Chapter Text
It Takes a Village.
Amid the starlight is the ever glow of the moon. She comes to them as a mother, soft and warming - comforting - her deep silvers lightening the inky sky to a perfect midnight velvet. Her children come to her, both as celestial and corporeal beings. While her star children can gather around her in clusters; constellations of faint and bold light streaking across her heavens, her elven children are further away. Though through their bond of shared magic, she can feel them as they do her, and tonight she can feel something new, someone new - a brand new life for her to guide.
Newborn cries fill the room. Loud and infuriated. After life inside her mother’s womb, the summer evening’s air feels cold. The tiny infant kicks her legs out in protest, shivering. She can’t smell her mother anymore and the warm, gentle arms that had held her only moments before are gone, replaced by unfamiliar but experienced hands that are firm and not so delicate with her treatment.
“Oh, hush your fussing, you’re alright.” The assistant healer croons. Her movements are quick and confident as she wipes down and wraps the squirming babe. Her lips twitch in amusement as the tiny little thing roars her scrunched faced indignations at her in trembling wails. “Yes, yes. It is all very unfair and quite the traumatizing experience for you I’m sure.”
Cradling the securely wrapped bundle close to her chest, the healer turns her attention to the child’s mother. She’s tired, it’s clear in her slow movements as she struggles to rise onto her elbows, but the dignified grace and strength that she emanates have not wavered - even when she shakily accepts the senior elf’s assistance in holding a healing tea to her lips so that she may drink without spilling.
“You have a daughter.” The assistant says softly. Waiting patiently for the she-elf to finish the tea and settle back against the bedding that bunches beneath and props her spine before she reunites the new mother with her newborn. Carefully loosens the swaddling blankets to allow for bare skin on skin contact before she places the still whimpering elfling against her mother’s chest. Then, she steps back, a soft and fond smile finding its way onto her lips as she watches the bond form between mother and daughter. “May the primal of the moon guide her heart and bless her with grace and strength.”
“Thank you.” Through her exhaustion, the mother smiles and lets her eyes leave the healer’s face to take in the sight of this fresh new life in her arms. She’s here and real and so, so tiny. But she’s strong. Only minutes old and already her tiny girl begins to root, her mouth wide and searching until she latches - her instincts to live, strong.
She can’t help but touch her child as she nurses. Commits every last detail to her memories. Touches the soft tufts of white hair, strokes the tiny, blunt nubs of her daughter’s horn buds. She’s so delicate and feels so light upon her chest. Looks so perfect and smells of life and moonlight. She will be her protector, has been for months already, and will be for longer than she might live and breathe.
The labour had been hard but that doesn’t much matter anymore. All that matters is that her daughter is here, alive and real. Her eyes are glossy when the babe finally releases, and her heart flutters right alongside her lashes when she notices her newborn opening her eyes for the first time.
Lavender, like the night sky in its youngest twilight.
The infant blinks slowly. Everything unfocused and blurred. But she knows that she is safe, she can smell her mother’s scent all around her, feels her voice through the contact between them.
“There you are, wee one.” Her mother murmurs and then the gentle touches are back. Soft pressure skimming the slightly folded pointed ears, a delicate fingertip tracing the length of her tiny nose. “You took your time getting here. Gave us all quite a scare.”
“Tiadrin?”
The mother - Tiadrin - lifts her head from pressing her lips to her daughter’s crown and smiles. Standing there, looking more unsure, more discomposed than she’d ever seen in her life, is her husband. His carnelian gaze is nervous, flitting away from his wife’s face, down to the tiny snuffling elfling held against her breast, and then back up again. “Are you...? Is it okay to…?”
“I’m tired, Lain. That’s all.” Exhausted, not tired. The pain is gone but it leaves an ache that is bone-deep and draining. But she will recover, already the healing teas administered are helping. Dulling the edges that had set her teeth and fuzzing the corners of her vision. She watches her husband through half-lidded eyes, reads the tension in his stance, and chuckles lightly at his hesitation. “Stop standing in the door like some half-witted arseling and come meet your daughter.”
