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“Fine,” Dain says. “What about Bob?”
“Bob?” I repeat.
“What’s wrong with Bob?”
“Who the fuck has a name like Bob?”
“Not our child, apparently,” Dain mutters.
“No, seriously,” I go on. “What is it short for?”
“Why does it have to be short for anything?” he counters.
I throw up my hands. “Because no one is just named Bob.”
“I mean, I’m sure someone out in the world is,” he replies. “If the name came to me, odds are it came to someone else, too.”
“Bob is not a name, it’s a verb!” I shout, gritting my teeth as another contraction hits. “A present tense verb!”
Dain is quiet for a moment, as all his focus shifts to helping me through the pain. He holds a cool washcloth to my forehead, and lets me grip his forearm so hard that he winces.
“Sorry,” I say when the agony ebbs, nodding to the five half-moon marks imprinted on his skin.
“It’s nothing,” he assures me. Dain drops the washcloth back into the basin of cool water on our bedside table until it’s needed again and retakes my hand. And then, “What if it’s short for… Robert?”
I know what he’s doing, with this ridiculous conversation. He’s trying to distract me. I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours and in labor for fifteen. The excitement that sustained me earlier has long since faded into exhaustion. And fear.
This argument, and Dain’s constant touches, are the only things keeping me tethered.
It takes me a moment to find the thread of our discussion and follow it back. “Robert?” I repeat. “That makes no sense.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because Rob would be short for Robert. Bob would be short for Bobert.”
“Well, Bobert is a stupid fucking name.”
“So is Bob!”
His lip twitches. “So… no Bob, then?”
“Dain, I swear to all the gods, I am going to murder you if you say that word one more time. I’m going to have this child, hand it to our lovely, patient midwife here, and then murder you with my bare hands.”
He has the audacity to grin and pat my hand. “Nah, you’d miss me too much.”
“There’s no part of you that I couldn’t live without, in my current frame of mind,” I retort.
Dain smirks. “I can think of one part of me you might miss.”
“Your cock is why we’re in this mess in the first place!” I yell. Then, chagrined, I look down the bed to our midwife, Kianna. “I am so, so sorry.”
Dain, who’s a lovely shade of red, manages, “I’m sorry too.”
Kianna scoffs and waves a hand. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve heard it all.” She gives my calf an encouraging pat. “We’re getting close now.”
I grimace as another contraction hits, Dain silently offering me his arm for more abuse. I grab it, managing not to leave any marks this time, then exhale slowly as the pain eases. “Yeah,” I finally reply. “I can tell.”
“Do you hate Robert?” Dain asks, gamely risking my wrath. “Because I think it’s kind of cute.”
“And what if Robert is a girl?” I counter.
Dain smiles. “I would love it if Robert was a girl.”
I sit up straighter, studying him. “I thought you wanted a son?”
“I want a healthy baby and a healthy wife ,” he replies, lifting my hand to kiss it. “I have no preference on gender.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
Dain scratches at the back of his neck, just one of his many nervous tells. “Okay, fine,” he admits. “I think… having a girl would be kind of sweet.” And then he goes on in a rush, “But obviously I’m happy either way.”
“Sure.”
He sighs. “If we have a son, you’re totally going to tell him I wanted him to be a girl aren’t you?”
I flash him a wicked grin.
Dain shakes his head. “Menace,” he says fondly.
My smile morphs into a grimace as another contraction hits. This time Dain pets my hair through it, murmuring, “Just breathe, love. Breathe.”
I grit my teeth, questioning my decision not to take a tonic for the pain for the hundredth time today. Avalynn told me to take it, while Violet insisted I’d regret being hazy for this “momentous occasion”. But of course Mrs. Violet “I’m-in-pain-everyday-anyway” Riorson is predisposed to handle this shit. I, on the other hand, am not. I hate being in pain.
Fear pulses through me, mingled with exhaustion and confusion and about twelve other emotions I’m too tired to identify. Some of them, I suddenly realize, are Dain’s.
Typically, he’s as meticulous at shielding any negativity from me as he is about making his bed. But he’s nearly as spent as I am. And wisps of his own worries are starting to bleed through our bond, not least of which is a persistent fear for my health and safety. I remember, in a rush, that his own mother died giving birth to him. I struggle to calm myself for his sake, hoping it eases some of his anxiety.
