This labor is faster. My body knows what to do now, and within twenty minutes I'm pushing again. The burn, the pressure, the overwhelming sensation of my body doing something impossible.
And then—release. Another cry, deeper than his sister's.
"A boy," the midwife announces. "Healthy and strong."
They place him on my chest next to where his sister has been returned, and I stare at them both in wonder. My son has Aratus's white hair and my human warmth, already reaching for his sister with tiny fingers.
"They're perfect," I breathe, and through the bond I feel Aratus's overwhelming emotion.
"They're ours," he says, voice rough with feeling.
The midwives work efficiently, cleaning the babies, checking them over, making sure everything is as it should be. I deliver the placentas—both of them, which is surreal—and the head midwife declares the birth complete and successful.
"Rest now," she says gently. "You've done incredibly well."
But I can't rest. Not yet. Not when I'm holding my children for the first time, feeling their small magics already responding to mine and their father's.
"What should we name them?" I ask Aratus, who hasn't taken his eyes off the twins since they were born.
"You choose," he says. "You did all the work."
"We made them together." I study our daughter, who's stopped crying and is now watching us with those eerily intelligent pale eyes. "She looks like winter starlight. Lyris, maybe?"
"Lyris," he repeats, testing the name. "It suits her."
"And him?" Our son is still fussing slightly, unhappy about being outside where it's warm. "He's going to be as dramatic as you, I can already tell."
"Careful," Aratus warns, but he's smiling. "Caelan. It means 'slender' in the old tongue, but it also means 'powerful.'"
"Lyris and Caelan." I look down at them both, these impossible creatures we created. "Our children."
The weight of it hits me then. These babies will grow up in this world of courts and prophecies. They'll be part of whatevercomes next—the completion of the bonds, the return of Fae power, all of it.
"They're going to have a complicated life," I say quietly.
"They're going to have us," Aratus corrects. "And we'll make sure they're strong enough to handle whatever comes."
Through the bond, I feel his absolute certainty. He's already planning their futures, already preparing to shape them into the heirs they need to be.
"No pressure, right?" I murmur to Lyris, who yawns and immediately falls asleep on my chest.
The next hours pass in a blur of exhaustion and wonder. The babies feed—that's a learning curve I wasn't prepared for—and sleep, and wake to fuss before sleeping again. Aratus holds them with careful reverence, this ancient powerful being reduced to gentle touches and soft words.
"You're good at this," I observe, watching him rock Caelan while Lyris nurses.
"I'm terrified," he admits. "They're so small."
"They're half Fae. They're probably sturdier than they look."
"Still." His eyes meet mine. "I never thought I'd have this. Children. Family. The bond was supposed to give me power, not?—"
"Not love?" I finish when he trails off.
"Not this much love," he says quietly. "Not enough love that the thought of anything happening to any of you makes me want to destroy the world."
"Dramatic," I say, but my throat is tight.
"Honest," he corrects.