The gentle admonishment is more an affectionate tease than an insult, and it is what finally moves the he-elf’s feet. Lending him the strength he needed to step over the threshold at last and join his wife, his daughter - his newly grown family, upon the bed. Seating himself alongside his heart and his love, he releases out a slow and controlled breath in an attempt to loosen the tension from his body before he leans and presses his lips to Tiadrin’s temple. His mouth curls into a proud curve when he feels, against his lips, the gentle rumble of his wife’s contented hum.
Content himself, his gaze slants downwards to his daughter, whimpering and fretting and fussing in her sleep. Infant hands ball into tight little fists and push against her mother’s skin as she scrunches her face and coughs a single cry before settling once more. She’ll sleep a while longer, her belly is still warm and full.
Once he is certain that the babe remains deeply asleep, Lain releases a breath he’d not known that he’d been holding. He leans forward to slide his finger against his daughter’s now open hand and watches in fascination as her tiny fingers curl around it… And it is then that he knows that his heart is lost to her.
“She’s so small.”
Tiadrin snorts at the wonderment in her husband’s words.
“So you say, Lain. But forgive me if my body and I wholeheartedly disagree with you.” She can feel the warmth of her sleeping daughter’s quick, soft breaths ghosting against her skin and the steady rhythm of a tiny heart that beats strongly inside the newborn’s chest. “But she’s here and she’s healthy and strong. That’s all that matters.”
Lain smiles, his eyes on the fist still gripping his finger fiercely. “That she is.” He brushes his thumb over the back of the delicate appendage. Marvelling at the strength in such a fragile thing. “Heart of a dragon in this one.”
Tiadrin hums in agreement and leans her head down to rest upon Lain’s shoulder, appreciating the warmth and support that his presence offers her. Content to savour this peaceful moment and cherish the closeness and the quiet shared with her husband and new daughter. Then her brow wrinkles as a thought slowly pushes through to the forefront of her mind.
“Where is Ethari?” She murmurs, drowsy, and not quite fully awake anymore. Stubbornly battling to cling to awareness. “And Runaan? I thought they’d be right on your heels when the healer sent for you.”
She can hear Lain’s rich, throaty chuckle; can feel it rumbling heartily against her side and, without a thought, her lips stretch a little wider and perk upwards a little higher.
His merry amusement has always been and still is his most contagious emotion for her. It has never much mattered how sour her mood or bone-tired she is, the moment that his laughter fills the air - the moment that she catches that first lilting note, Tiadrin still feels the same little ‘ting’ of delighted energy as it wakes up her brain and lifts her spirits. They are the high-lights to some of the sweetest moments between them. Moments that she lives for, breathes for and savours above all others.
“They wanted to.” The drawl of his accent is light and playful. Eager to regale his wife with what she had missed while labouring. “Ethari, the great soft shite that he is, damn near took me off my feet soon as both healers agreed that you were fit for visitors. Probably would have trampled me just to be first in too, if it hadn’t been for Runaan pullin’ him aside.” Then his voice drops and his accent follows, adding a playful melody to his words as he presses a soft kiss to the base of Tiadrin’s horn. “Had it been any other man tryin’ to get in here before me, you and I would be havin’ a very different conversation right now.”
Clicking her tongue against her teeth in mock disapproval, Tiadrin rolls her head just enough to slant him her gaze through barely parted lashes. “Jealousy does not suit you, my love?” She teases fondly, pressing a tender kiss of her own against Lain’s shoulder. “I think that you overestimate your competition.”
“And, I think that you underestimate your appeal to others.”
To this, Tiadrin smiles slyly. Eager to play along in the banter. “Ah, yes. Of course. How foolish of me to forget that my womanly wiles are entirely at fault. Clearly, I could easily charm Ethari out of Runaan’s bed and into ours without the promise of adding you to the games. Though, if I recall correctly, it was your jealousy over imagined challengers for my affections and your foolish need to prove yourself that led us to her.” She tilts her chin toward the newborn laying upon her breast as the infant wriggles in her sleep.
She presses her lips to the top of her daughter’s head and hums gentle, placating sounds as she squirms in tiny, jerky movements - reminding her parents that she was, indeed, still present and that she didn’t much appreciate their disruptions to her rest. “Besides, even if I were to suit Ethari's tastes, he does not quite suit mine. He would bring far too much pretty into the relationship.”
