Chapter 52 – Family

"NO!" I screamed, both in my dream and as I woke, bolting upright in bed. Stenvar had been lost in the mist, and in the mist were glimpses dragons. A tail, swooping, cutting through the fog. An eye, flashing, winking at its prey. A wing, flapping, carving a temporary window to its serpentine body. A flame, licking, melting the very air I breathed. The mist had cleared just long enough for me to watch as Stenvar was snatched out of existence by a colossal black maw.

"Deborah?" I heard Yrsarald's voice reach out to me in the darkness. It was the middle of the night, I supposed. Arms soon wrapped around me. I realized I was trembling. "You screamed. Did you have a bad dream?"

I couldn't get the final scene of my dream out of my mind. "Yes. The first. First in a long time."

Lips pressed to the back of my shoulder. "It is just stress. You are stressing. Stop stressing." Yrsarald yawned.

I didn't answer Yrsarald. While I hoped he was right, I was almost certain that he wasn't. It was true that I had been getting very antsy about being due to give birth in two weeks or so, but I knew that the nightmare shared similarities with dreams I had experienced in the past, before my brief respite from such visions.

Yrsarald was soon snoring, occasionally chuffing softly. I stood from the bed, walking off the first bad dream I had had in perhaps a year. I stood at the tall window on my side of Yrsarald's bed, our bed, and gazed over the moonlit landscape. There was no mist, then, unlike the last day I had seen Stenvar, and unlike my dream. The moons shined bright, very bright, soaking up the reflected light of the snow-capped north.

I thought about the rumors that I had heard over the last month, about the increase in dragon attacks throughout Skyrim, and of a dragon hunter who was often simply too late to save a village from burning to the ground before killing the offending beast. According to the rumors, the dragon hunter was as tall as ten men and as strong as one hundred; the dragon hunter was Talos's ghost or even Talos reborn; the dragon hunter could spit someone to death; or, my favorite, the dragon hunter was actually a dragon in human form, complete with green scaly skin, wings, and fire breath. I didn't believe the rumors about the dragon hunter's appearance or abilities, but I could believe that one was out there. Dragons were becoming abundant in Skyrim for the first time in perhaps millennia, which as one would expect would account for the existence of at least one person who might want to hunt them down. I hadn't thought of the possibility before, but after dreaming of Stenvar being attacked by a dragon, I had to wonder if my friend was the dragon hunter everyone was talking about.

I sent a silent prayer to Dibella, Stenvar's goddess, to watch over him, to not let him get eaten by a dragon. "Where are you, sellsword?" I whispered to myself in English, just in case Yrsarald was not as fast asleep as I'd thought. It wasn't a crime to think of my friend and wish him well, but Yrsarald held a small jealousy toward the older man after I admitted that Stenvar and I had at one time been intimate. The admission was necessary after my reunion with Stenvar on the day of the earthquake, and especially after my subsequent dreams of him in which I'd mutter or moan his name. This was also how I learned that I still dreamt in English, and therefore spoke in my sleep in the language as well. Yrsarald still claimed that my past sexual relationships didn't bother him, but I knew better. I could read Yrsarald's moods just as well as he could smell mine. He was jealous. He didn't have to say it; I knew that Yrsarald feared that my feelings for the sellsword would one day return, and that I would give in to them.

"Come to bed, honeybee," I heard Yrsarald murmur, using his newfound pet name for me. I wondered if he had heard me speak, earlier, but even in the near-blackness I could see his eyes were closed as he reached out for me. He had merely sensed my absence. Before returning to bed I succumbed to the immense pressure on my bladder and used Yrsarald's latrine, our latrine, without caring that he could see or hear. He had kept his word – he never, ever mentioned the activity.

With Yrsarald, I had to sleep nude. There was no other way of being comfortable. The man was radiator, and I had a thick layer of insulation. Yrsarald, too, had packed on a few extra pounds. I still maintained outwardly that he did not have a food-baby belly, but the reality of his larger physique had become more apparent lately. Though mostly hidden by a thick, pleasant trail of brown-red hair, his gut had indeed grown to about the size of a woman carrying a several-month-old fetus.

Sliding into bed and pushing the sheets and covers away from me, I snuggled up to my cuddly bear-man and placed my palm on his food-baby belly. I heard his content, low growl vibrate deep within his chest when I laid my head down. I let his heartbeat goad me back into slumber.

