and besides, most women get through their pregnancy perfectly fine.

But behind Carnistir's shoulder there looms a silver-haired shadow Tuilindien doesn't know how to banish.

Tuilindien tries to make things for her child. Even though she has now lived for years among the Noldor who all seem to be talented in several crafts, she does not usually mind that she doesn't know how to do many tangible things beoynd basic baking, needlework and gardening.

Now it bothers her. She wants to be able to have her child surrounded by things of her own making, like they will be by the work of Carnistir's hands.

He started making furniture for the baby as soon as she told her of her pregnancy.

'I didn't know that you knew how to make so many kinds of furniture, too', she says as she watches him sketch a cradle, a special chair for the baby, and a rocking chair.

'I don't really', he says, frowning in concentration as he writes down measurements and materials. 'I'm extrapolating from what I know, just like Curufinwë is. Uncle Carion taught us both carpentry. I made a chair and a cabinet with him but I never studied it, really.'

He knows enough of the making of various sorts of things with wood and metal and stone, and has the right kind of mind to indeed extrapolate more, that he soon has the baby's room filled with furniture that Tuilindien finds quite well-made even if he sees many imperfections in them.

'The finish is uneven', he mutters to himself as he runs his hand over the rocking chair.

'It is beautiful', Tuilindien says firmly, sitting in it. 'And comfortable. Do not be so strict on yourself and your creations, Carnistir, my love.'

But she does not need to be strict with herself to see that whatever she tries to make for her child is no good at all.

First she tries to sew a little shirt. But though she manages to make her stitches good enough that they'll certainly hold, she estimates the proportions of a baby all wrong and when she, desolate, shows the shirt to Carnistir, he turns crimson from the effort it takes for him not to laugh.

'Perhaps it will fit Snowdrop or Cinder', he says, his mouth twitching, and then kisses her gently when she drops the shirt and sighs.

'Do not fret, my dear', he comforts her with an arm around her shoulders. 'You do not need to make clothes for the baby for them to know that you love them with all your heart. I'm sure that they know it already.'

'I do tell them hourly.' Tuilindien sighs again and leans on him unashamedly. Carnistir never minds it when she does, and she has all the right now that their child grows inside her and draws their strength from her.

'I'm going to try crocheting next', she decides. 'Netyarë's mother taught her. I'm sure Netyarë will be glad to teach me how to make a blanket.'

'Or you could just go to a tailor and seamstress, and whatever shops sell baby things, and order everything that our baby will need', Carnistir says.

But Tuilindien has it in her to be a little stubborn in this matter. 'I will try crocheting', she repeats.

Netyarë is glad to teach her, and Tuilindien does manage all right as long as they sit side by side and she can follow what Netyarë's nimble fingers are doing. As soon as she goes home and tries to continue on her own, her creation turns into a tangled mess.

Tuilindien sighs deep again, and does give the mangled mess of a tiny blanket to their cats to play with or just destroy.

To Netyarë she says, 'I must give up on these pursuits before my in-laws who are skilled and talented in so many things get too much cause to make fun of me. But I enjoyed spending afternoons with you; could we continue it?'

Netyarë smiles her bright smile. 'By all means, let us continue', she says. 'I have enjoyed it, too, getting to know you better and spending time with you. It is silly that it took being with child at the same time for us to become friends.'

'It is', Tuilindien agrees. 'I am very glad that we have. I would be much more nervous if I did not have someone going through this at the same time as I am.'

Netyarë lays a hand on her stomach, visibly larger now. Tuilindien's is still almost hidden by her flowy dresses.

'It is very strange, isn't it?' Netyarë says. She smiles, twinkling, mischievous. 'You must not tell Curufinwë that I told you first, he would be very upset, but – I think I know now that I am going to have a boy.'

'Really?' Tuilindien's cheeks hurt with how wide she smiles. 'That is wonderful, Netyarë.' For her sister-in-law is obviously pleased.

'I am certain that Curvo is going to think it very wonderful, too', Netyarë says drily, but smiles still. 'I am going to tell him today, though I am not yet absolutely sure.'

'How could you be?' Tuilindien says. 'As you said, it is all so very strange to feel.'

'The strangest thing I have ever felt in my body', Netyarë agrees.

Tuilindien cannot wait to share the strange feelings with Carnistir; for him to feel their little one's fëa too.

The day he does, one morning when they are lying in bed late as usual, talking quietly, he goes pale and then red, and is silent for a long time. Tuilindien lays carefully still, her head on his bicep, his hand on her stomach.

This is stranger than anything before, she thinks as she lies there and tries to relax. She cannot directly feel, or hear, Carnistir listening to and reaching out to the baby's fëa.

But she can feel Carnistir's mood and the surface of his shifting, growing emotions in the connection of their spirits, as usual; he is not hiding it from her. He barely ever does.

And she can feel their child's fëa inside her reacting to something that isn't herself for the first time, pulsing with that small strength and bright light that Tuilindien can somehow see even though she of course cannot.