To the he-elf’s dismay, the tiny hand that had held his finger captive slackens, and, reluctantly, Lain slips his appendage free from his daughter’s grasp before he meets his wife’s half-lidded gaze. “Oh? So, is this your way of tellin’ me that I’m not pretty?”
Rolling her eyes away, Tiadrin scoffs. “You’re a vain creature, Lain. But, pretty enough I suppose. Though it was never your beauty that won me in the end, it was your sharp wit and clever tongue -” She catches the amused snigger and the feral gleam in wolf-amber eyes. A gleam that ignites in his autumnal gaze into an expression that is all warm mischief and wicked suggestion.
But Tiadrin is sore and in no mood for her husband’s nonsense. She narrows her gaze at him, though she lacks the heat and intensity for the expression to be considered anything close to a true scowl.
“I hope that you’re enjoying whatever dirty thoughts fill your mind, dear husband. Because those thoughts are all the company you’ll be receiving from me a while.” With her curt reprimand issued and her husband pouting, Tiadrin returns to the original topic of conversation. “You won my heart because you were the only man able to keep up with me in weapons-mastery and not whine like a child whenever he was bested.”
“And,” Lain moves slowly. Taking care so as not to disturb the bedding beneath him too much as he shifts onto his hip. Pressing himself tightly alongside the she-elf who he so adores, with his hand resting lightly upon her ribs. His fingertips find the end of the swaddling blanket that covers both his newborn daughter’s bareness and the nakedness of his wife’s chest, toying with it as he catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth and just barely touches the warm skin beneath. “Who’s to say that you’ve ever bested me, woman?”
There’s a hitch in Tiadrin’s breathing. Startled by the slight draught breezing up over her skin while the daring fingers send shivers along her belly. But it’s when the infant squirms and squeaks her disapproval for the cold, her tiny legs curling up higher and away from the invading chill, that a flash of silent warning darkens Tiadrin’s eyes as they cut sharply to her husband’s smug face. Allowing her elbow to catch Lain’s sternum in a less playful dig before she then swats him away entirely when she feels the intruding digits, undeterred, creeping ever higher.
“ I’m to say.” She tells him firmly, raising her palm to cup the pouting he-elf’s cheek and laying a peck against the side of his nose. “And I’m usually right about these sorts of things.”
Lain’s gaze warms with the contact, as does his voice. Lounging against the curl of Tiadrin’s fingers moving along his jaw and leaning into her touch as her knuckles find and catch the neat braid that hangs behind his ear. “Then, you are using biased information then, my dear, sweet Tia.”
Twining the braid playfully around her fingers and with one corner of her mouth just barely sloping upwards, Tiadrin smirks.
“Extremely biased,” She murmurs, her lips mere inches away from his as she speaks. “And always. Why would I fight fairly with impartial when I can win with bias?” She drinks in his smug expression before she tugs sharply, drawing both a pained wince to his face and his lips close enough to brush hers as she speaks. “And if you call me Tia again, Lain, I will gut you.”
Their banter has always been this way. Childish. Crude. More the swapping of gentle insults and intentionally prodding at each other’s tempers just enough to enflame affection rather than anger. And though their words may grow heated at times, the emotion behind them is never anything short of loving.
Much like the threat that Tiadrin throws now. It’s hollow, and more of a tease for how often she parries with it. But before Lain can voice his go-to retort, the words already forming on his tongue, Tiadrin pulls away. Distracted by the fretful wriggling upon her chest and the quiet snufflings that have grown increasingly more urgent as the elfling babe opens her mouth to announce her irritation to her parents in a single loud cry.
The sound freezes both Tiadrin and Lain immediately. Their mouths snapping shut as they cautiously hold their breath, watching the tiny newly born elfling as she struggles and kicks her legs in jagged, jerking movements beneath the blankets. Silently waiting for the angry infant to decide whether her cries might wane as she returns to slumbering or if they might increase in a demand to nurse again.
Finally, her complaints soften and she wobbles her unstable head around so that now it’s her other cheek that cushions her face. Leaving her parents with her grumpiest little whimpers yet and the memory of her face scrunching into the crossest little expression as she presents them with the back of her head.
