Chapter Text
Sethili knew her time was close. That didn’t stop her from making small excursions from camp to check the nearest rabbit snares - but always with a companion now her stomach was so ponderously swollen. The Sabrae clan had taken her in and kept her, assured her there was still a place for her and her child after… After it had happened. The days had blurred together since then, and she had grown heavier and heavier with child. His child.
Doing such minor tasks was frustrating. She was a huntress by heart and soul, wore Andruil’s vallaslin proudly, and she was no longer able to roam the forest from dawn til dusk in search of prey. Now she was never far from camp or a pair of watchful eyes, and could barely crouch to empty snares without her own body getting in the way. Sometimes she wondered if she would be blessed by the Creators and birth twins. She certainly felt big enough.
“It will be soon.” The new Keeper assured her as they walked together, a brace of freshly-killed rabbits slung over Sethili’s shoulder.
“I know.” She answered, looking down at the swells of her body. She’d been unable to wear most of her armour since the sixth or seventh moon, when her stomach and breasts grew in earnest. Now the ninth moon approached and she wore looser-cut cloth that put the least amount of pressure on the various swellings.
She paused in the trees at the edge of camp, focus turned inward and brace of rabbits forgotten as she felt a strong series of kicks from the little life inside her. Sometimes they were strong enough to make her skin twitch like a halla shooing a fly, but she was unable to see if these ones did under her shirt. A fluttering that reassured her daily that her child still lived.
“Sethili?” Marethari asked carefully, and the huntress looked up to meet her keen gaze. There was a tension in her form as she gripped her staff like a hawk about to leave it’s perch, ready to leap to action if the word was given.
“The child is as strong as a halla fawn.” She answered, resting one hand on her stomach as if that was enough to stop the kicking. “Da’halla.” She added with a gentle smile. The Keeper relaxed and nodded once. Now they were back in the safety of camp, the two women parted ways again.
Sethili’s lone braid swayed as ponderously from side to side as her stomach as she crossed to where the hunters were gathered to skin her catches. Sethili found herself robbed of her usual grace, traded for a heavy stomach and ungainly grunts of effort. It was an effort to sit down, and even more of an effort to get back to her feet afterwards, but they understood. The whole clan did. Either they had given birth before, or had a bondmate who had given birth.
As she skinned and gutted the rabbits, Sethili found herself staring down at her stomach thoughtfully. This child she carried was one of the last tangible reminders she had of him, the only thing that kept her bound to this clan now her bondmate was gone. She was a stranger to this clan, had barely been with them for two whole winters.
As much as they tried to make her welcome in the early days and comfortable now she was so close to giving birth, Sethili couldn’t help but wonder if they truly accepted her as one of their own. She was Mahariel far from her clan, and they Sabrae. While Zathrian had fumed and raged at losing one of his kin so gifted at hunting, he had been unable to stop her from joining her lover’s clan to be with him when that chance winter their clans spent camped together had thawed, allowing Mahariel and Sabrae to part until the next Arlathvhen.
Yet now her lover was gone, only her memories and the child that still grew within her evidence that they had ever…
Sethili closed her eyes and lowered the skinning knife as the deep ache in her chest stirred anew. No, it hurt too much to think about him. Four moons later, and the wounds were still raw. Perhaps once the child - his child - was born, it would ease the pain of her loss? Would the aching hole in her very self be soothed and filled when she held Aridhel’s child in her arms?
Sethili opened her eyes and lifted her chin up proudly. All she could do now was hope.
Ignoring the faint twinges of pain that ran through her lower half, Sethili nocked another arrow and stared down at her target - a bundle of furs tied to a tree. Hardly the real thing, but it was better than no target at all.
The slow breathing as she aimed helped to ease the pains somewhat whenever they returned. They’d woken her up that morning and had been enough source of alarm to get Ashalle, the clan’s midwife. The child was coming perhaps half a moon early, but it was nothing to be worried about.