. . . . . .

"Lortheim will now kvetha the names of the Five Hundred Companions on this, the thirteenth of Sun's Dawn, before we celebrate the Feast of the Dead." Jora, a priestess of Talos, gave up the floor to her fellow priest. Perhaps half the city, only Nords and no elves, was standing around the large plaza by the south gate. Inside the Candlehearth inn behind the plaza, as well as inside the main hall of the palace, waited a sizeable feast for Windhelm's citizens. Marcurio, and Bird and Brelyna who had only just arrived days before from Winterhold, had elected to skip the recitation. I, the companion of Yrsarald, apparently had to make an appearance, despite being two weeks away from birthing a child and wanting nothing more than just to sleep.

"Ysgramor, Rozol of the Five Hundred, Captain of Ylgermet." Lortheim paused only to take a breath before continuing. "Yngol, Captain of Harakk, son of Ysgramor. Ylgar, Captain of Darumzu, son of Ysgramor…."

I leaned in close to Yrsarald and whispered, "Is he truly going to speak five hundred names?"

"Kffft…." My own companion told me to shush.

I sighed.

When Yrsarald had told me what we were to do midday – stand in the plaza and listen to a lengthy recitation – I had groaned loudly.

"Jeef of the River, Captain of Jorrvaskr."

My feet had hurt within the first five minutes as I stood listening to the priest and priestess of Talos speak toward the continuing fight to preserve the worship of their god, and toward the sorry state that the once-great Empire was in.

"Rhorlak, Captain of Chrion."

Talk of the war and of the Empire segued into talk of a warrior named Ysgramor, kinsman of Talos, and told the tale of how he and his five hundred companions freed Skyrim of murderous Snow Elves. At the mention of the elves, a man I had only encountered several times, and that was several times too many, drunkenly slurred something loudly about dirty, rotten elves. Rolff Stone-First was his name, and I refused to believe that he was biologically related to Galmar Stone-First, who I had never heard speak a bad word about the elves. The two looked nothing alike, anyway.

"…Alhild the Fiery. Aleld. Alver. Anarr. Ani. Ansvarr the Short. Arinvi. Arvith. Asgeir…."

I found it curious that the crowd simply ignored Rolff instead of removing him from the plaza, which I would have preferred. This wasn't the first time I had heard horrible things being said about elves, namely the Dark Elves that inhabited a part of the city, but such remarks made me very, very uncomfortable. It took all I had not to knee Rolff and his racist friends in the genitals.

"…Birsa. Bjorg. Bogi. Boli. Botvi. Breff the Elder. Britte. Brunl the Off-Handed…."

I forced myself to relax. Forget about Rolff. Forget about the racism that some Nords harbored toward Dark Elves. Forget about the awful things I had heard about Ulfric.

"…Freyvith the Red. Froa. Froki. Gautur. Gedda the Quick. Gestir. Gillaug. Gloa. Grosta…."

I then felt an odd sensation, like I had to pass gas and pee at the same time.

"…Hermeskr. Hethin. Hofir. Holmi. Hrathi. Hroi the Wanderer. Iarni. Ilmir. Ingi. Iolik. Iri the Wild. Jarpir. Joar. Jodis. Jonder the Tiny. Joraldir…."

I heard water dripping, and then a release of pressure from within me.

My water had broken two weeks early all over my fur boots. Yrsarald turned to me, a frantic look in his eyes. He had smelled it.

. . . . . .

"I don't know about this," Yrsarald said, pacing back and forth. "Babies are not fish."

"It will be fine, Yrsa," I said, sinking into the large, stone tub full of warm water that had been infused with various potions meant to aid in soothing child labor pains. I was wearing a thin linen birthing dress, simply for modesty's sake, as my good friend, Brelyna, and the fathers-to-be, Marcurio and Bird, would be joining in on the fun soon.

The soft glow of oil-fed sconces, the warm, medicated water, and the midwife humming a low, pleasant tune kept me relatively calm throughout my early waves of contractions.

The midwife Marcurio had hired, Gjerta, had prepared the water and was milling about the communal, upstairs bathroom in the palace where I was to give birth. I had always been curious about water births, and after talking with Gjerta and writing back and forth with Brelyna, I had made the decision to try it. The only tub in the palace that would accommodate such a feat was the largest of the three upstairs. That, or Ulfric's personal bath, but even Yrsarald couldn't convince the Jarl to let me birth a tiny human in his tub.