With the tentative peace restored, Lain is the first to find his words. Releasing them on a snort and a flutter of stifled chuckles. “Well, that was the most terrifyin’ two minutes of my life.”
However, Tiadrin is not quite so confident as her husband and she finds herself holding her breath for an extra moment or two. Just so she can be certain that the newborn is, indeed, deep sleep before she’s daring enough to again tease the he-elf.
“I think you offended her, my love.” She chides and presses her lips to the corner of Lain’s down-turned mouth in an effort to soothe the sting to his ego. “Barely an hour old and already this wee one knows that her father is an insufferable arse.”
The expression that Lain dons in response to her words is one of childlike pouting. Little more than exaggerated expressions and theatrical sighs. His ears droop and his bottom lip juts out ridiculously, but it’s when he bats his lashes over imploring eyes in the most pathetically comical way that his wife fears that she’ll burst with her bitten back laughter.
“So, where is my trait in her?” He complains. His lips twitch against the secret, impish smile that he holds hidden behind his teeth as he teases and ticks off his faux grievances on his fingers. “Because so far, I’m seeing you and Runaan in her temperament. And clearly , her beauty is inherited from you and Ethari. But she has no appreciation for her dad’s clearly dazzlin’ charms and she scoffs at my blindin’ wit. This is an ultimate betrayal of daughterly love!”
The sigh that flutters from Tiadrin’s lips catches Lain’s attention, his expression quickly morphing from one of playfulness tone of concern.
It is a delicate sound but it’s the sound of deflating weariness and not of disappointment. And it’s painstakingly clear to him, at least, that it’s becoming increasingly difficult for her to keep her eyes open. The healer’s draught has finally caught her up and now her body aches for rest and recovery.
But, Tiadrin is nothing if not stubborn. And, somehow, she finds within herself just enough energy so that she can toss one final taunting barb Lain’s way; her lips moving even as her strength wanes. “You are my husband, Lain. We are heart-bound. And, though I love you with all of myself and as adorable as I find that you still have these little moments of insecurity, I suggest that you pull your head from your arse or I shall ask to join Ethari and Runaan in their bed if only to escape your foolishness.
Lain leans to touch his lips to Tiadrin’s cheek. “Point made, my heart.” Then he rests his temple to hers and glances at the tiny babe once more.
His daughter. Their daughter.
The daughter who very nearly didn’t make it.
Though he smiles with his words, it’s abundantly clear that the nagging anxiety is still there. It lurks below the surface in his eyes and just barely stiffens the curve to his lips. It’s in his actions, his silly jokes, and in the subtle lines that furrow his brow.
The enamoured part of him wants nothing more than to touch her, to confirm to himself that she is real, while his sensibilities warn against disturbing her. And, for a moment he is conflicted, but it’s a conflict that is short-lived. Bracing himself for the very real possibility of waking her, Lain reaches out, then hesitates, his thumb rubbing over his knuckles nervously before he finds the courage to carefully cup his palm to the back of the infant’s head.
The delicate strokes of his thumb against the thin wisps of silvery-white soothes the broiling anxiety in his chest while the tender words that he murmurs bring a gentle smile to Tiadrin’s lips as her head droops. “I love you, my tiny fighter. I can’t think of a moment where I’ve ever been prouder.”
Lain’s shoulder is comfortable beneath Tiadrin’s cheek and it’s getting so difficult for her to remain awake. Her focus diminishes as her consciousness drifts and her world dissolves into a blur of random thoughts and images. After a few minutes, she wakes with a start, even though she has no recollection of falling asleep.
Nor can she recall when it was exactly that she had settled back amongst the pillows, but that is how she finds herself now. Comfortable. Warm. With softness beneath her, cradling her tired body and blankets tucked around her - and Lain, now seated at the foot of the mattress instead of beside her - none of this was as she remembered.
“You need to rest, Tia,” Lain explains gently. His heart aching at the shadows of confusion that he finds in his wife’s glazed eyes. “Our little one is still sleepin’ and you were well on your way to joinin’ her. I thought you’d rest easier in comfort.”
