Author's Note: I just got the idea for this actually ages and ages ago; what it would be like to write a brief thing from the POV of an unborn child. How do they experience the world? The LDS Church has a view that I adhere to, but I fiddled with it a little for the sake of Jasper's work. Written with her permission. And for those who haven't read her fic, you should, and you should know that Liam's father is Prince Nuada. Just so we're clear. And some of the scenes/dialogue run parallel to different chapters in TFF.
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First Impressions
A Short Story for "The Fire's Fuel"
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If he'd known what cold was, he would have realized he was warm. If he'd understood light, he would have known he was in the dark. And if danger had been something he could fathom, he'd have been grateful that he was safe.
In the dark, in the warmth, in safety, sometimes he heard a voice. Gentle, soft. Coming from everywhere, and from inside. His mother. A gentle shushing sound was always there, too. At first the words whispered by that voice were indistinct. Shadows against the darkness. Then, as heartbeats upon heartbeats of time passed, the words became clearer.
He'll be back soon. Then we'll tell him all about you. He'll be so excited.
He wanted to ask who "he" was. Wanted to know what excited was, why "he" would be excited to know about him. When the voice, his mother, talked about "him," he would wiggle and kick in the dark and then he would feel something gently pressing against him, rubbing soothing circles and sending him to sleep.
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When the voice was singing softly and the melody drifted through the darkness surrounding him, when the darkness was lessened a little by the sunlight shining, the steady drum of the heartbeat sped up. The slow shush that was always present suddenly quickened. And then the world around him - the world that was the voice, and the gentle touches, and the warm soft feeling that was love, though he had no words for it - shifted, and he realized his mother was running.
The world that was the voice collided with something and was hoisted into the air, and he tried to wriggle and squirm, but then he heard laughter, felt something warm and bubbling and sweet that made him wiggle happily in the dark. And the voice gasped, "Welcome home!"
"I cannot describe how good it is to be back."
This voice was different. It didn't come from within, or all around, but a place very close, so close it was almost a part of the first voice, the gentle voice, the love-world-mother-voice. This voice was strong and deep, but gentle too in a way. Was this the one who would be excited about him?
He relaxed into the dark and the warmth, the happiness and love and the murmur of the two voices. But then he went very, very still because there was the faintest pressure against the dark. A warmth that was unfamiliar. Not scary, though. Still safe. Protective. He felt that pressing and tried to squirm, to press closer and meet that strange presence that he could feel just beyond the dark.
"You – we – are going to have a baby?"
Yes. The voice, the mother-voice, and this new presence were going to have him. Was his mother right? Was the new voice excited?
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He could feel that presence, his father, in the darkness with him now. His mother's warmth and magic and presence surrounded him, soothing him without words, communicating with something deeper than spoken language that she loved him, he was precious to her, he was her gift. And now his father was there too. Watching. Observing.
He reached out, or tried. Wiggled and squiggled, trying to get his father's attention. He was surrounded by his mother, by the voice of her, the darkness that was her. But his father was new. New, new, new. He wanted to know about his father.
A pulse of warmth that was different from the love he was constantly surrounded by. Surprise and warmth and tenderness and love. And he could hear, more clearly than any words but his mother's voice, Mo mhac - my son. He squirmed happily. He wanted to say something back, but he didn't know how, didn't know what to say. So he settled for wiggling in approval.
"The life inside of you is beautiful," his father said aloud to his mother. Yes, his father was excited. Good.
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Tired. So tired. Why did they keep poking him? He just wanted to sleep. Who were these people passing him back and forth? Why was it so cold? He was all wet! Why was he not warm in the dark anymore? Everything was too bright, too loud, too scary. He just wanted to go to sleep and be back in the dark.
Oh. Soft. Warm. A sweet, sweet smell. Nice. Gentle arms cradling him against more warmth. Something soft tickled his face and he blinked. Waved his arms to try and push it away. Missed whatever was tickling him. Tried to push at it again, and his fists slid across his own cheeks in futility.
"Hello, Liam," said a voice. The voice. His mother's voice. His flailing subsided at the sound of it. "Sweet, sweet Liam. It's me; it's Mathair."
He struggled to peer up at the blurry, pale green face above him. He wiggled. Squirmed his feet and waved his fists, reaching for her. He tried to laugh. It gurgled in his throat. Tried to smile, and he must have done something right, because the face above his broke into a wide smile, too. Mathair. Mother. Mathair. He reached for her again. She lowered her face and nuzzled the tip of his nose with hers. She smelled like something sweet and safe and crisp. He strained until he could touch her cheek with one fist. She kissed his hand.
"Hello," she whispered. "Oh, hello, my love. Hello, my sweet one. It's so nice to finally meet you, my darling."
A thumping sound startled him, and he scrunched up, trying to snuggle closer to his mother who was safe and who would never let anything hurt him. But then his mother said softly, "Come see your son." His mother said more words, but they didn't matter. What mattered was the sound of her voice washing over him, and the warmth and how he was safe and everything was wonderful.
Then he was being laid in strong arms and he wondered if he should protest. Then he was looking into blurry eyes the color of warm, melting honey. He blinked as a voice, familiar and strong and deep, crooned, "Liam." He blinked again. After a moment of struggle, he brought his father's face into focus. "Liam."
He tried to say something. Anything. Say hello. Say, "I know you. You are Athair." But all that came out was a gurgling sound of curiosity because something wet and shiny was on his father's face and he wanted to touch it. Wanted to see what it was. So he reached up and, focusing hard, touched his father's cheek.
"I have only just met you, Liam," his father said softly, "and already I love you more than my own life."
Liam tried to say that he loved his Athair too - and his Mathair - but he was sleepy, so sleepy. He made a baby sound of contentment and cuddled into the soft, soft blanket and his father's arms. Let his eyes drift closed, lulled by the scent of his mother and the warmth of his father. He knew when he woke up his athair and mathair would still be there.
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So I love Liam from The Fire's Fuel. He's my favorite secondary character, followed closely by Declan (who's more tertiary). So I plan on writing a few one-shots about him because he's awesome and we don't get to see much from his point of view. So we get to see Nuada's first impression of Liam, but we don't get to see what Dynala did when she first held her son, or what Liam thought about being held by either of them. So I tried to explore that here. Also, babies are highly sensitive to touch and sound in the womb, and smell plays a big part in their sensory lives once they're born. They often identify people by smell before they can focus their eyes enough to see.