Not to Share

Disclaimer:

I own nothing at all and I only wish that I were as imaginative as Tolkien was, but I would thank him for letting me borrow from him if I could.

Author’s Note:

If you have made it here, let me start by saying thank you for your time, I appreciate you for reading my story. This is the first time I have ever posted something I have written and I only recently started dabbling in the LOTR universe. I would love to know what any of you think.

Also, I know that this is probably an incredibly over-used situation, but I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Estella is my new obsession. I love stories dealing with Merry and Pippin, and they are even better if their significant others are involved.




Not to Share




Some things are never meant to be shared.

Estella sometimes heard the cry of a child while she slept. It was the type of cry that rose and fell in volume, which was interrupted for huge gasping breaths. Hiccups and coughs wracked the small body, making it all the more heart wrenching.

She dreamed that she would bolt from her bed and run across the hall to a nursery. The baby would be red, the face splotchy, the body damp with sweat. Estella would pick the child up, and try to find a way to comfort it, but neither bottle nor fresh diaper would do any good.

Her mother had always said that sometimes babies would wake up and cry for a reason even they did not understand, and the only thing to stop them would be patience and love. Estella found that she had more than an abundant amount of both, and would proceed to sit in the rocking chair in the corner.

Putting the baby against her shoulder, she would begin to rock slowly and rub small circles across it’s back while humming softly near the young hobbit’s ear. Eventually the screaming would slow and soon only small hiccups would remain of the fit. The baby would calm and settle and fall asleep.

Estella would take this opportunity to study the child, her child. In her dreams the baby would never look exactly the same, but always similar. It would have Merry’s curly brown locks and his nose. The eyes would be the same shape as her brother Fatty’s, and the cheeks would be round and chubby like her own. The hands would be delicate and strong, with long fingers, just like his father’s. It would in short, be perfect.

To most women, there would be nothing odd or alarming about a dream such as this. To Estella it was a nightmare. She would wake and tears would fall, and there was no way to stop them. If Merry were in bed beside her, Estella would try to compose herself quickly without waking him.

In some ways, it was easier when Merry was away on business. On those nights she could cry and sob and curl up into a ball. He was not there to comfort her, to tell her it wasn't her fault. It never worked anyway, his words that were meant to be soothing only made it worse.

Merry did not blame her for not yet producing any children, but he should. Estella certainly blamed herself. The two had been married for nearly five years, and there had never been any sign of a pregnancy. She would see how good Merry was with the children that lived in the hall, how wonderful of a father he would be, and she just felt like she wasn’t good enough to be his wife.

Merry never did or said anything to perpetuate this belief, but it gnawed at Estella nonetheless. Never would she have believed that her life could turn out this way, so unhappy, and so empty.

Her husband would never know any of these feelings. These were things she would keep to herself. Estella loved Merry, with all of her being, and she would not see him hurt any more because of her inadequacy.

Estella had dreams at night of a baby crying. These dreams she would keep to herself.