“I’m alright. I was just resting my eyes-”
“Tiadri-”
“You’re fussing more than our daughter, Lain. I’m not going to break.” There’s a hint of laughter in Tiadrin’s eyes and more than a suggestion of mischief in her voice, but even she can hear her own exhaustion, can hear the way that it slurs her words. But there are two more in their family yet to meet the newborn and to deny them their five minutes of fawning so that she might sleep feels petty and selfish. “Besides, I think that it’s time to fetch them in to visit now. Short of his work at his forge or Runaan bedding him, Ethari can only be kept distracted for so long.”
There’s a twinge in her abdomen as she braces her daughter to her chest with one hand and digs her other elbow against the mattress. A subtle warning from her body that she does, indeed, need to rest soon. But Tiadrin is stubborn. She grunts and shuffles and heaves herself backwards in the most undignified way - with the assistance of Lain’s firm grasp beneath her arms - until she’s more artfully sprawled against the pillows rather than simply a slumped and dishevelled mess bundled in sheets. “And, I’m fairly sure that, by now, Runaan has had to resign himself to sitting on that sappy spouse of his just to keep him from barging in here - and that’s really not a sight that we should both miss.”
As much as Lain may wish to again argue for Tiadrin to rest, he knows his wife well enough to recognize when his protests fall upon deaf ears. It’s obvious by the line of her jaw and the way that she watches him through a half-lidded gaze, that her mind is made and to argue further at this point would be fruitless and serve as little more than a petty drain on her limited energy. So, instead, Lain sighs and pushes himself up onto his feet before coming around to her side so that he can run his fingers affectionately through her short hair.
“You make a fair point.” He murmurs, bending to peck her lips. “But, five minutes and then you rest.”
“Lain-”
“Humour me, okay? Ethari and Runaan will understand.” This time, the he-elf’s voice is firm though not unkind nor snappish. But it’s a tone that she’s intimately familiar with, the tone that Lain uses to help him ground himself. In his taking control of the situation, he is finally able to quash the last of the lingering fear that he’d borne ever since that very first contraction had taken Tiadrin so brutally. “This was harder on you than you’d like to admit.”
And it’s a tone that soothes the fears that coil around her own heart and lends her the strength she needs to banish them.
“A little.” She admits softly. Her voice is small and quiet as she finally allows herself to process the complications of her labour. Her waters breaking too early, the labour too slow in its progression. But, neither were a more frightening a moment for her than when Lain was ushered from the room and the first glimpse that she had caught of her child; gasping for breath and turning blue, the umbilical cord knotted tightly about her little neck. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”
“A lot , love.” Lain’s fingers find and tangle with Tiadrin’s. Squeezing comfort into them before sliding them free. “But, I’ll fetch them. And I’ll tell them to keep it brief, and then you sleep and recover.”
He’s hesitant to leave them, the glossy wetness of unshed tears in his wife’s eyes leaden his feet until they drag with every step that carries him further away. But, prolonging his presence means also prolonging the anguish of whatever memory currently has Tiadrin’s emotions by the throat.
So he smiles at her, allows his own warmer emotions to touch his eyes before he slips through the door.
Bracing it open, he pauses to add a quip that he hopes might lighten the dour mood. “Besides, I’ve been gone long enough that Ethari’ll have decided that he’s done waitin’. The soft bastard’ll have started makin’ his way here, Runaan sittin’ on him or not. Probably be lurkin’ just down the hall by now.”
And it does. That far-away look that always betrays Tiadrin’s emotions fades as she chuckles softly through her nose. “Probably.” Then she shivers and, seeking warmth against what she assumes to be chills of fatigue, draws one of the blankets a little higher over herself. “And, all the more reason for you to go fetch them then, don’t you think?”
Then Lain laughs. A true, warming laugh. “Alright, alright. Quit yer naggin’, woman, I’m goin’.” And then he’s gone. Almost running along the hall to disappear around a corner.
Without Lain to stimulate her awareness any longer, Tiadrin finds herself sinking deeper into the comfort and warmth of the bedding. Her exhaustion, once again, seeps into her bones and coaxes her eyelids to shutter. But when her ears become more accustomed to the lack of sound around her, she finds that they instinctively train upon the quick, soft breathing of her daughter still sleeping on her chest, smiling tenderly whenever the tiny infant coos dreamily at herself or her little limbs shift and reposition.
