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1.
They were probably moving too fast.
No, they were definitely moving too fast. Not three months ago, they’d had mindflayer tadpoles in their heads and cultists of a truly astonishing variety on their tails, not to mention Mizora’s underlings and Astarion’s family. Now they were short the tadpoles and, well, most of the cults, and Astarion’s siblings were all off serial murdering their way along the Sword Coast, presumably, and so no longer his problem—but where one problem went away, three more were quick to sprout. Mizora still wanted Karlach dead for the sake of her pride, Karlach having done her the unforgivable insult of being Zariel’s favorite of the two of them, and worse yet, not giving Mizora the chance to turn the tide and dominate her when last they went to bed. And so she kept sending her lessers after them, as many as she could. Usually warlocks, not devils, because with Karlach and Astarion taking up residence in Avernus, a defeated devil was dead dead, while a warlock was just a devil who hadn’t been born yet.
Karlach hated killing them. The warlocks. Mizora was a nasty piece of work, and when you knew Wyll Ravengard and how she’d gotten her claws in him, it was hard to keep telling yourself these people signed up for this shit, and if they didn’t want to be wrung dry of all their misery, all their humanity, and then forged into devils once everything good in them was gone, maybe they should’ve thought about that before they sold their souls.
(A memory that now came up whenever she so much as thought the word: unsurprisingly stumbling upon a handful of dead tiefling refugees in the shadow-cursed lands with Astarion and Gale, and Astarion saying pitilessly, oh, the humanity; Gale musing aloud, “Forgive me if I’m lecturing the faculty, so to speak, given your own origins, but in Waterdeep, at least, there’s actually a bit of a controversy going about right now regarding the use of the word ‘humanity’ to mean one’s capacity for compassionate or eusocial behavior! Obviously, no one—well, very few people, at least, it’s never good to get in the habit of making broad claims like ‘everyone’ and ‘no one’ and ‘never’ and ‘always’—really means to imply that the other races lack a capacity for eusocial behavior, but language is a powerful thing, and anyone who would claim otherwise would be wise to avoid getting into any confrontations with wizards!”)
Anyway. It sucked, killing people who, for all she knew, had sold their souls to save little kids from burning buildings, and most of Mizora’s warlocks weren’t Wyll, embroiled by happenstance in planes-spanning intrigue and more useful with mind and body intact than as a screaming husk in Dís. Most warlocks, talking them down and convincing them to walk away wouldn’t save them. They’d leave the House of Hope lemures either way. She let them choose how they wanted to die, because Wyll would say that was the right thing to do, and she was being a Hero, capital H, these days, but they always chose to fight. Nobody’d beaten the new residents of Raphael’s citadel in a fight yet, but you wouldn’t know if you didn’t try, right? Karlach got it, she’d’ve done the same in their shoes.
Mizora’s warlocks were good eating, at least. For Astarion, anyway. Karlach swore off cannibalism after she got out of the hells the first time, and even though they were back in Avernus for the foreseeable future, she was holding herself to that. They had a good deal going with Helsik: she wanted valuable infernal artifacts, they wanted groceries and letters delivered for them. The fee was a steep one, but meant the chances the diabolist would betray them would remain low. At the very least, if she let anyone buy a portal into the House of Hope, it’d be someone she was confident they’d be able to do in. Karlach could respect the hustle. Astarion was always pleased about those visitors, moreso than the warlocks: drained them dry, then more often than not took Karlach to bed, smile a little bit manic. Wouldn’t do to let fresh blood go to waste, would it?
He felt some kind of way about killing the warlocks, Karlach guessed. They didn’t talk about it much—Astarion made it pretty fucking clear after they dragged Cazador’s much-stabbed, staked, and helpless form outside to burn that he was trying to make a clean break, start a new life totally free of his master’s claws. Pretend he was better now, his monster slain and the story over, a happy ending on the horizon like in the two-copper heroic romances he was always nicking off people’s shelves when they were on the road still. Karlach was giving him space about it. But she knew that if it were her, she’d feel pretty fucking bad about eating people who were compelled to fight them.
