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Your recent bout of nesting finds you in the kitchen, determined to get things in order before the arrival of your child. The sitting room had already received the treatment, your wardrobe too as you sought to make sure every spot in your home was just right. You’re fighting around the span of your middle to reach something on a higher shelf as Astarion presses himself at your back, placing a kiss on your shoulder.
“Still nesting my dear?”
He grabs the item for you with minimal effort, and you turn on him with a smile.
“I just want to make sure the only thing we need to worry about once the baby is here is her wellbeing.”
“Still stuck on a daughter are you.”
“Hardly stuck, just a feeling. You must believe me to some extent though, you put a fair amount of pink in the nursery.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know more than anyone else that I don’t gender colors my dear. It matched, I used it.”
His taller stature proves to be a boon in your current condition, allowing him to reverently palm your middle as he leans in effortlessly for a kiss, cutting off your reply as your child begins to squirm below your hands as if sensing the presence of the who people who wanted them most. You have a moment to enjoy the kiss, the suggestive hand toying with the neckline of your dress, before it’s interrupted by a cramp that seizes your middle, doubling over so quick that its only vampire reflexes that keep Astarion from receiving a headbutt to the face.
“Darling?”
You breathe through it, focusing on the seemingly excited wiggles of your unborn child as a distraction until the pain fades. Cold sweat pebbles on your neck.
“I’m fine. I-“
Another cramp seizes you, and this time you feel something give, a hot wetness spilling from between your legs that is all too different from the arousal that had begun to pool there just moments ago.
“Summon the midwife.”
Astarion knew he was less than versed in the ways of the world, first in life with a higher-class position, only to be socially and societally sheltered for the next two hundred years. Safe to say, he had no idea what to expect with the birth of a child and knew that down to his very bones.
He began to treat it almost as an investigation, asking mothers he saw out in the city what to expect as a first-time father, what he could do for his wife once the process began. While unusual, most of the women quickly became candid about their thoughts on the matter, diving headfirst into their own experiences, especially the actions of their partners at the time of birth.
"Lad, there’s no pain like it. You let her hold your hand, and you let her break it if she wants to. Your one-eyed trouser snake is what get you into this trouble after all."
"She will curse your dick, and you have no option to defend yourself."
"Get used to the sight of blood sooner rather than later."
One woman had even taken one of his hands between her own, patting the top of it gently in what might have been premature sympathy. “She’s going to say some terrible things, but she wont mean most of them, don’t you worry.”
The most helpful interaction had been with the owner of a preferred alchemy shop, new to the ways of motherhood and often found with her babe swaddled against her chest in a linen wrap. She had considered the question so long that Astarion found himself unconsciously beginning to fidget with items on the counter by the time she spoke.
“Just be there for her. Do what you can. My husband is a mage, and he was able to use some of his frost spells when I was too warm. It didn’t fix everything, but it was a great help in my comfort.”
Cold? He could do cold.
So as the pregnancy progressed, he fed less often, the task less than difficult with the way anxious nerves seemed to roil in his stomach. Less blood meant a cooler form though, something desirable as the birth came closer and closer. It was only thanks to the fuzziness of the so-called pregnancy brain that kept his poor choices from being deduced.
He was still feeding more regularly than he had been privileged to in his multi century captivity, but it was a decrease from what had become his norm. The already intoxicating scent of his lover carrying his very child muddling into something heady that urged him to press close until the very scents of two forms became inseparable.
Contacted by sending stone, the midwife promised to be present as quick as she can, instructing you both to settle in however you see fit. Wherever you wound up, you’d likely be there a while. “First birth’s always take the longest.”
Astarion walked you slowly to your bedchambers, a sentinel at your side whenever a cramp, no, a contraction you told yourself, took hold. He held you up as your knees threatened to buckle in the hall, a steady hand pressed to your back, the comforting coolness seeping through the sweat damp linen of your gown.
By the time you make it to the bed, still rumpled and unmade from when you had risen earlier, you decide to forgo your gown, now a lost cause as sweat drenched as it is. Astarion helps as you wrap yourself in a light robe, hanging onto the thread of modesty you still have before it’s thrown out the window with the arrival of the midwife and her clinical touch.
When she does arrive, its with little fanfare, all but shooing the vampire out of the way so she “can do her work in peace.”
Your lover helps you onto the bed, wipes the hair sticking to your brow as a brisk exam is done. You both seem to hold your breath, a building sigh of relief leaving you both as the midwife declares that things are progressing as they should, though it may be a few hours before the work begins.
