(no subject)
Artemis/Beorn Silver Glass fanfiction, written for Arti so she'll forgive me for the terrible crime of reading a Jana and liking it.
“I haven’t seen my feet in a month.”
“I can’t sleep anymore.”
“I feel bloated and sluggish and disgusting.”
“I AM bloated and sluggish and disgusting.”
Díore bustled in, carrying traces of Edoras’ first frost laced in her rich red hair and lining her woollen mantle. “Pregnancy isn’t a competition girls, now hush up, and sup up. You’re both eating for two now. Or three in Indes’ case.”
Artemis pulled a face behind Díore’s back, inching closer to the fire. Life in Rohan was nice enough, except for the winters. The howling of the winter wind through the thatch of the cottage was a shrill and loud enough song to keep her awake each night, the unbearable cold gnawed and bit at her cool white hands and feet.
The fire was never warm enough to satisfy, except in the forge. Beorn worked late in the winter months, preparing new swords and spears for the Yuletide tournaments at Meduseld. Since Hyderic passed away last winter, there was less help and so more work, and he often wasn’t home until twilight.
Lately, Artemis had taken to sitting there with him as he worked. It was warmer there, Díore never went in, and Beorn was there. Three very good reasons to while her hours away in the forge.
She got to her feet quietly.
“Finish your stew.”
Díore’s voice was softer than it used to be. A year of widowhood had left lines of sorrow written across a weary brow.
“I’m not hungry,” Artemis whispered back, her voice hushed so as not to wake Indes’ little Rícellen.
“Shhh,” Indes murmured soothingly, rocking her little daughter in her arms. Rícellen nestled against the bump where her baby brothers slept, whimpering slightly in her fever. Indes clutched the child closer to her, the fear of losing another baby to fever in wintertime still darkening her eyes.
Beorn looked up as his wife entered.
“I haven’t seen you since dawn,” Artemis said roughly, her voice catching.
Beorn’s answer was a soft sigh as his fingers twined around hers. “I know.”
“I …”
Artemis was crying before she knew it, choking on half-sobs as bitter tears streamed down her face and words came spilling out in no logical order that she’d longed to pour out for months.
“Here .. . winter … dead … everything … father … can’t cope with her … don’t want … our baby … scared, Beorn, sacred.”
“I know.”
Beorn looked down at his wife, round and soft with six months of pregnancy, skin moonlit from the cold harsh winter, beautiful and suddenly unattainable as a statue of bleeding marble, conscious of the smear of oil and dirt across her cheek where his rough blacksmith’s hand had smoothed away her tears.
The strong Elven warrior he had seen on battlefields seemed fragile suddenly, a creature made of glass. She was still strong, but a strong Elf. It took an entirely different strength to be a human, to live as a human, a strength Beorn wasn’t sure Artemis possessed.
“I should never have made our home here.”
Artemis looked up, her green eyes suddenly hard and cold, like chips of emerald mined by Dwarf-lords.
“What do you mean?”
“When our child is born … I’ll go with you to Lorien. Mother will understand. Rohan is … not your home.”
“But it is your home.” Artemis was half-hopeful, half-confused, torn apart almost. Rohan danced through her mind, the sweet smell of apple-blossom on a springtime breeze, the hacking coughs of Hyderic as his lungs wore out against the sickness, flags of the Riddermark whipped up high of the cliff of Meduseld, the way the straw tickled the nose, the music of the wind, the smell of fresh-baked bread, she missed her home, but this was Beorn’s home and she could makes hers here.
“No. You are my home.”
“I haven’t seen my feet in a month.”
“I can’t sleep anymore.”
“I feel bloated and sluggish and disgusting.”
“I AM bloated and sluggish and disgusting.”
Díore bustled in, carrying traces of Edoras’ first frost laced in her rich red hair and lining her woollen mantle. “Pregnancy isn’t a competition girls, now hush up, and sup up. You’re both eating for two now. Or three in Indes’ case.”
Artemis pulled a face behind Díore’s back, inching closer to the fire. Life in Rohan was nice enough, except for the winters. The howling of the winter wind through the thatch of the cottage was a shrill and loud enough song to keep her awake each night, the unbearable cold gnawed and bit at her cool white hands and feet.
The fire was never warm enough to satisfy, except in the forge. Beorn worked late in the winter months, preparing new swords and spears for the Yuletide tournaments at Meduseld. Since Hyderic passed away last winter, there was less help and so more work, and he often wasn’t home until twilight.
Lately, Artemis had taken to sitting there with him as he worked. It was warmer there, Díore never went in, and Beorn was there. Three very good reasons to while her hours away in the forge.
She got to her feet quietly.
“Finish your stew.”
Díore’s voice was softer than it used to be. A year of widowhood had left lines of sorrow written across a weary brow.
“I’m not hungry,” Artemis whispered back, her voice hushed so as not to wake Indes’ little Rícellen.
“Shhh,” Indes murmured soothingly, rocking her little daughter in her arms. Rícellen nestled against the bump where her baby brothers slept, whimpering slightly in her fever. Indes clutched the child closer to her, the fear of losing another baby to fever in wintertime still darkening her eyes.
Beorn looked up as his wife entered.
“I haven’t seen you since dawn,” Artemis said roughly, her voice catching.
Beorn’s answer was a soft sigh as his fingers twined around hers. “I know.”
“I …”
Artemis was crying before she knew it, choking on half-sobs as bitter tears streamed down her face and words came spilling out in no logical order that she’d longed to pour out for months.
“Here .. . winter … dead … everything … father … can’t cope with her … don’t want … our baby … scared, Beorn, sacred.”
“I know.”
Beorn looked down at his wife, round and soft with six months of pregnancy, skin moonlit from the cold harsh winter, beautiful and suddenly unattainable as a statue of bleeding marble, conscious of the smear of oil and dirt across her cheek where his rough blacksmith’s hand had smoothed away her tears.
The strong Elven warrior he had seen on battlefields seemed fragile suddenly, a creature made of glass. She was still strong, but a strong Elf. It took an entirely different strength to be a human, to live as a human, a strength Beorn wasn’t sure Artemis possessed.
“I should never have made our home here.”
Artemis looked up, her green eyes suddenly hard and cold, like chips of emerald mined by Dwarf-lords.
“What do you mean?”
“When our child is born … I’ll go with you to Lorien. Mother will understand. Rohan is … not your home.”
“But it is your home.” Artemis was half-hopeful, half-confused, torn apart almost. Rohan danced through her mind, the sweet smell of apple-blossom on a springtime breeze, the hacking coughs of Hyderic as his lungs wore out against the sickness, flags of the Riddermark whipped up high of the cliff of Meduseld, the way the straw tickled the nose, the music of the wind, the smell of fresh-baked bread, she missed her home, but this was Beorn’s home and she could makes hers here.
“No. You are my home.”