Astarion used Charm to procure some of his victims, he’d confided in her once—capital C, the mind-altering magic kind. It was a power that came naturally to vampires, lords and spawn alike. He wasn’t the most charismatic person naturally, acerbic and standoffish, and when he was pretending at infatuation or pleasure, you could tell it was an act, at least if you weren’t blackout drunk. And it was a long, dark walk from Astarion’s typical nighttime haunts to the Szarr palace all the way in the Upper City.
He didn’t say he felt guilty about it, not in so many words, but… the word he used was ‘victims’, and it seemed to Karlach that if you didn’t feel guilty about magically compelling someone to their doom, you’d do it all the time, and not just when you felt like you had to.
He didn’t welcome touch, after he drained one of Mizora’s warlocks dry.
It wasn’t just Mizora they had to worry about. Zariel and Mephistopheles both harbored grudges that brought enemies significantly more dangerous than warlocks and well-to-do adventuring parties to their doorstep, and Karlach and Astarion frequently ventured out of the relative safety of the House of Hope in their search for a way to upgrade Karlach’s engine or be rid of it altogether. So far, the search had been for naught, but it was still early days. Karlach was confident they’d figure something out eventually, convince one of Zariel’s smiths to turn face or find some infernal material that would better insulate the engine than what Dammon had access to back in the Gate.
And if they didn’t—well. Things were different, now, weren’t they? If Karlach got her engine fixed up so she could leave Avernus for good, they’d just be trading one set of problems for another. The Hells were, well, hell, but they didn’t have a sun, and devils didn’t have any problem with murder or gross perversions of the natural order. If they went back to the Prime Material Plane, where could they go? Was it fair to Astarion to ask him to go back to a life in the shadows for her? He’d agree to it, no matter how miserable it made him. Karlach knew that. She didn’t know what to do about it, though.
She still wanted a cure, wanted out of the Hells, wanted to get her stolen life back. Astarion didn’t have any hope of that, but she wanted him to have a life, at least. Could she be happy getting what she’d been so sure she’d wanted all this time, if it came at her lover’s expense? Was she selfish enough to find out?
Maybe. Maybe not. Lacking an answer, Karlach’s current plan was to put off asking the question as long as possible. There were other questions to ask! Questions like, “What if we had a kid?”
Astarion twisted around in Karlach’s arms to look at her over his shoulder, half his face obscured by the drape of her forearm. “What?”
He seemed more confused than horrified. A good sign. “I dunno,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking about mortality, stuff like that. What I want out of life. You know.”
Astarion prised himself free of Karlach’s grasp and artfully rearranged himself, now facing her laying on his side, propped up on one elbow. Draw me like one of your Waterdhavian girls, Karlach’s brain supplied, a line from a bawdy stageplay she went to see with Fytz not long before Gortash sold her to Zariel. “And what do you want out of life, darling?”
Karlach groaned, long and drawn out. “Wish I fuckin’ knew, Fangs. But. Did you ever want kids, before?”
“Probably,” he said, after thinking about it a moment. “I can’t say I remember one way or the other, but I’ve always had a soft spot for romantic drivel. You know this.” And she did—she’d skimmed through some of the books he liked, not the smut stuff that Shadowheart and Wyll were often tittering about like a couple of schoolgirls while they hiked across the wilderness, but these slow-burning romances full of meaningful glances and fingers brushing accidentally against a would-be lover’s hand, young Cormyran noblewomen pining over rugged adventurers far below their station, first kisses that happened on page 240 of 275. She remembered, too, Astarion saying he’s the sort of prince type I used to dream of marrying, half fondness, half scathing rebuke of long-dead childish fantasies. He waved a dismissive hand. “Practiced my signature, had a color palette planned for the wedding, all that. So I expect I must have daydreamed about all the rest.”
“Gods, that’s so cute,” Karlach said. “Sorry. I mean ‘sexy and mysterious’, obviously. Would you want to have a kid now? With me?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I… think so?” Now she’d said it, and it didn’t feel like she was making the single worst mistake of her life, Karlach said it again, more confident. “Yeah. I think I do want that. Only if you do too, though. Having a kid was never on my radar back in the Gate, and obviously once I was in the Hells it was staying off the table—”
“I do feel the need to remind you where we are right now, my dear.” Astarion smiled slyly, all pointy teeth.