“It is eager to see the world.” Ashalle had commented with a private, wistful smile to herself, and the child within had chosen then to kick as if it agreed. It was a slow beginning. Already it was well past noon, Sethili reflected as she glanced up at the sky.
She hadn’t expected it to be so slow and relaxed, to be certain. With all the tales of labour she’d heard from the women of the clan who were mothers, she’d expected to be bedridden and screaming in pain at the first cramp of warning. Ashalle had reassured her that that part came later. It was surprising to find herself able to walk around camp and help as if nothing was amiss - but whenever she winced at particularly sharp pain she saw how the people near her paused for the briefest moment. Watching. Waiting.
Of course, she was confined to camp; Marethari had firmly put her foot down before going out of the clearing had even been suggested. For the first time she wasn’t even allowed more than a few feet out into the trees, but Sethili had no inclination to go wandering today of all days. As much as her soul pulled her to the open forest, the pull of the life inside her was stronger.
She let out a weary sigh and drew back her bowstring for another arrow. As if such a simple thing as her first labour would keep her from target practice. She nearly smiled at that, until another sharp cramp left her gasping and gripping at the wood of her bow tightly. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she aimed and loosed the arrow before lowering her bow. Her now free hand flew to her stomach as the pain grew rather than faded away.
Ashalle was by her in an instant, and helped her into the aravel. It had been prepared in advance, the floors piled with furs and clean rags, bowls of water set aside. Despite the fact no words had been spoken, some of the clan’s other women drifted over and joined them in the aravel.
Marethari, of course, joined her sister and traced fire glyphs onto the bowls to heat the water in silent concentration. Mihren and her son with wide blue eyes and a feathery down of blond hair who rested in her arms easily; Tamlen wasn’t her first child. Sethili blinked at them, and wondered if her child would look so soft and delicate as he babbled wordlessly for attention.
Would motherhood come naturally to her, with no bondmate to help her? She had the entire clan to turn to, but they were no true replacement. This was her first and now only child. She would not seek out another man to help her, and having a child by anyone else was out of the question. They would only be a poor second and a constant reminder of what she had lost.
The aravel was soon filled with chatter interspersed with the women shooing away curious children who asked too many questions and stared. Sethili couldn’t help a smile at their boldness. Eventually Ashalle grew tired of the chattering interruptions and with a sharp “Paivel?” from the aravel entrance, the clan’s storyteller and her bondmate had expertly gathered up the errant children like a shem shepherd would his flock somewhere out of view of the aravel entrance.
“So, da’len, who can tell me where babies come from?” His voice floated through the curtain that was pulled across the entrance.
Sethili tuned out the conversation she could only hear, and focused on breathing slowly, occasionally joining in the chatter around her in the aravel. The pain slowly worsened, sitting cross-legged grew too uncomfortable, and it was as she moved into a kneeling position that she felt something shift and tear inside her. With a low whimper, she felt unknown wetness soak into her smalls, and then trousers and furs. Fear curled low in her stomach and left her skin cold.
“It’s not blood, is it?” She breathed, trembling at the very idea. That… That something had gone so desperately wrong this close to the end. That the Creators would take this away from her as well, when she had dared to hope otherwise for so long.
“No, no,” Ashalle reassured her firmly, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder as she bent to check. “It was your water breaking. The baby is coming.”
Sethili allowed herself to relax then, and turn her focus to more important matters as the other women quietly celebrated and returned to talking amongst themselves.
The hours passed, everyone but Ashalle and Marethari came and went and came back as they wished to offer company or advice, and the contractions grew steadily worse. It was sunset by the time Ashalle first told her to start pushing, and the wind sighed through the yellowing leaves outside as the camp began to settle in for the night.
Sethili knelt there, knees braced on a pile of furs as Marethari knelt in front of her and steadied her, one hand offered wordlessly. The Keeper was enviably calm and collected, as was Ashalle. Sethili could only groan and pant, her eyes firmly shut to the world that regularly narrowed down to the rippling pain low in her stomach.
When it eased, she found herself talking, her eyes stinging with tears.
“He’s not here. He should be here for this.”
