A Tale of Arwen: Queen of Fertility

Chapter 1 - The Curse of Fertility

Minas Tirith had learned to breathe again.

Where once the wind had carried smoke and the clang of iron, it now lifted laughter from courtyards and gardens. Cloth-dyers unfurled their banners in the markets, children tested the echoing staircases with games, and somewhere in the city a lute tried out a hopeful melody and mostly found it. The White Tree had unfurled new leaves; even the stone felt warmer underfoot, as if it had set down an old burden.

Arwen took her walks at dawn, when light spilled like milk over the terraces and the city was still half-asleep. She liked the moments before duty grew teeth. Bareheaded, a simple blue cloak over her gown, she made a quiet circuit of the seventh level and let the hush settle. It was a new land to her—these walls, these streets—and she moved through them like someone learning a song by heart.

The Steward’s archivists had begged her, more than once, to visit the great rooms where they were sorting the city’s rescued relics, and on this morning curiosity tugged a little harder than usual. She slipped through an open door to the tower’s storerooms and found a world of chests and shelves, each labeled in a careful hand: “Wards recovered from the sixth gate,” “Temple finials, cracked,” “Household silver, assorted.”

“Majesty?” An archivist rose, flustered, ink on his fingers. “If we had known—”

“Please,” Arwen said, smiling. “If I needed a procession for curiosity, I would never learn anything.”

Relieved, he gestured her inward. “Only… mind the crates from Osgiliath. The river did no favors to their hinges.”

She wandered. Here were clay lamps, there scroll-cases swollen with damp. She paused before a low cedar chest whose lid sat half-ajar, as if something inside had pushed weakly, beseeching air. A faint sweetness met her as she lifted it—like the last breath of a flower pressed between pages.

Inside lay a simple brooch. Silver, or a metal close enough to pretend; shaped like a star with soft points, no larger than the hollow of a palm. Along its edge, an inscription ran in hair-thin strokes she didn’t recognize at a glance—not the stern geometry of Gondor, nor the flowing hand of the Eldar. When her fingers brushed the metal, it warmed as though it knew her.

The archivist, hovering at a respectful distance, coughed. “We’ve not placed that one, Majesty. Came in a pouch with coins from—ah—less reputable hands.”

“Then we ought to give it a reputable one,” Arwen said lightly, before her more cautious thought could catch up. She pinned the star at her throat to steady it while she studied the script. It clung pleasantly, as if it liked to belong.

A soft spark toggled in the corner of her eye, the way motes turn to suns when a window is first opened. She blinked. The spark went with her, then hid. “How odd,” she murmured, and then laughed at herself. “I’m seeing little gleams, like—like someone shook a snow globe.”

“A what, Majesty?” the archivist asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said, though the laughter caught again, for no good reason except that she felt—buoyant. That was the word. As if her bones had decided not to be quite so solemn. “Thank you for the tour. I’ll bring this to the loremasters when they wake at a saner hour.”

She stepped back into the morning with the brooch bright at her collar and the oddest feeling that her gown had grown a whisper more… filled. The silk across her breasts pressed proudly, seams tugging with each breath. At her waist, the lacing drew tighter, cinching against a stomach that now carried the faintest new softness. When she shifted her stride, her skirts brushed heavier at her hips, swishing with more presence than she remembered.

She tugged discreetly at the fabric, but the gown only winked with a playful shimmer in the sun, as though it delighted in hugging her more closely.

It was nothing. A good mood made everything a little shinier, a little snugger. That was all.

At the eastern parapet two guards stood in their new lacquered breastplates, trying to look carved. They straightened when she approached, but Arwen waved them at ease. “I see the armorer was generous with polishing oil,” she said, and then, in spite of herself, added, “They’re, like, super glossy.”

“Super?” one guard repeated, confounded. The other suppressed a grin.

Arwen blushed. “Glossy,” she amended with queenly dignity, then spoiled it by tapping her fingertip against the breastplate. “If the sun strikes just so, we might blind an approaching orc at two hundred paces. A cunning strategy, Captain.”

“Majesty,” the guard said, trying not to beam. The title sounded less stiff when everyone was smiling.

