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Fenris wondered if this was the way he had been born - mother hunched and panting, huddled in a remote hut on the side of a snow-covered mountain (but it could have been in a steaming jungle, or an arid beach), alone but for an inexperienced companion, hoping that the howling outside was a storm and not a pack of wolves. He had sent Varania away, and now he would never know.
Hawke was covered in sweat, her pitch-black hair slicked across her brow, her body slumped back against the wall of the hut. “Is it… ?”
He examined the tiny lump of blood and fat in his hands. It was certainly screaming enough for any concerned parent. The cord twisted between its legs - he pulled it aside to confirm that the child was a girl. She had a full head of black hair, so identical to her mother that Fenris was almost surprised she didn’t have a scar across her nose.
"Female. Seems healthy enough," said Fenris, diffidently. He shoved the baby at Hawke. She was a woman - she would know what to do.
It was only after Hawke had safely taken the child and clumsily attached it to a breast, taking much longer to settle in than Fenris expected, that he realised he was shaking.
* * *
It took a while to get the baby to understand that you were supposed to suck on a nipple to get fed, and it took a bit longer for Hawke to realise that Fenris was staring at her - no, them - as if he was guarding a valuable icon. She couldn’t be sure - she had a whole new person to think about, after all - but she didn’t think he’d moved at all since putting the child in her arms.
"The Baby." They did not want to give her a name. If she lived beyond the first three months, they would name her Leandra; but that was a hope, not a promise.
Hawke thought she should ask after him - he was starting to unnerve her - but she was mostly immersed in The Baby. Look at her! Her tiny round ears, fully detailed; her tiny, sharp claws, already leaving red scrapes across Hawke’s breast; her huge, colourless eyes, staring as she gulped down milk and the occasional gasp of air. An almost magnetic force drew them together, filling Hawke’s eyes and ears.
The wind shrieked outside as Hawke and Fenris settled in for a long session of baby-staring.
Eventually The Baby farted vilely, pulled her mouth from Hawke’s breast and cried in an almost conversational tone. Fenris and Hawke continued to stare intently at her for who knew how long - Minutes? Hours? The wind continued to howl outside. All three of them were swathed in robes and furs, yet the cold in the hut still bit into their bones.
Fenris got up and poked at the fire. A cauldron that had held the meals of hundreds of foresters and hunters over the years hung black and filthy over the flames, but they had managed to fill it with ice and some herbs to boil up a somewhat woeful soup. A single tin cup would have to suffice for both the adults.
Fenris offered Hawke the cup first. Tipping sideways to avoid disturbing The Baby, Hawke held up its head and murmured “…could you…?”
Fenris looked startled. “Just put the cup down and … here…” Hawke held The Baby out by the neck and bum, cord puddled in its legs, waiting for him to take her. Fenris placed the cup on the floor (the hut featured nothing so fancy as a table) and held his hands out. Together they ungracefully transferred The Baby to its father, who tugged his furs around her and held her as if she might explode at any moment.
Hawke had no time to deal with this - she needed to eat. The tin cup, filled with boiling soup, was cooling fast in the freezing hut, so she was able to scarf it down with only slight burns to her lips and tongue. Woeful it may have been, but Hawke sculled it in an instant and, creaking to her feet, staggered over to the cauldron to scoop out a second helping.
When she shuffled back to the cot, cup in hand, Fenris was poking at The Baby’s face, running his fingers over her tiny eyebrows and nostrils.
"When will her magic show?" he asked, in the tones of a man wondering how long he has to live.
Hawke was too tired to get really angry, but she snapped “There’s no reason to even think she’s a mage at all, Fenris. You’re not.”
"You think that your father and sister and my sister are not reasons?” said Fenris, his face darkening, but his hands gently turning The Baby so she would be more comfortable.
Hawke sank back into the cot, drinking deeply from the tin cup and letting out a satisfied moan as she swallowed the last drop. “Give her here and get some soup. We can afford a short nap and then we’re back on the road.” She held out the cup, expecting him to hand back The Baby.
Fenris simply looked offended, and picked up The Baby to clutch her to his chest. In another life, his chestplate and leathers might have poked into her delicate skin - now, holed up in a hut in the Frostback Mountains, his thick fur coat protected her. He stood up and moved over to sit on the cot with Hawke.
“We will be fine. You need to rest. Shall we cut off this tail?” He held up the placenta, not bothered by having a handful of viscera – indeed, why would he be?
Hawke hesitated briefly before deciding to get it over with. She stropped her knife a couple of times to ensure its quickness, and while Fenris held the cord tight, she gritted her teeth and sliced straight through it, causing an offended wail from The Baby. “Sorry, kiddo,” she said, and held up the placenta. “You want your soup with or without meat?”
Fenris’ face was indescribable. He pressed the red kerchief at his wrist to The Baby’s stomach, staunching the blood. “It’s OK, Fenris, I was joking.”
“No – you should probably throw it in. How long do you expect it will take to reach Orzammar?”
“I don’t know, Fenris. I’ve never been on the run from the Chantry before. Tell you what – I’ll get you a cup of the plain version first.” She did so, carefully scooping it out of the cauldron so as not to burn her fingers. Fenris shifted The Baby (who was still complaining about the sudden removal of a large chunk of its body) and took the cup so that he would not spill it on her. Hawke tossed the placenta into the soup, hoping it would just taste like any other meat. They’d been able to barter for decent food on their travels – the sight of a pregnant woman seemed to make traders more willing to throw in an extra apple or bread roll, regardless of the heavily-armed elf travelling with her – but as they trudged deeper into the forest, good food was going to be harder to find.
She turned back to see Fenris drinking his soup, baby in one arm like a large loaf of pane di casa, and was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of sentimentality. Her own little family! The Baby fingered the lyrium veins on her father’s throat (her father’s! thought Hawke, eyes misting up) while Fenris fiddled with her toes. Hawke lay down next to them, resting her head on Fenris’ other shoulder, and wrapped her arm around The Baby’s waist. Together, they drifted off to sleep.