"Shit, shit shit…," I cried as a contraction ripped through me from the inside out.

"Again? It seems soon," Yrsarald fussed. He was near-panicking again, pacing in front of my tub. For the most part he was very much a calming presence – except when I was in pain.

"It is normal, Yrsarald," Gjerta assured him.

"It will only get worse, Yrsa," I reminded him. "Come here," I pleaded, scrunching my fingers in and out, signaling for him to hold my hand. A chair had been placed behind me where Yrsarald could sit. He walked over and let me squeeze his hand. Despite my own pain, I made myself release him when I heard his knuckles pop. He then leaned forward and massaged my shoulders and neck; it helped him focus his own nerves in helping me, rather than making me even more nervous.

I slowly rocked my hips back and forth while letting my body be moved by Yrsarald's strong hands. The rocking motion helped either distract me from the uterine cramping or, perhaps, actually helped dull the severe aching my body had been feeling for hours.

"Press on my low back," I whispered to Yrsarald. He slid his hands down into the water and did as I asked. The action of pressing down on the area where the sacrum met the fifth lumbar vertebra felt really, really good at that moment. As an added bonus, Yrsarald's hands were like heating pads, and I wondered if he himself was helping to keep the bathwater warm.

Gjerta answered a knock at the door, and then let in Marcurio, followed by Bird and Brelyna. Bird had just arrived from Winterhold two days before the Feast of the Dead, bearing Brelyna and a pile of gifts for the baby. Brelyna ran passed the boys to come to the side of the tub and hug me, unintentionally pushing Yrsarald away.

"Oh, sorry," she said to Yrsarald, giggling, and then hugged me again before backing away and letting Yrsarald continue to press on my various pressure points. "How are you feeling?" she asked me.

"Alright, for now," I said, again rocking my hips back and forth. "Some pain, but, the water helps."

"I told you it would," she said, sitting in a chair somewhat removed from the tub. Bird walked up to give my forehead a gentle kiss, and then joined Brelyna in sitting. Marcurio, however, joined Yrsarald in the panic club. He stood with his arms crossed, body jittering, unable to stay still.

"Don't worry so much, Marc," I said with a smile, though my smile soon faded into a grimace as another contraction hit. Right on cue that time, Yrsarald leaned into me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, letting my hands grasp, too tightly I was sure, his muscular forearms. Squeezing him was the equivalent of biting down on a stick, or blurting out a series of curses. I felt Yrsarald's chest rise and fall as he exaggerated slow, steady breaths to guide my own. He had been overly willing to work with Gjerta in preparing for this day, and despite the occasional, typical nervous-father panic attack, Yrsarald was a rock.

When the time came to push, only Yrsarald and Gjerta hovered over me. Marcurio, Bird, and Brelyna kept back, away from the tub, giving me air and giving Gjerta room to work. Yrsarald whispered encouragements in my ear throughout the ordeal, always letting me squeeze his hands or arms.

"Marcurio, Bird, get ready," Gjerta called to the fathers.

"Already?" I cried, my panting and grunting momentarily subsided. "That was… fast…." An even more painful contraction then erupted from my midsection and threatened to tear me apart.

"Push, Deborah," my midwife ordered.

While my hands squeezed some part of Yrsarald, I pushed. In the end, I only had to push six times. The baby came out quiet, and I was instantly worried it had died, drowned, or was dead before I pushed it out. My worries deepened when Gjerta placed the blue-pink child between my breasts, letting our torsos meet. Babies were supposed to cry, scream and complain about being ripped from the womb.

When I saw a tiny arm move, I realized I had forgotten to breathe. I inhaled deeply and witnessed the tiny human come to life.

Gjerta turned the baby onto its back so we could all get a good look at it. The blueness of the baby's skin soon gave way to a healthier dark pink. The baby then started making tiny, flailing attempts to figure out where it was. I wondered, briefly, what taking air into the lungs for the very first time was like, and what it was like to see light for the first time, even just the low glow of oil-lit sconces. I wondered if the baby smelled for the first time – if it smelled me, Marcurio and Bird, Yrsarald behind me, or the flower-scented water it was born into. I knew at some point a developing child could hear within the womb, but surely the unfiltered voices it was finally hearing were adding to an abrupt sensory overload once the brain registered all the new stimuli.