“Don’t be smart!” She flicked him in the chest with a finger, and he pretended it hurt. Some moaning about a bruise it definitely wouldn’t give him turned into eyelash fluttering and dirty suggestions about some more fun injuries Karlach could give him, and that turned into making out, and then Karlach bit his lip bloody.
“Rude!” Astarion cried, pointing an accusatory finger. “You don’t need to go, go rubbing it in my face that you can bite me when I can’t bite you!”
“You bite me all the time, you ass,” Karlach laughed. He just couldn’t draw blood without burning his tongue on the fire that laced through her veins.
He gave her the saddest look he could, wet cat that he was. “It’s not the same.” To his credit, he kept up the pathetic front for a good five seconds before cracking.
When they got control of their laughter (steam rising off Karlach’s eyelashes), she soldiered on. “There’s a lot of stuff I thought I’d never get a chance to do, y’know? I thought I was gonna die alone on the front lines of the fuckin’ Blood War, and then when I got out, it was… death by squid, or cultist, or spontaneous combustion if I was really unlucky. But I’m still here, and I’ve got you, and not to be a sap, but, damn it, I’m happy. I want to move on, start looking to the future instead of over my shoulder, all that crap. And I saw how you were with Yenna…”
Astarion pulled a face. “Eugh. That brat?”
“You were soft on her, and you know it. Mol’s gang, too. I know you gave Silfy tips on picking pockets. You’re good with kids.”
“Am I,” he said, arching one filled-in brow.
“Look, if you don’t want one, you just gotta say so. I won’t be mad at you.”
Up till now reclining lazily on his elbows, Astarion surged forward, pushing himself upright. “No, I—” and then, as if remembering himself, all at once he calmed. Shook his head, gave a breathy laugh. “It’s just a lot to take in all at once, darling. I’m not saying no.”
“No?” Karlach fought to suppress the grin trying to creep onto her face. Her lips twitched.
Astarion inspected his illusory fingernails. “No,” he agreed. Then: “Where would we get one?”
“A baby? We could get one where they usually come from, couldn’t we?” He’d been eating well enough since they moved to Avernus he could get hard most of the time, Karlach knew, and dhampir were a thing! “We wouldn’t have to—you could, you know, into a cup, maybe?”
The last time they’d tried to have actual, traditional penis-in-vagina sex had been that frankly disastrous attempt the night after Cazador’s death, at Astarion’s overgrown grave. He’d started crying halfway through, then spent most of the rest of the night in her arms, face tucked into the crook of her neck and shoulder as he leveled every insult he could think of at himself and his own weakness. He’s dead, Astarion had snarled. Why won’t he get out of my damn head?!
“No,” Astarion said sharply.
“Okay,” Karlach agreed, proud of him but not stupid enough to say so. “We can figure something else out! A sperm donor, maybe? Or we could adopt. There are a lot of orphans in the Gate!”
“A donor, then. It should look like you.”
So, yeah. They were moving too fast. For sure.
“Who should we ask?”
“Oh, hells. It should be your choice. You’re the one who will have to fuck him about it.” Astarion thought a moment, then smiled at her sweetly. “I suppose there’s always Gale.”
Karlach shuddered. “No thank you. I wonder if… but no, he’d never agree to it, would he?”
“Have someone in mind, darling?”
“Do you?”
“Maybe.” He drew the word out, long and slow.
“Then on the count of three, let’s both say who we’re thinking of.” He was probably going to name Withers, or maybe Minsc. “One… two… three…”
In unison, they said: “Wyll.”
“Oh, good,” Astarion said. “You have taste after all.”
Karlach put a hand to her heart, affecting her best imitation of her lover’s swagger. “Of course I do, darling.” Then, grinning wide: “I bagged you, anyway.”
“My apologies, dearest,” he said smoothly. “Impeccable taste, I should have said.”
Karlach kissed him with teeth.
2.
“Where should I…?” Wyll asked, appraising the room. It was like any other bedroom, though an opulent one, featuring a four-poster bed with the drapes drawn and covered in quilts, several wooden chests, and an upholstered chair Astarion settled in, hands on the armrests and legs crossed one over the other.