Marethari looked pained, and Sethili was uncertain if it was due to the fact her hand was being crushed or the words spoken aloud in the dim light of the aravel, a cramped little world separated from the camp by a single thick curtain that smelt of old wood, magic and blood.
“I know.”
A burning hot stab of pain tore Sethili’s response from her throat and turned it into a wild cry of pain. When she managed to open her eyes, it was because the pain had faded quickly. It took her a few dazed seconds to realise it was due to Marethari’s gently glowing hands low on her stomach.
“Not too much, asa'ma'lin, she still needs to feel the contractions.” Ashalle murmured beside them. Sethili blinked away her tears of pain, looking between the two sisters.
“Is it supposed to take this long?” She asked. Ashalle nodded with a faintly tired smile.
“This is your first. So much of it is new right now, but it will…” Ashalle stopped and looked away uneasily.
“It will not take much longer.” Marethari offered, her expression unreadable. Sethili was going to ask what they had just avoided saying, but then the next contraction began and she was too busy to think through the fire that lanced through her and threatened to consume her.
When it ebbed and slunk away - Creators, it hurt- she found Ashalle offering up a thick leather strap to bite down on.
“Rather this than your own tongue, hm?” The midwife offered, and Sethili laughed darkly as she accepted it, aware of how her palms were slick with sweat against Marethari’s cooler hand. Her entire body was covered in sweat, in fact. Sweat and other bodily fluids between her now-bare thighs that she couldn’t see but could certainly feel in the cooling evening air. Her knees were starting to hurt from kneeling for so long, but her back and stomach hurt worse than they had ever done during her monthly cycles. Moving to another position was an incredibly unappealing thought right now.
The pain increased, the respite between each attack growing shorter and shorter. The leather was a help; it allowed her to muffle at least some of the noises she made until her throat was hoarse and sore like the rest of her body.
“You’re doing wonderful,” Ashalle reported what felt like hours later, and Sethili leaned helplessly, blindly, into the cool palm and damp cloth wiped across her brow and down each side of her neck. It cooled her overheated skin somewhat and was a jarring contrast to everything else. It felt like her body was trying to tear itself apart, a constant panting stabbing burning and oh Mythal please make it stop-
“I can see the head. Come on, Sethili, you’re nearly there.”
“Just a few more pushes, and then it will be over.” Marethari promised.
Sethili felt the breath as it rasped in her throat, sucked in and then rushing out too quickly to be of much use. More pushing? She’d done that all evening, she couldn’t. She was exhausted, the pain would kill her.
Marethari squeezed her hand, far more gently than her hand had been squeezed earlier.
“One… Two.. Three… Push.”
Crying, screaming, swearing, begging Mythal to ease her pain, Sethili pushed until her body trembled and she felt lightheaded. Marethari’s arms were around her, supporting her when her body sagged forwards.
“Almost there, almost there.”
Shaking from exhaustion, Sethili regained her balance, doing her best to breathe deeply even as another wave of pain enfolded her. She pushed when told once… Twice. Screamed loud enough through the leather to wake the entire camp, no doubt. Pushed again, and then something left her, slipped out easily into Ashalle’s waiting hands that prevented a lethal fall to the furs.
“Mare, the cloths and the knife.”
She could breathe again, large and frantic gasps for air. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, and she was only dimly aware of being helped down onto the furs, lying with her legs still weakly parted and left to float there as the other two women sorted everything out. The air was close in the aravel with the curtain blocking the night air, humid and dusty and metallic with blood. She hadn’t noticed it before. Her eyelids were so heavy, even the lingering aches wouldn’t be able to stop her from sleeping now. Creators… It was over. Relief flooded through her and left her drained.
“Sethili?”
A gentle hand on her shoulder made her open her eyes. Ashalle knelt beside her partially silhouetted by magelight, a tired smile on her face and a bundle in her arms. “It’s a boy. A healthy young lad.”