“We’re close,” Kianna warns. “Get ready to push.”
“I can’t,” I reply, and my voice trembles. It’s been hours and I feel so weak, well past the threshold of what I thought I could handle. I close my eyes and picture my mother’s face, reminding myself she did this twice. But when I try to summon her inexorable strength all I feel is crushing grief at her absence.
“You can do this,” Thoirt says in my mind. “You are strong.”
“And we are even stronger together,” Cath adds.
“Together,” Dain echoes. “Excellent idea.”
“Yes,” I agree, relieved beyond measure.
Eyes still shut tight, I reach blindly for Dain and he grasps my hand, his other hand still softly stroking my hair. “Squeeze as hard as you have to,” he tells me. And then, in my mind, he adds, “Take what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”
And he really does. In every sense of the word, he has me.
So I grip his hand tightly, placing my other palm on his chest, and I draw his glowing amber energy into me. The relief is instant, soothing and quenching and enervating, and when I open my eyes I’m sobbing.
Because I’m not alone, I have him and he has me, and we have Thoirt and Cath, and any minute now we’re going to have so much more. “Family,” I tell him silently. “Our own family.”
“Family,” he echoes in my mind. Dain smiles, leaning forward to kiss my forehead, his brown eyes shining. “I love you,” he whispers against my skin. “Thank you for letting me help.”
"I love you," I manage through the tears.
“Okay, Sloane, time to push,” Kianna instructs.
I push and Dain encourages and I cry out and Dain soothes and there’s a sharp crest of pain and pressure, and then… a baby’s cry.
Every muscle in my body screams for me to lie back, but instead I reach forward, lifting up my arms. Kianna takes a quick moment to examine the baby and then places it in my arms, red and squalling, its tiny hands bawled into fists.
“Well done, dear,” Thoirt says, and I know she’s thinking about her own little feathertail.
“Thank you,” I reply. And now I’m thinking of little hands on crimson scales and squeals of delight at affectionate puffs of steam.
I run my fingertip along my baby’s cheek, soft as a flower petal, and Dain wraps his arms around us both. The baby quiets, settling into our warm embrace, and I’ve never felt this kind of serene joy.
Dain pulls back slightly, tears streaming freely down his cheeks as his gaze meets mine. “It’s a girl.”
“Of course it is,” I reply. “You always get your way.”
Dain lets out a wobbly laugh. “I do,” he replies. “It’s how I got you.” He leans forward to kiss me, carefully, with our baby between us.
After a moment Kianna speaks up, calmly reminding us that there’s still some work to do, and Dain takes the baby so she can cut the cord and examine me. Milder contractions renew as I deliver the afterbirth, the pain barely registering this time, and then our daughter is cleaned and swaddled and placed back into Dain’s arms.
When she starts to cry I see a flash of panic in his eyes, but then he brings her tight to his chest and rubs her tiny back and she settles. “You’re perfect,” he tells her softly. “As perfect as your mother. Do you know that?”
I swallow hard, caught between the desire to hold her myself and the beauty of watching this new bond form between father and daughter. I decide to give him another minute, but just one.
“My precious little angel,” Dain coos, swaying side to side while his fingers stroke fine, wispy hair. He sighs and glances up at me. “I think I want five more.”
I glare at him, but before I can protest he places our daughter in my arms. And as I look down on her sweet face, I realize that I secretly want that too. Now that we’re at peace, the continent safe, what I want most in the world is to be surrounded by family and friends and love and laughter.
Our baby starts to cry again, loud and demanding, and I smirk at Dain and say, “Oh hey, she has your mouth.”
Dain snorts and slides into bed beside us, wrapping one arm around me and placing his free hand on the tiny foot that’s worked itself free of the swaddle. “Hey there, little one,” he says softly. Then he chuckles. “Look at her, opening and closing her mouth like a baby bird. Like a little robin.”
His hand stills and he looks up at me. “Robin?”
I roll my eyes, but find my lips forming the word, and then whispering it as I look into our daughter’s eyes. “Robin.” She blinks at me, suddenly alert, and Dain and I both shake in silent laughter.
“Robin,” he repeats, in a far more serious tone, brushing his thumb against miniscule toes.
I kiss her temple, and then I kiss Dain’s lips. And somehow, I manage to keep a serious face as I reply, “Fine. As long as you don’t start calling her Bob.”