“Anywhere you like,” he offered, “though I suggest the bed.”
“Right,” Wyll said, shaking his head. “Of course. Sorry, this is all a bit new.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” said Karlach, perching herself on the edge of the tall bed. “You’re the one doing us a favor.”
Wyll offered a somewhat labored smile. “Don’t mention it.”
Karlach smiled back and patted the bed next to her. “But seriously. Thank you. It’s a big ask, this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of saying no.” He considered it at first, when Karlach had opened one of her not-infrequent letters with a So, hear me out. But as he wrote out his reply, his conscience weighed too heavily. It cost him nothing, and he could sooner leave his post and abandon the people of the Gate than refuse friends, good friends, a favor in his and only his power to provide, and with it cost them their chance at happiness.
Uncle Wyll, he’d mused after he’d agreed to come to the House of Hope and father their child. Has a nice ring to it. Karlach had sounded so happy when he arrived, and during the meal they treated him to, catching up about his work—all planning meetings and dinners with patriars who wanted to strike deals and very little actually rebuilding the Outer and Lower Cities—and Karlach and Astarion’s own adventures. Half of their anecdotes were bloody; the other half were adorably domestic. Raphael’s grand dining room had been transformed into a wide-open and cheerfully painted living/dining space, and Karlach and Hope were midway through adding a kitchenette—the current kitchen being in a hellish abattoir in the dungeons below.
“I, ah. I don’t know how to start.”
Karlach scratched her head idly. “Neither do I,” she admitted, and they shared a chuckle.
“Well, you’ll need to be a bit closer than that, darlings,” Astarion said.
Wyll shifted his weight until their legs almost touched, and Karlach met him the rest of the way. She was still warm to the touch through their clothes, though to Wyll it seemed less so than the last hug they had shared in Baldur’s Gate, a goodbye as she departed for Avernus. He hadn’t noticed nearly so much when she had embraced him hello.
He raised the hand nearer to her, and then hesitated. “May I?”
“You don’t have to ask,” Karlach said with a hint of a laugh still on her tongue. “But, yes.”
Wyll took a deep breath, and lowered his hand again. He shook his head at himself. He should have been honest from the beginning. These were his friends, trusting him. The least he could do was trust them in return. “I suppose you should know, I’ve never...”
“Never what?” asked Karlach, until a second later her eyes went a bit wide. “What, never ever?”
There had been Mizora, years ago and sporadically since. He’d bitten down on the meat of his palm to keep himself silent one night in the mountain pass, and felt guiltily, horribly grateful to Lae’zel’s personal tragedy for giving him someone to help, someone else’s misery to focus on and bury his own. But that was something different altogether, something Karlach and Astarion knew too well. They didn’t need that weighing on them when they ought to be happy, for their future baby’s sake and their own.
“Never ever,” Wyll said, “but I’m glad to help. Just… perhaps if you took the lead.”
“She’s excellent at it,” Astarion said.
“Hush, you!”
Astarion held up his hands in front of him in mock defense, smile on his face all the while. “Oh, don’t mind me.”
Wyll’s heart ached with what he told himself was nothing so ugly as envy, of either, or more truly of both—to see their manner with each other grown so easy in short months together, and to be so close to it.
But if his face betrayed any of this, Karlach didn’t let on, turning back to Wyll before the moment was up and promising, “You’re in good hands.” She took Wyll’s hand in hers, laid it on her thigh, squeezed it tight. “Now, let’s make a baby, yeah?”
3.
Afterwards, Wyll stayed. He shouldn’t have—he was intruding, he knew. His job was done here, a pearlescent smear on the inside of Karlach’s well-muscled thigh as she raised her hips for Astarion to tuck pillows underneath, as she reached for his ice-cold hand and placed it on the back of her neck with a sigh of simple pleasure. Wyll pulled on his smallclothes and trousers and did his best to disguise the way his eyes were pulled to the easy intimacy his friends shared, the soft half-smile tugging at Astarion’s lips something private and precious, not meant for Wyll’s gaze.