As she turned away, she realized the sway of her step felt exaggerated. Her gown clung at her butt, drawing tight to outline a roundness that had not been there the week before. More telling still was the way her bodice now seemed to press into her rounding middle—her stomach pushing gently, persistently, against its lacing. Each breath felt like a negotiation with silk.

She rested her hand briefly over her waist, chuckling under her breath. The seamstress will scold me for sitting too long at council. That must be it.

The small council chamber overlooked the circles of the city. The river flashed, the far fields mended themselves from brown to green. Aragorn rose when she entered. His gaze lingered not just on the star at her collar, but on the gown stretched snug over bust, waist, and hips alike. He tilted his head, a smile flickering before he caught it, then returned to kingly composure.

She lowered herself beside him, only to find the carved arms of the chair pressing close at her thighs. When she leaned forward, her bodice pinched sharply across her stomach, a soft new fullness rising against the laces. She sat straighter, adjusting, and folded her hands neatly, cheeks warmed.

“—and as for the banners,” Faramir was saying, “the master dyer proposes deep blue and gold, to honor the sea-kings and the renewed line.”

“Classic,” Arwen said brightly. A few brows furrowed at the unfamiliar word. She cleared her throat. “I mean, that would be… stately. But perhaps a thread of green? Something bright?”

She sketched cheerful tassels in the air. Her sleeves pulled taut across fuller shoulders; her bust shifted heavily against her gown; and her stomach pressed stubbornly against the bodice’s lacing until she could feel the seams strain. “You know, cute.”

The word hung, bewildering, until Ioreth broke into delighted laughter. “Why not? After so much black and iron, a little cheer won’t break a single bone.”

“Yes!” Arwen said, more eagerly than intended. As she leaned forward, her bodice groaned faintly at the seams, her belly pressing in soft defiance against the gown. She quickly sat back, hands smoothing her lap as if that could disguise the change. “Yes. A lighter touch.”

The brooch purred warmly against her throat, as though proud of its work.

Later, in the loremasters’ house, Master Heledir tried to examine the brooch. It refused his hand, shimmering faintly until Arwen lifted it again. The moment she touched it, warmth spread downward, settling heavily in her belly. She giggled without meaning to, and pressed a hand against her middle as her bodice pinched tighter around the small swell of softness that had appeared there.

When she caught her reflection in the darkened bookcase glass, she startled. Her boobs rose high, straining the silk. Her hips pushed wider beneath her gown, skirts forced into heavy ripples. And most striking of all, her waist, once willow-slim, now bore a gentle curve outward, her stomach rounding enough that the lacing bit into it, shaping her softness into visible ridges beneath the fabric.

She pressed her lips together, willing composure, though her cheeks burned.

Heledir’s brows climbed, but he spoke calmly. “It seems determined to be yours, Majesty. That much is certain.”

She pinned it back into place, and at once her middle pressed forward more insistently, her gown fitting her like a second skin. She adjusted in her chair, feeling heavier than she had at dawn, but lifted her chin. Queens did not fuss about seams.

That evening, Aragorn greeted her with quiet amusement. His eyes softened as they passed over her fuller form: the proud swell of bust and hips, the rounded belly pressing firmly against silk.

“You glow,” he murmured.

“I do not,” she protested quickly, one hand flying to her stomach as though to hide its new curve. The seams across her waist groaned softly in reply. She blushed, half-laughing. “Perhaps… I slightly do.”

He chuckled, brushing her hand aside to hold it in his own. “I love you.”

Arwen turned to the balcony. Her skirts swished heavily against her legs, her bodice pinching at her middle with every breath. In the dark glass of the window she glimpsed her reflection: the brooch glittering at her throat, and beneath it a queen grown rounder, softer, fuller, fatter—radiant with abundance, like a harvest made flesh.

The brooch hummed like a pleased cat. She rested her hand over it. And though she knew she ought to be cautious, she found herself smiling.

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Freja here!

Starting another story with Perks of the Job approaching the last (and most exciting) third! This story will more 'heavily' feature notes of bimbofication and pregnancy.

Enjoy!