Still thin.
But real.
Alive.
My son’s scream pierces through my chest like a dagger, flooding my vision with something hot and violent, relief, joy, terror, love, all of it so tangled I can’t separate it.
“My Pair?” I demand, voice raw.
No one answers for long, long seconds, my watery eyes on her chest, vision too blurred to see if there's movement.
“Is she breathing? Is she-”
“She’s stable,” the medic finally says. “For now. Pressure is still low. We need to close her and get more blood into her.”
A cold weight slams into my chest.
‘For now’isn’t good enough. Not nearly good enough.
My feet move to go to her, but Gore squeezes my arm, his dark green eyes boring into mine, “Let them finish,” he murmurs. “You’ll only get in the way.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right. The curtain blocks my view, but I can see her foot, still, pale, flecked with blood. I force myself to stay rooted where I am, counting every second like a punishment.
They work on her for what feels like hours though it’s barely minutes. The world spins around me. The room sways. My ears ring. I don’t know if it’s the blood loss or the fear or both.
Then a soft voice, “Sir.”
I look down, the young woman from before, pale ashy hair, big apple-green eyes, Amaranthine, stands before me, tiny bundle in her arms.
My son.
“Do you want to hold him?”
The question nearly destroys me.
My throat closes. My chest aches, and I nod because words won’t come.
She places the baby into my shaking hands, and the world… stills, tilts, begins moving again.
He’s so small. So impossibly small. Wrapped in a thin cloth. Face scrunched, eyelids fluttering. Dark tufts of curly hair. A mouth that looks like hers.
My son.
Ours.
Something inside me detonates, an explosion of fierce, savage love that leaves me breathless.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve got you, little one.”
He makes a sound like a sigh, leans into my chest, warms my blood with his tiny heat.
Tolly exhales a shaky breath beside me, “Looks like you,” he says softly.
“He looks likeher,” I murmur without looking away from my sons button nose.
Amaranthine smiles with tired eyes, “He’s strong. A fighter.”
Of course he is.