Finally, the baby started wailing, already showing power behind its lungs, and for whatever reason the cries made me happy. There may have been no scientific basis to any of it, but I was convinced the crying meant that the child could feel, see, hear, and smell just fine. Looking into the squishy, screaming, steadily reddening face, I saw a tiny tongue widen and then curl into itself, and figured the child would be able to taste, too. Ten fingers on two hands flowed aimlessly, unsure what to do. Ten short little toes topped two wrinkly feet which sprung from two flexed, chubby little legs. As far as I could tell, the baby was of an average size and weight. Bird and I had produced the perfect tiny human. I felt bad for laughing joyously at the child's screaming face.

With uncomfortable fascination, I watched as the midwife sucked mucus and membrane and other fluids out of the newborn's nose and mouth with her own mouth, spitting the removed contents on the floor afterwards. She repeated the procedure several times. I knew this had to be done, but I was still a bit disgusted by the sight.

Marcurio and Bird were ready, waiting to cut the umbilical cord with a clean knife. They did so simultaneously, symbolic of their joint parenthood. Gjerta then wrapped the child in a blanket and handed the bundle to Marcurio. I felt a hand sweep over my damp hair, and I looked up to see a smiling Yrsarald. I closed my eyes and breathed in deep.

The baby had calmed, and I heard its tiny squeaks and not necessarily unhappy cries. I heard Brelyna cooing and humming at the child. I heard Gjerta moving around me, water splashing as she did what was necessary with the remnants of the birth, checking to make sure I was still in one piece between my legs.

A third hand gently lay on my arm. "All went perfectly, Deborah," I heard Gjerta say. "You and the child are fine. When you're ready, you can heal yourself, which will speed the recovery process."

"I'll heal her," Marcurio said, handing the bundle over to Bird and walking over to me.

"No, I can do it," I protested, sitting up straighter in the tub.

"You just pushed out a baby, Deborah," Yrsarald reminded me, his arms still wrapped protectively around my shoulders. "Let the man heal you."

"Don't worry, Deb," Marcurio said, grinning, "I don't have to touch you."

I laughed, or rather exhaled something equivalent to a laugh. Marcurio and I had somewhat of a running joke about us fondling one another, which never happened outside of the drunken night me, Marcurio and Bird all shared. Yrsarald and Bird both thought us very strange, indeed. I nodded my consent, and Marcurio held out his palms in my direction, soon sending out a swirling, golden light. As it always did, the quick healing process made me groan with pleasure and relief. I felt my stretched muscles and skin reform, rebuild, revitalize.

Brelyna was then at my side. "So, what did you think of the water birth?" she asked me.

"With no strong medicines that I might have had otherwise… it was fine. I should probably get out of this tub, though."

"Yes, soon, but take your time," Gjerta said.

I relaxed for a little while longer. Yrsarald's lips found my temple and gave it a kiss. Marcurio and Bird peered down at their child with curiosity, wonder, and love. Surprisingly, Bird was crying more than the newborn. Brelyna, standing with arms folded over her torso, watched the new family bond. Gjerta flitted about the room, cleaning, and humming a pleasant tune.

I then closed my eyes, laid my head back on Yrsarald's shoulder and smiled, listening to the sounds of my weird little family.

. . . . . .

"Who presents this child to the people of Windhelm, of Eastmarch, and of Skyrim on this, the twenty-ninth day of Sun's Dawn, year two hundred and three of the fourth era?" Helgird, the priestess of Arkay who I had met while investigating the murders in Windhelm, asked the customary question as she stood in front of Marcurio and Bird in the main hall of the palace. The week-old bundled child was being cradled by Marcurio, who for whatever reason was more of a comfort, and kept the baby quiet. I, Yrsarald, Brelyna, Gjerta, several of Marcurio and Bird's local friends, and Bird's family in from Dawnstar were standing somewhat removed. Ulfric as usual was seated in his throne, half-watching, and Jorleif stood close by his Jarl.

"We do," Marcurio and Bird said simultaneously, grinning like a couple of exquisitely happy new fathers.

"And who is to care for this child until it reaches adulthood?" the priestess asked.

"We are," the fathers said together.

Helgird turned the page of her small book. "And should you, the parents, step onto the vast meadows of Sovngarde before this day, who is to take your place in caring for this child?"

