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A scream drags Fenris from sleep. He’s on his feet groping for his sword before his brain has registered more than the source, Hawke. The strained chuckle is what makes him focus, he’s unarmed, barefoot, and Dahlia is safe, or as safe as one can be after nearly two days of labour.
“Did I wake you?” She’s on all fours on the straw mattress, tired brown eyes looking up at him from beneath sweat soaked hair.
It can’t be too bad, he thinks, she can still be sarcastic. The thought has barely finished before Hawke dropped to her elbows, the sound she makes starts out a low growl the gradually stretches into a scream. A primal sound unlike anything Fenris has heard from her before. He watches her body tense under the light sleep shirt and then her shoulders drop and her spine relaxes.
He drops to his knees beside her, her face is still buried in the mattress and his nimble fingers pull the hair out of her face and into a simple braid. He kisses her on the forehead and tries to remember all things he’d done the day before while she was still mobile and insisting on doing farm chores through the pain.
His hand traces the curve of her back and he presses his thumbs into the flesh above her tailbone. She moans and her legs relax, he switches to his knuckles but another contraction takes hold. He watches in mute amazement as her stomach tightens, awe and helplessness wrestle in his stomach. Suddenly without a sound Orana is beside him.
The former slave moves with an authority he’s never seen from her before. She’s run the small farm like a well oiled machine and while Hawke may own the deed it was obvious who the mistress of the house was from the moment they showed up on the doorstep. The elf woman settles on her knees behind Hawke and squints before her hand disappears between her thighs.
“Over here, Serrah.” She says. “Get her up it’s almost time.”
Fenris is at once terrified and elated.
They help Hawke into a squat. She braces herself on Fenris’ thighs and suffers through another contraction. She doesn’t scream anymore, the strangled noise she makes is somewhere between a grunt and a growl. He places a soft kiss on the back of her head.
How long does it take now, he wonders. No sooner does the thought cross his mind and Hawke is bearing down again, her nails dig through the linen of his leggings and bite into flesh, her hands alone will leave bruises. He bites his tongue and makes no sound. Nothing happening to him in this moment can compare to what she is enduring, he tells himself.
Orana grabs his hand suddenly and moves it between Hawke’s thighs. His palm meets something hard and wet, he pulls his hand back and searches Orana’s eyes for an answer.
“Your child’s head,” she smiles, and Dahlia glances over her shoulder a smile on her face quickly turning to a grimace as another contraction grips her.
It feels like hours but it’s only a half of one before the labour is over. Orana sets straight to helping Hawke put the baby on the breast. Fenris feels a guilty sort of exhaustion that comes with the relief of seeing a loved one go through a great struggle and knowing you can do nothing to ease it. Orana encourages him to cut the cord once the placenta has been delivered.
She swaddles the sleeping baby and hands it to him for the first time. He almost doesn’t take the little bundle from her, what if he drops it, what if he hugs it too tightly, how can he be a father? What have I ever done to deserve such joy, he thinks.
Orana goes to the door and the room comes alive. The small selection of staff she employs coming to life, a hand maid helps Hawke to bathe and change, and Orana organizes the removal of the soiled straw mattress. Fenris is only vaguely aware of the bustle around him.
He’s too lost in blue eyes, and black hair, golden skin, and pudgy fingers that wrap instinctively around his. He doesn’t notice they’re alone until the bundle in his arms begins to stir, tiny lips puckering and rooting against his loose work shirt.
“Ravenous little beastie isn’t he?” Hawke chuckles, her breast already bared and arms out to accept the child.
“It’s hard work being born,” his voice is soft and thick with emotion.
Hawke has the infant latched and a pillow under him for support. She looks for all the world like a natural parent.
“Are you alright?” He asks. She’s pale and exhausted, that much is obvious. “Can I get you anything? What do you need?”
She pats the bed beside her. When he sits she adjusts herself and the child to lean against him. “What I need is for you to help me name your son.”
Fenris is quiet for a long time. What name could he give this child? He had no family to honour. He looks to Hawke as she adjusts the child to empty the other breast and he knows what he wants to name him.
“Malcolm,” he says placing a kiss on the top of the child’s head.