Astarion met his eyes, and that little smile turned wickedly pleased. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
And you, died in Wyll’s throat. He cleared it. “Mm-hmm.”
“There’s plenty of me to go around, boys,” Karlach teased. “You don’t gotta fight.”
Astarion scoffed. “We don’t have to fight. I won.”
Wyll stayed. He shouldn’t have—he had duties to the people of his city, to his father’s memory, to the oaths he swore. He wasn’t an oathbreaker… except that he was, and had the horns to prove it. And, oh, he could tell himself that was a selfless choice, and it was, it was, he thinks it was—what could be more selfless than submitting to an expected eternity of suffering in the Hells for the sake of a stranger?—but Wyll knew himself, the yawning pit in his heart that ached for approval, for love. If it were just them, just him and Karlach on the riverbed, would he have looked his death in the face and still spared her? He hoped he would have, he wanted to be that kind of man unflinchingly, unfailingly… but he feared without witnesses to know him craven or hero he might have made a different choice.
Wyll stayed. A single night became a tenday (“Please,” Karlach caught him with her big golden eyes, “we haven’t seen you in ages! Call it a holiday! The Gate won’t fall apart that quick!”) became a month, and then two, and Wyll attending unavoidable ducal meetings by way of crystal ball. Devilish Duke Declines to Depart Dís! the broadsheets proclaimed. After that, Wyll began to divide his time between Avernus and the Gate, two tendays at a time in each (a feat made possible with a few of Raphael’s old portal mirrors, jury-rigged by Helsik in exchange for a truly hellish amount of gold). He dreaded his time in the Gate, hated the whole of the peerage; would have washed his hands of the lot of them, but the people of the Outer and Lower Cities needed someone on their side, and when Wyll thought of his father’s empty grave, his corpse buried under silt in the sunken Iron Throne, the curses he swore with his dying breath… When Wyll thought of how terribly he’d failed as a son, he knew he couldn’t just walk away.
Karlach and Astarion disagreed. “Your heart’s in the right place,” Karlach would argue, “but it’s killing you, all this politicking. Can’t you put Counsellor Florrick’s name forward? Or, fuck, I don’t know—Fountainhead? She got a big promotion after the whole nautiloid thing, didn’t she? You can’t be the only person in the Upper City who cares about the little people.” Astarion, characteristically, had nothing kind to say, but there was fondness in his voice whenever he called Wyll “a bleeding-heart fool killing himself for a city that hates him and will never change besides”, and, well, he meant well enough, rough around the edges as he was.
They made up the ‘guest room’ for him, which was a plush chaise lounge from Raphael’s old boudoir presently curtained off at the end of one wing of the house, a rag rug made of what looked to be offcast wizard’s robes from their adventure covering up the hatch door that led to Hope’s former cell. “Next up,” Karlach kept saying, “we’ll build you a wall and a real door.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” Wyll swore. They had more important things to do than add a wall to an already quite private ad hoc guest room; they had to get the House of Hope ready for a baby. And Karlach was already in a condition that had Wyll questioning the wisdom of further home renovation projects, the strappy leather tops she favors—though now, no doubt thanks to Astarion, they looked rather less cobbled together from broken bits of armor and hide, and more like fashion, embossed and painted, some ornamented with beads—showing off her ever-growing belly. Stretch marks gleamed like rose gold on her skin.
Flush and happy, Karlach positively glowed in her pregnancy. The one time Wyll said as much, she barked a laugh and rapped her knuckles against her sternum, backlit with orange flame. “Don’t need much help with that one, to be fair.”
One evening, Wyll walked through the portal from Baldur’s Gate and did not take so much as two steps into the House of Hope before Hope herself flickered into being before him, lifting her arm high to press a finger to his lips. “Shhh!” she hissed. “Quiet, quiet, QUIET! Our friends are sleeping!”