'Tuilindien', is all that Carnistir says, wonder in his low, cracked voice.

Tuilindien turns her head to his chest and kisses him there, telling him without words how much she loves her, and how glad she is that he can finally feel the little spirit, too, and talk to them and support them as they grow.

She lies there and feels the warmth of her husband and her child, the pale golden light of the morning from the large windows surrounding them all, and she thinks that she could never have asked for more happiness than this.

Unfortunately feeling the spirit of their child doesn't lessen Carnistir's worry about Tuilindien. His face and mood still darken whenever he finds her resting, not angry but so worried that the concern often turns to impotent anger at not being able to help – not being able to guarantee her safety. He is ferocious even in his worry.

When she does something a little bit strenuous and doesn't go to rest right after, he hovers around her like a stormy-browed mother hen until she does.

'You know that I never mind lying in your arms, my love, but you did not need to coax me to bed just because I went riding outside the city with the twins', she tells him one day, exasperated. 'We did not even go far.'

He holds onto her tighter, his forehead against hers in a gentle touch as they lie on their sides in bed, facing each other, breathing the same air, their thoughts mingling.

'Just until dinner', Carnistir says, voice quieter than his spirit.

She indulges him, resting there with him as long as he wants. It is good for all three of them to rest together like this, though lately Tuilindien feels like she does little else besides rest.

Carnistir's worrying gets tiresome on some days but there has not been an expecting mother better taken care of by her husband than she is, Tuilindien is certain. He plans their days around her comfort, fetches her things and makes sure she has the food she likes best and takes care of as many of her errands as he can; and he sends her constant love and comfort with such force that her spirit sings with it.

She does not worry about her strength running out, even though she is more tired than ever. She has him, and so much joy in their little one already. They sustain her.

Yet Carnistir seems unable to believe it, to trust in her strength, no matter how much she tries to reassure him.

'Do you think that I am weak?' she asks quietly as they lie there in the silvering light. 'You worry much more about me than Curufinwë appears to worry about Netyarë. Do you think that because I am gentle and… not so fire-hearted, not so passionate or opinionated as your family, or Netyarë, that bearing a child might take too much out of me?'

'Even if Curvo was deathly afraid, he would show little of it.' That is Carnistir's only reply.

Tuilindien feels tendrils of dark shame from him, either because he does think her weak or because he is refusing to answer her question for some other reason.

'It is not like you to avoid answering my questions', she tells him gently, though her patience is fraying.

He kisses her forehead in apology. Confusing thoughts flows from him to her as he thinks on his answer, attempting to tame the confusion.

'I do not think that you are weak, Tuilë', he begins, and thankfully it is easy for her to hear the truth in that. 'But you are like Míriel in some ways. My grandfather describes her as gentle, though also swift in her speech and her craft, and obstinate even against the exhortations of the Valar.'

'Of those I am only gentle', Tuilindien says.

'You can be obstinate', her beloved argues. 'In your own, quiet way. Míriel was like that too.'

It is strange, hearing someone spoken of in the past tense like that, knowing that they will not come back, that there is no future tense because they are refusing re-embodiment. Tuilindien's frustration melts at that reminder of the strange fate of Carnistir's grandmother – the strangeness, uniqueness of his family – and she sighs against his warm skin.

'I may be like Míriel, then, but I cannot imagine wanting to leave you', she whispers, something constricting painfully around her heart. 'Or our child whom I already love so much that it hurts. I cannot imagine it, however much I try. That is why I have no fear.'

Carnistir is quiet for a moment, a miasma of emotions swirling in him and to her. 'I doubt Míriel had either.'

'I promise, Carnistir, I promise, I will not leave you', and to her own ears she sounds desperate and not the least bit reassuring, and she clings to him with body and spirit. But he seems to breathe easier after that, and slips to a restful state before she does.

Apparently making a promise that she thought did not need to be spoken aloud because it is so obvious to her was exactly what he needed to find peace.

Tuilindien rests better, too, for having him calm in her arms, and the little fëa inside her rests too.

A/N: *apologetically mumbles something about being constitutionally unable of not writing something slightly ominous about Fëanorians and promises in every other fic*

Note on canon for this fic:
For the most part, in this fic series, I am faithful to Tolkien's canon. However in this fic I deviate from some of the things Tolkien wrote down in his essay Laws and Customs among the Eldar (published in History of Middle-Earth X: Morgoth's Ring).

This is because I dislike the extent of how spiritually taxing Tolkien writes the bearing of a child being on elven mothers. Because of Míriel being such close kin to Carnistir and a spectre that haunts him during Tuilindien's pregnancy, I've incorporated some aspects of it in this fic – but not all.

What I dislike, and do not include in my 'fic-verse', is that the power of creation in elven women goes mainly into their children while men create more other things. I take the view that yes, having a child is more spiritually draining for elven mothers than it is for humans, but they recover from it and they can create just as much beautiful art and music and works of science and whatever as men, even after having many children. So the mother's fëa is not partially spent or exhausted on her children, except Míriel's who is an exception in this matter.