Maeve
Thank the gods for Branbast. That's what she would be thinking if she knew what the seer cat had done, but as it stands she's clueless. Maeve doesn't know how much time passes between her telling Aidon to find Phoebe and the demigoddess actually arriving, but she's grateful for her all the same. That gratefulness only blooms once she places that sweet honeysuckle crown upon her head, whisking away the pain to be replaced with pleasure instead, a spark travelling along her spine for an entirely different reason. "Baby time. I'm glad you're here." She breathes in relief, toes curling as she braces herself against Locke, nightgown hitched up so it doesn't get in the way.
At Phoebe's question she can't help snorting, a faint laugh pushing past her lips, "I do, but I don't think you could tear him away either way." She admits, squeezing his hand as the urge to push grew stronger, lashes fluttering as she draws in a shaky breath. Whether because of Frey's magic or something else entirely, everything seems to go quickly, the process painless and easy. It takes her no more than seven pushes before the high pitched wail of their baby fills the room, lungs strong as he makes his presence known, skin pink and healthy.
He's a tiny thing with a shock of still wet black curls on his head, little fists balled and eyes closed against the brightness of the world, legs kicking out much like he kicked in her belly. Tears are in her eyes as a love so blinding blooms through her chest she forgets how to breathe as their baby is brought up for her to hold, wrapped lightly in a spare blanket. "Locke... It's a boy. Our little star. Edmund."
At Phoebe's question she can't help snorting, a faint laugh pushing past her lips, "I do, but I don't think you could tear him away either way." She admits, squeezing his hand as the urge to push grew stronger, lashes fluttering as she draws in a shaky breath. Whether because of Frey's magic or something else entirely, everything seems to go quickly, the process painless and easy. It takes her no more than seven pushes before the high pitched wail of their baby fills the room, lungs strong as he makes his presence known, skin pink and healthy.
He's a tiny thing with a shock of still wet black curls on his head, little fists balled and eyes closed against the brightness of the world, legs kicking out much like he kicked in her belly. Tears are in her eyes as a love so blinding blooms through her chest she forgets how to breathe as their baby is brought up for her to hold, wrapped lightly in a spare blanket. "Locke... It's a boy. Our little star. Edmund."
Poor little girl
still waiting for her happy ending
still waiting for her happy ending
