As the child grew within her, Finduilas rested through the noonday. Her husband joined her when he could, a pleasant respite from duty and care.
Sometimes Denethor rubbed her back. The sight of her body then filled him not with passion, but quiet joy, and awe, and thankfulness. She lay on her side and he curled around her, his hand cupping her ever-so-slightly rounded belly.
Something stirred against his palm, like the flutter of an owl’s wing brushing silently past on a midsummer’s evening. He held his breath, wondering.
“Finduilas,” he whispered.
“Sssh,” her soft reply. “Your son is awake.”