And so they were, curled up together with Karlach sound asleep on a veritable pile of cushions—in spite of Hope’s help. Wyll had seen them curled up asleep before: in the unnatural chill of the shadow-cursed lands Astarion had been in Karlach’s lap more often than not, trancing with his head tucked into the crook of Karlach’s neck. Now, with Karlach’s pregnant belly in the way, they’d switched their usual places, Karlach the biggest little spoon Wyll’d ever seen. One of her hands overlapped Astarion’s high on her belly; Astarion, cheek pressed against Karlach’s spine just below her shoulder blades, looked utterly at peace, even though his lover was crushing his other arm beneath her and was surely snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
Wyll watched them for a while, lips twitching up into a smile when Karlach adjusted herself in her sleep, tugging Astarion’s arm up to clutch his hand to her chest like a child’s toy. It dawned on him slowly that he loved the both of them.
4.
Karlach sat on a crate packed full of linens and baby clothes and shook her leg. It was sweet, what they were doing. It was also supremely fucking frustrating.
“Hope said I could help,” she said to the room. “You were there. Both of you.” A cleric’s blessing was welcome, even one quick to disclaim her expertise when it came to babies. Mum had no trouble with my siblings, Karlach had told her when asked how she was feeling. Seems I’m the same, now the nausea’s gone. Bit of heartburn, though. Hope had only nodded solemnly at what Karlach thought was a half-decent joke, more’s the pity.
Astarion paused where he was hammering a nail into the wall, and turned to look at her. “You’re—” he began, only it came out garbled, and with an annoyed sound he remembered to grab the nails he was holding in his mouth. “I was saying. You’re already doing all the work growing the thing—”
“The baby,” Karlach said.
“Yes, the baby, what else?” Astarion waved her off, hammer in hand. “You have to do the heavy lifting there, so you can let us do this. Tell me I’m right, Wyll.”
“He’s right,” Wyll said. Astarion shot him a grin with fangs.
“See? Don’t take my word for it. If he says it, it must be true.” Wyll scoffed, but with good humor on his face.
Karlach crossed her arms and with some doing found a place to rest them between her tits and her belly. “Let me know next time you need a picture hung, then.”
“I’ve got it handled,” Astarion assured her, and turned back to his task.
He only lasted for another two swings of the hammer when an awful screech rang out from near the door to the room.
“Sorry,” said Wyll at once, gripping the back frame of a sturdy wooden rocking chair. “It’s heavier than it looked. I thought I could drag it, but, well.”
“Sounds like he could use a hand,” Karlach said.
“Anything for you, darling.” Astarion set aside hammer and nails, brushed mostly-imagined dust from the ruffles in his shirt, and went to Wyll’s side.
“Where would you like it?” Wyll asked Karlach.
“To the left a bit? Near the window, I think. Might be nice to have some fresh air.” As fresh as the air got, in the hells.
Wyll nodded, and turned to Astarion taking up his place on the other side of the chair. “If you could just—” and they gripped the chair under its arms, “like that.”
The chair stayed put.
Karlach stifled a laugh behind her hand. Her damned pitiful boys, more charming than they had any right to be.
“If we lift together,” Astarion suggested, as though that wasn’t what they tried just seconds ago. Sure enough, attempt number two failed.
So did attempts three through seven. Karlach had moved her hand from her mouth to her brow, watching through her fingers.
“That’s it,” she declared after attempt number eight saw the rockers only just off the floor, and the chair not budged from where it started. She started inching her way toward the edge of the crate she sat on. “Outta the way.”
“Karlach—” Astarion started, while Wyll said, “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. You’re both very pretty, but this is painful to watch. You know that, right?” With her hands braced on the crate behind her, Karlach pushed herself to standing. She was always a little wobbly these days, seven months in and center of gravity between her hips, but with one hand out at her side and the other beneath her belly she kept steady on her feet and got her bearings soon enough.
To Astarion’s credit he stepped back at once. Wyll took another moment, uncertainty on his face, but did the same as Karlach reached them. With a grunt and one hoist she gripped the chair, awkward for one person to lift—all the moreso with a belly in the way, forcing her to hold it at her side—but only a little strain in her arms. She took her steps slow and deliberate, and in a few she’d arrived at the windowside, and set it down.
“Now I’ll take a seat, if you don’t mind,” Karlach said.
“She thinks we’re pretty,” Astarion stage-whispered behind his hand to Wyll.
“There is that,” Wyll agreed.