Marcurio and Bird turned to me and Bird's older brother, Jorulf, a tall, strong man who no one would ever have guessed was related by blood to Bird if they hadn't seen his similarly-burly father. All three men shared the same fish-hooked smile; their familial relation was obvious. Jorulf and I stepped forward. "We are," the man and I said simultaneously.

"Deborah," Helgird turned to me, "as birth mother of this child, you are First Kin after Marcurio and Bird. Should you step onto the vast meadows of Sovngarde, Jorulf, brother of Bird, will become First Kin." Helgird turned again the page of her small book.

Bird had explained to me the process of the Nord naming ceremony. During the next stage, Jorulf and I, the equivalent of godparents, placed a hand underneath the bundled baby as Bird and Marcurio did the same. The four of us were essentially presenting the infant to the world as its protectors. I couldn't prevent the few teardrops that slowly meandered down my cheeks. I elected to not wipe them away.

"What is this child to be called?" Helgird finally asked.

As birth mother, it was my duty to announce the name. Should birth mothers die during the infant's delivery, the assumed father would take on this role. If there was no father accounted for, the mother's parents would name the child. If no grandparents were around, any adult willing to take on responsibility for said child would make the announcement. Sometimes, the duty fell to orphanage caretakers. By naming the child publicly, the adult both accepted responsibility for the child's welfare and, in my case, linked me to the child as its birth mother, despite not being directly responsible for the child as its immediate parent. It was a complicated custom.

Marcurio, Bird and I had discussed names over the months. We had vetoed many of each other's choices, but had finally settled on two boys' and two girls' names. After the birth, Yrsarald smelled the link between the child and Bird much more clearly, claiming the child smelled like a mixture of me and the father. When I had finally gotten a good look at the child I had grown within me, I knew immediately that Yrsarald had been right – Bird was undoubtedly the father. The child had been born with a tiny fluff of white blonde hair on its head, and had Bird's very wide smile. Marcurio claimed the child had my nose and face, though. But the child definitely had my ears. My odd ears. My sister and I both had a strange mutation of the upper ear, where the left ear had a small bump in what was usually a smooth, curving line, and the right ear had a small chunk missing from the curve. When examined together, the ears looked like two puzzle pieces that could fit together. The bump was called a Darwin's tubercle; I didn't know what the chunk missing was called. The child I had made with Bird carried this curious mutation with it, forever a marker that I was undoubtedly the mother.

The mother. I was a mother. Aside from the little Thrynn-fathered jellybean that had left my womb after Helgen, this was the only child I had ever conceived. I hadn't been thrilled about being pregnant, particularly under the odd circumstances of the conception. But, deep down I knew that in any scenario, in this world or my old world, I would never have elected to abort the pregnancy; it was just something I never thought I could do. Given that the process in Skyrim involved taking a potion that could render the woman infertile, I definitely did not want to abort the pregnancy.

After I knew what happened on the night of the conception, the decision to ask Marcurio and Bird to adopt the child was easy. The reality of the situation, however, was a tad more difficult. My maternal instinct was strong, and I couldn't ignore the biological, hormonal, and indeed emotional link I had felt toward the life inside me as it grew, after the child had been placed on my torso after it was born, and finally, standing in the palace, presenting the child to the world. In the brief moments that the naming ceremony lasted, whenever I was not actually speaking I had to bite down on my tongue to distract my brain from the pain of feeling that a part of me was being taken away. I could not have been happier, nor felt more sure about the rightness of my decision, but my hormones were screaming for me to take the child into my arms and run away. I had to remind myself that this was not goodbye, not in the least, and that I would always be the child's mother. That was part of the deal; Marcurio and Bird would never have agreed to adopt the child otherwise.

As the days passed after the birth and the naming ceremony encroached, I had reconsidered my decision on my preferred name for the child. I knew I had wanted to use an Imperial, or Romanesque name in honor of Marcurio, who I knew was not the biological father but was to be the child's father all the same.

When I had proposed my new chosen name to my friends, they weren't immediately sold on the idea, having never heard the name before. But, when I explained to them the origin of the name, the fact that it was a name from long ago in my world, a strong name used by a people similar to Imperials, they began to warm up to it. When I explained what the name meant, they were sold. They knew as well as I that the child would likely grow up to have blonde hair, and we decided to name the child such.

"Flavia Good-Heart," I announced in a soft voice, smiling down at the little girl as she peered up at her family.