“You are a lucky little girl, my wee sweet,” Tiadrin murmurs softly. “Already a troublemaker and already so loved by so many even though they’ve yet to meet you.” Her fingers stroke small, soothing circles against her daughter’s back even as her own eyes droop lower.
She’s drifting again. Skirting in and out of awareness. Not really asleep but floating just deep under the threshold of wakefulness that time has slipped into a concept too foreign for her to decipher. “Your father is a good man and you’ve two more to meet who’ll cherish you as their own.”
“Tia?”
“Mmmm?” Tiadrin frowns softly, the voice that pushes through her fuzzy thoughts is new and intrusive and somewhat distorted in her sluggish brain. She forces herself to rouse just enough to crack open an eye, which is then swiftly followed by a soft smile when she finally places a name to the familiar face and voice. “It’s okay, Ethari. I’m awake.”
With her permission to enter confirmed, the weaponsmith is first to reach Tiadrin’s side. Already doe-eyed and smitten as he drops to his knees and gazes wistfully at the tiny infant mostly hidden beneath the blanket.
“Oh, look at her.” He breathes. “She’s such a wee bairn.”
Carefully pushing back the blankets a little, so as to allow Ethari a clearer view of her daughter’s face, Tiadrin scoffs softly at the bewilderment in his words. “Okay, until any one of you pushes something as ‘small’ as her from your bodies, I’m going to need all you men to stop deciding that that is what she is.”
The very corners of Ethari’s mouth twitch as the line of his lips press together in a rueful smile and his soft gaze softens further in wordless apology. Then the newborn moves and Ethari’s attention is shifted. The dimple in his cheek deepening as he watches how her curled fist pushes out toward him and opens. His smile widens further still as her four tiny fingers curl around the one that he offers her and she murmurs low little sounds, smacking her lips against her tongue and yawning.
“How are you feeling, Tiadrin?”
Peering over the top of Ethari’s head, Tiadrin eyes Runaan carefully, resting against the door jamb with a face that radiates utter nonchalance. He isn’t slumped at all, his body is too well disciplined to allow him to slouch, yet he clearly isn’t as relaxed as he’s trying to portray. He holds his posture too rigidly and his carefully schooled expression is just that, careful like he’s making a conscious effort to look effortless. Instead, he looks hesitant, almost nervous.
Tiadrin shrugs. “Can’t complain, really.” Then she slants a suspicious eye over to Runaan, watching the way the man’s tensed jaw works behind his thin lips. Then she pitches her voice low and the next words that she drawls carry with them more than a just hint of provocation. “Aside from feeling like my loins have been split in two and I shat my insides out through them, I’m just peachy.”
Tiadrin’s crass and blunt description catches the elegant elf off-guard. Eyes of the palest blue - too soft to be turquoise but too bright to be a true blue - widen as a beat of silence oozes discomfort between the group, thick and cloying and heavy. It stretches on until a beat becomes a long moment and then, finally, Runaan clears his throat, the sharp sound slicing cleanly through the deafening absence of noise as keenly as any one of his blades.
“That, uh…” He swallows awkwardly around his tongue. The organ feels too heavy and too thick for him to manipulate easily, then he pushes the rest of his clumsy sentence out and internally winces at the strain that he hears in the words. “That doesn’t sound comfortable.”
“There are numerous things that don’t sound ‘comfortable’, Runaan.” Tiadrin pauses and tilts her head toward the newborn. “Pregnancy is not comfortable. Childbirth is, perhaps a notch or two above that level of discomfort…” She rolls her own blue eyes back to the assassin’s, her teeth finding and half biting into the edge of her lip as she amends her pain score. “Maybe six.”
“If I may,” Ethari interjects, pausing mid-sentence to smile softly to himself as the tiny fist around his finger squeezes tighter. “Motherhood suits you, Tiadrin. Far more so than the pregnancy.” Then he glances up through his lashes, and something shifts just beneath the surface of his soft expression. Something sudden and mischievous, though the emotion disappears before Tiadrin can confidently identify it. “It was unusual to see someone as elegant as yourself waddling to and fro-”
“I’d mind your husband, Runaan.” She scolds. Shifting herself onto her hip just enough to playfully flick said husband’s forehead gently. “Otherwise, childbirth or not, I will put you on your arse just to prove that I can.”