5.
“Come on, Karlach! You’ve nearly got it!” cried Hope. “I can see baby’s nubby little horns! NOW PUSH!”
Push she did. The baby was born in a chorus of cries: Karlach’s scream of pain, Hope’s scream of encouragement, the newborn’s scream of confused entry into a world much bigger and colder and brighter than her mother’s womb. Karlach accidentally broke a few bones in Astarion’s hand from squeezing him so hard, but the only sound he let out was a hiss through his teeth.
Bright red and blood-smeared, with more wrinkles on her brow than an octagenarian, the baby was a tiny, delicate, precious thing, little feet smaller than Karlach’s thumb. Someone scrubbed her face clean and wrapped her in a blanket—Karlach didn’t catch who, Wyll or Hope, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, trying and failing to catch her breath. It only couldn’t have been Astarion, because he was right behind her, holding her steady on the birthing stool and shaking himself with the effort.
“Here you go, mama,” Hope said, when at last she delivered the baby into Karlach’s arms. “You did it! What a wonderful, jubilant, glorious day!”
Wyll hung back. “Congratulations, you two.”
“Oy, get over here,” Karlach groused. “She oughta meet her uncle Wyll too.”
He shuffled a little closer, peering at the little face haloed in soft-knit wool the color of woad—the cap a gift from Gale’s mother. “What will you name her?”
Karlach looked over her shoulder at Astarion. “Well. I guess I should’ve said something sooner…” she started—time had gotten away from her, and Astarion hadn’t ever brought it up, which turned out when her contractions started that it was probably because he thought they had more time than they did. Already? he’d said. But it hasn’t even been a year yet! “…But I thought probably Fangs should name her? So she’d have something from each of us.”
Astarion blinked, owlish. “Oh,” he said, and, “I suppose that makes a kind of sense. Unfortunately, darling, I haven’t got the slightest idea what to pick.”
Karlach had asked him, once, what his name meant: she didn’t know all that much about elves, but she did know they were supposed to choose their own names when they came of age, because most of the famous elven bards had very… unique ones. She hadn’t blinked when Shadowheart introduced herself. She knew that elven parents didn’t pick out baby names, either. There was something mystical and reincarnation-y about them; Astarion had been telling her about this novel he was reading a few months ago, about a woman whose childhood sweetheart died the same night he got her with child, and her combined joy and grief when her infant son babbled out her lover’s child name.
Astarion had tipped his head, considering, and said, “‘Heart’s dew’, I think?”
“You just picked it for the sound, then?” Karlach had asked.
“I didn’t pick it at all,” he’d confided; he’d died before getting the chance for that. It’d been almost two centuries since, sure, but according to his elven father and sisters the main point of picking a new name was to have a unique identity to tie your memories to, as in old age elves began remembering their previous lives. A vampire spawn would never be reborn, and so there was no point adopting an adult name, Cazador had told him.
In the present, Karlach bit the inside of her cheek, then said, “Was there a name you would’ve picked for yourself?”
“If there was, I couldn’t tell you what it is. Probably wouldn’t have been elvish, but…” Astarion shrugged. “Who knows.” He reached over Karlach’s shoulder for the baby’s grasping hand, her tiny fingers quickly curling around one of his. “Hello, little one… Oh, Karlach, she has your eyes!”
The wonder in his own, Karlach had only ever seen when he looked at her, in quiet, vulnerable moments. If she had a heart, it would’ve melted then and there.
“Ah,” Wyll cleared his throat after a span of time that could have been seconds or minutes. “Whatever name you pick doesn’t need to mean anything in particular, if that makes it any easier. It’ll become meaningful because it’s hers.”
+1
“She’s asleep,” Wyll announced, whispering like the month-old Ilde might start crying again if he didn’t.
Maybe she would. Astarion wasn’t exactly an expert on infants. “Finally,” he said. Gods below, but the girl had a pair of lungs on her. The screaming hurt his ears.
At the same time, Karlach tossed her head back, naked relief on her features. “Oh, Wyll, I could kiss you.”
Astarion could hear Wyll’s heartbeat speed up. He looked between the two of them. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t complain,” he said lightly.