The breath left her far too quickly, but she accepted the warm bundle to see for herself. A tiny lump wrapped in downy rabbit fur, a round face with soft features, eyes firmly shut to the world. His skin was dark brown, a few shades darker than her own, and flushed pink underneath. Fine black strands of hair were plastered to his head. He was so small.
Sethili blinked away the tears that gathered as her son - their son - stirred in her arms and began to complain shrilly, toothless mouth opening to show a small pink tongue. She stared in amazement as Ashalle helped her up into a sitting position. Here he was. A tiny, screaming little thing who was now separate from her after nine long moons. He was a completely new person, held in her arms. Born to the Sabrae clan, but he would carry her name. Her son.
As she pulled her shirt off and brought the child to her breast, she couldn’t help a giddy laugh. Black hair and delicately pointed ears so like her own. Her nose, too, but his father’s lips and jawline - much softer, of course, but he would grow into it. He would grow into a young man to be proud of. Sethili’s smiled faded, and the joy rang hollow in the face of the old grief as it resurfaced. Would Aridhel be proud of his child? That voice whispered. Of course he would be.
“He looks like him.” She whispered as he suckled.
He looked so much like his father. Too much. A reminder of her loss twisting like a dagger in her heart. The world shifted disorientingly around her, as if the furs underneath her weary legs had been pulled away by uncaring hands. As if she was seeing her lover’s body again and feeling the plans for their shared future burn to the ground. As she stared down at the warm bundle in her arms, searching that newborn face for an answer and finding none, Sethili felt a familiar coldness trickle down her spine like ice water. Her smile faded.
Once he was fed, the two of them fell asleep; the afterbirth had yet to pass, but there was little stopping them from catching a scarce amount of sleep in the interim. Ashalle stayed in the aravel til sunrise to ensure all was well. If she was woken by Sethili’s tears some time before dawn, she never deigned to mention it.
The Dalish didn’t name their children for the first three moons of their life, in case sickness or injury or some other misfortune stole the precious little life away. It was easier, then, to move on and try again. Sethili had used the time to consider names as they both grew strong again in the safety of the aravel, and then the camp.
There hadn’t been much discussion of names between herself and Aridhel, it had been too early in the pregnancy. One or two halfhearted suggestions, but now she held the child in her arms none of the suggestions came close to fitting, and she had to decide alone.
“Shenuvunis?” She mused as she stared thoughtfully down at the babe in a sling held to her chest; the shirt’s laces were loose so it was a simple matter to feed him. “You were born at night, da’halla, it would fit.”
The child blinked sleepily, and waved a pudgy arm at her in response.
“Avirel?” She offered instead.
If he was mageblooded like his father, he would be as just as great a Keeper. There hadn’t been anything said to her, but she knew how to read the tension in the air. The way Marethari studied him intently, no doubt imagining what kind of a mageling student he would be in the years to come. She needed him - no, it felt more like the entire clan needed him to be a mage. To follow in his father’s footsteps, to replace what had been torn away so cruelly by shemlen. To one day lead and protect them all from the dangers of Thedas.
Sethili tapped the wood of her bow thoughtfully. She was once more allowed to leave camp with a companion, but the risk of the child crying would have scared off any prey in the area. So, she remained in camp, ensuring her aim remained true until the child was old enough to be weaned and left with the other babes and mothers while she hunted and wandered to her heart’s content.
Would her child only be a leader and protector? She was a gifted huntress, and no small part of her hoped that some of her talents had been passed on as well.
“What if you grow to be a hunter? A fierce hunter fending off a wolf’s advances?”
The babe stared up at her with wide brown eyes, before they fell closed and his head drooped forwards against her chest. Asleep so quickly? She ran a hand carefully over his downy black hair, the other holding her bow tight.
“Theron.” She decided softly, so as not to wake him. “Theron Mahariel.” The name rolled easily off her tongue. Her hesitant love for him, this fragile and precious child that was both her and Aridhel’s legacy, fluttered like a landed bird in her chest. She could only hope it would grow with him and be enough to replace the yawning loss rooted deep in her heart.
It wasn’t.