“I have no doubt of that.” There’s a hint of a smile playing at the edge of Runaan’s mouth as the elegant assassin agrees. The tension that had slithered along his spine and caught in his rigid stance eases, his posture is now comfortable rather than apprehensive as he folds his arms loosely over his chest. His familiar air of casual confidence returning. “Though, and I ask for the sake of my own curiosity, but why am I the recipient of your wrath when it’s Ethari who offends you?”
Tiadrin quirks an eyebrow as she cast her gaze to the elf at her side, considers Runaan’s question carefully before raising her eyes to meet the lithe assassin’s curious face once more. “He is not a warrior. It’s hardly a challenge to best the sword smith over the swords man , don’t you think?”
A strange emotion briefly flits over Runaan’s face. It tightens his lips and pinches his eyebrows upwards in an unreadable expression…
… But, only for a moment, because in the next one the suffocating stiffness is broken entirely and Runaan is laughing as he pushes himself from the doorframe.
With elegance in his stride and deadly precision in his steps, Runaan moves a path that brings him to stand just behind Ethari. His firm hand comes down upon his husband’s shoulder and his fingers curl tightly into the familiar soft fabric of the smith’s tunic. His usually impartial features soften, there’s a gradual pull to his lips and a gentleness that dances into his eyes as he watches the newborn stir. Her balled up little fists raise to her ears as she curls into herself, her mouth open wide and rooting.
“Well, here’s to the primal’s that your little one does not inherit your temperament and stubbornness, Tiadrin.”
“Nor yours,” She retorts slyly. Sharing a conspirational look with her husband as he snickers.
Unseen upon Tiadrin’s chest, nascent eyes crack open, revealing the infant’s delicate lavender irises. She squints, her vision is still unfocused and developing. She snuffles quietly. Her tongue peeks from between her lips as her mouth tries to work out exactly where to root and rut. Then her face scrunches up in frustration and her snuffles morph into those strange coughing cries of warning as she pushes her uncoordinated limbs out against her mother’s skin. Furious when the nipple that she’s seeking doesn’t instantly materialize before her.
So, reacting to the strange, new internal stimulations and overwhelmed by external sensation, she cries. Softly at first. Then they turn fractious, shrill, broken only by her gasping for breaths in-between each bout of screaming. It only takes a few moments of artless shuffling and a handful of awkwardly diverted gazes before blankets are hastily rearranged to offer privacy and then the infant is latched. Her hungry screams and cries fading into soft, contented sighs.
“There, now. Everything’s all alright again, isn’t it?” Tiadrin croons softly to her nursing child. Her supporting hand moves to touch the soft, round cheeks of her daughter for just a moment before tugging the shielding blanket more securely around herself. “Such a big temper for such a small elfling.”
“Tia?”
“Hmmm?”
While Tiadrin would have felt completely content to simply watch her daughter quietly a few moments longer, it would be inexcusably rude to ignore Ethari’s gentle bid for her attention - despite Lain’s five-minute visitation limit having long been exceeded and ignoring her own exhaustion that is quickly catching up to her once more. She also knows that the man is gentle in every sense of the word. She knows that Ethari is courteous enough to keep his curiosity tempered.
So she allows her gaze to fall to him, still sitting on his knees at her bedside. Inviting him to ask his question despite the fact that she’s tiring fast now and she knows that they can all see it. The dark fatigue in her eyes is fathoms deep, but the fires that burn behind them remains strong.
With his face open and earnest, and with everything from the depth of his eyes to his gentle expressions all the way to the low softness of his voice, he offers her comfort as he asks. “I was wondering, does she have a name yet?”
She blinks slowly, her gaze sliding to observe her daughter. Checking that she was still content as she fidgets in her arms, her tiny hands curling and flexing, kneading against her skin. Smiling to herself and manoeuvring just enough to lay a gentle hand over her daughter’s head, Tiadrin nods.
“Yes, she does.” She strokes the delicate tufts of fine white hair curling between the elfling’s horn buds with the back of her finger as she sighs softly. “Rayla.”