Pain. A sharp, burning sting.
She'd been worried about forgetting herself, calling him names. Instead he's looking at three deep, red marks on his arm where she just scratched him in the throes of agony.
Not that this little ailment of his matters in the least. The only thing of importance is she, her monumental task as she's letting out another pain-stricken roar. He strokes her head, mumbling desperate reassurances.
Looking around, his mind goes numb from the overwhelming influx of impressions. There's sweat and other fluids. Shuffling, instructions. Doors opening and closing. And there's the screams, the cries. Hers. Getting louder, harder to bear by the second.
It still feels unreal- like he's deep in the Fade's grasp, set to wake up any minute.
Rather than pinching his already-irritated arm he wills himself to recall the months behind them.
Finding out, sinking to his knees before her; pressing giddy kisses all over her belly.
Holding her through bouts of illness; rubbing her stomach, her back.
Laughing in incredulousjoy at the movements, those silent hellos.
Watching her form round out, her stomach swelling so alluringly; using every possible opportunity to remind her of her beauty.
Standing helpless as she doubles over from the first surprising cramp, both torturous and promising.
Now he's here, listening to the healer's calming voice asking for a final, big push. Heartache grips at him as her face contorts once more with an almighty effort, with a pain he will never be able to imagine.
He all but clutches at her wrist, whispers to her. That she's strong, brave; how much he loves her; that it'll be over soon. There's no telling whether she even hears him- until he feels the faint grasp of weak fingers and she nods, smiling in exhausted gratitude.
Another excruciating howl. Then it's silence for two, three agonising seconds before a sharp cry rings through the chambers- shrill, angry and breath-taking.
Suddenly his heart is beating harder, louder, into his cheeks, his temples. They're still holding on to each other, staring wide-eyed at whatever is happening at the foot of the bed.
Busy rummaging all around; inspections, measuring looks, affirmative nods before, at last, she's handed a bundle of dainty, pink perfection.
His mouth drops open, bottom lip shaking. The next thing he knows is he's pressing frantic kisses along her damp hairline, mumbling amid hapless sobs. Looking the child, his child, up and down; taking in the features, counting the limbs, every tiny little finger and toe.
There's suckling, uncertain at first but quickly growing hungry. He watches in awe, alternating between stroking her sweat-soaked tresses and this tiny head of curly gold. Minutes pass, he's unsure how many. He refuses to know.
This is their time. Him, his wife, their child. Their blissful little moment the Maker has crafted for them, to be branded into loving memory.
He's still crying, as is she in his half-embrace. Healers are filtering out of the room, their eyes, too, glistening.
Their daughter doesn't mind. Sound asleep now at her mother's breast, she's already her spitting image and forever a testament to their love.