Which is how you find yourself pacing your bedchambers hand in hand with Astarion, the cool floor on your bare feet easing some of the nausea in the back of your throat, uncomfortable as the child within you shifts and squirms in apparent anticipation. While you haven’t been able to ignore the pregnancy for months, you’re now acutely aware of every twitch within your womb, every move of your child as they press lower and lower through the hours.
Your body is restless, it knows alongside that primal part of your brain that something is coming, and that being complacent is a danger. So, you pace, and you breathe, and you pace some more. The contractions having grown closer and closer until they are nearly a constant wave, the breaks between them seeming to grow shorter and shorter as the hours pass.
The midwife is watchful, but not overbearing, keeping an eye on you as she muddles herbs and arranges small bottles on a table Astarion had pulled to the bedside for her supplies. Her hands stop as a vicious contraction rocks through you, your hands grasping the swell of your pregnant belly as something shifts.
“On the bed now dear, I think your babe has had enough waiting. Let’s get that robe off of you lest it be ruined.”
After slipping the robe from your body Astarion lifts you onto the bed effortlessly, your back to his chest, a wall of support as you follow instructions to bend your knees and plant your feet on the edge of the bed. He shuffles behind you, but you’re too distracted by primal urges to push to pay him much mind until a jarring bite of cold races down your spine, the coolness of his bare skin pressing along the whole of your back.
“Oh gods. That’s amazing.”
One of his hands sweeps the hair from your face again, cool touch lingering on your sweating forehead.
You don’t know how long the actual birth takes, lost in the instructions to push when needed and to rest when the moment allowed. Though your body is prepared as it ever will be according to the midwife you feel as though the child is driving bone from joint as the ease closer and closer to the world. Astarion’s hands are clasped within yours, the bones grinding uncomfortably within your grasp as you squeeze with every wave of pain.
Liquid falls to the floor with a splash, quickly forgotten as the burning pressure reaches its peak before releasing. Your child entering the world. There’s a heartbeat of silence, two until a wail cuts through the room, all indignant rage from being yanked from one world and into another.
“Oh, what a lovely little girl.”
She’s in your arms in an instant, blood hot and warm and alive as she heaves great cries against you. Astarion is the one to quiet her, his voice cutting through the room and immediately drawing the attention of the babe in your arms.
Dark eyes blink up at you, brows furrowing as her gaze locks onto her father.
“All that fuss, best we know sooner rather than later that you’ve got your mother’s mouth on you.”
His voice is just as much a balm as his cool skin, washing over you with the relief that she was here, that the three of you survived this crazy half-baked plan.
“Darling just look at her.”
A sob catches in your chest as you take her in, your eyes never having left the tiny form in your arms since she was placed there. The baby has her father’s pale skin and jewel-colored eyes, a thick head of hair promising a future of curling waves just like his, though stubbornly holding the coloring of yours. Her pointed ears nearly break you, so small and soft, something in you falling further in love with that feature alone. You trace the point with a finger, watching as she leans into the touch, Astarion leaning over your shoulder so he could be even closer. Something drips onto your shoulder, and you know without looking its tears, of joy, of relief, of unconditional love.
“She’s perfect.”
A prepared scroll of prestidigitation leaves you clean once the afterbirth is delt with, clean skin against clean skin as the baby nurses at your breasts. The midwife hands you bottle after bottle to drink, potions of healing and restoration to combat the tole birth has had on your body, her earlier muddled herbs becoming a restorative tea that you let cool on the bedside table.
Despite it all, you’re exhausted by the time her things are packed up, her departure swift with congratulations and the assurance that you could contact her for anything, even with the baby born.
Astarion helps you dress into a fresh robe, two pairs of eyes never leaving the baby as she sleeps on the bed until she is back in your arms. He helps you to settle into a rocking chair, making sure you are comfortable with a blanket before setting about to change the bedding.
“Such a waste.”
He has a wry smile as he uses a towel from the bathing chambers to mop up the blood and gore of the birthing process. The placenta had been set aside by the midwife earlier with instructions on how it could be used as a benefit after childbirth. Your nose wrinkles, a tired laugh slipping from your lips.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The rolling of his eyes is exaggerated, but he changes the bedding without comment, helping you and the still sleeping baby back to bed once all is said and done. You’re impossibly tired, but put a hand out to stop him as he moves to get into bed.
“ ‘Starion, you need to eat.”
“Dearest my hunger can wait, I wouldn’t miss this moment for the world.”
Too tired to argue you set about getting comfortable, the baby in the middle of the bed, her parents a bracket on both sides as she settles, one tiny fist tucked beneath an impossibly small nose as she suckles at it in her sleep. Your eyes droop, and you are fighting to keep them open when Astarion brushes a finger down your cheek, his expression heartbreakingly soft.
“Sleep dearest, I’ll make sure you don’t miss a thing.”