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Fenris paced back and forth, measuring the limits of every room he was allowed into, marveling at how the house, which had seemed so spacious only a few days before, suddenly appeared to have shrunk to miniscule proportions.

A cry came from the room with the closed door, and he resisted the urge to batter that door down, to demand to know how long it would be until this torture came to an end. He had already been sharply ordered out and told firmly not to come back until he was wanted. He didn't understand the language that had been used, a colloquial form of Antivan he had yet to master, but the brunt of the comments had been perfectly clear.

Another sharp cry, and another, and he wanted nothing more than to cover his ears. Hawke had always been so self-sufficient, so strong, that the rare moments in which she was ailing or incapacitated were sharply etched in his memory. Guilt filled him that he was the cause of her pain today—with her enthusiastic participation, granted, but still. She was in pain because of him, and Fenris could hardly bear the sounds that came from her. He wished, suddenly and inexplicably, for Varric, for the dwarf's cheery nonsense and his deeply felt love of Hawke.

Then another cry came from the room, this one different. Lighter, higher-pitched, louder, because the being creating it wasn't muffling the sounds to keep them from his ears.

He flew at the door, which opened even as he approached it. The Antivan midwife grinned up at him, her gold front tooth shining at him as she loosed a flood of words that meant nothing to him, but which clearly conveyed her pleasure in being able to announce to him that the birth had been successful.

Fenris looked over her head at the bed, where Hawke lay. The wisps of chestnut hair that had come loose from her bun clung damply to the sides of her face, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she was smiling. The midwife's assistant handed a small bundle whose cries had faded to small gurgles to Hawke, who cradled it with an expression of wonder.

"Is it—is it all right?" he asked.

The midwife grinned wider, showing him her hands with all the fingers spread, which he took to be an assurance that the child had ten fingers. Since it had not occurred to him that it might not, this was less reassuring than perhaps the midwife had hoped.

"Fenris," Hawke said. "Come and meet our little girl."

A girl. He had hoped for a girl, secretly, a miniature of Hawke, with those same frank and fearless blue eyes, but when he leaned over her shoulder, he could see that the baby's eyes were green, much like his own.

"She has your eyes," Hawke said, leaning her head back against him as he eased himself down on the bed next to her. "I'm so glad."

The damp fuzz on the top of the baby's head was black, Fenris's original color. He was somewhat disappointed, but only briefly.

"Would you like to hold her?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say no—he wasn't ready, not to hold something so fragile and delicate—but he could see that Hawke was exhausted from her ordeal, and so he carefully took the baby from her.

He was astonished at how light she was, and how warm. As he lifted her gently her eyes opened again, meeting his squarely, and the oddest sensation filled him. He knew her, this small being who had existed only for a few minutes. The way he had known Hawke from the first moment their eyes had met, when she looked at him like a man. This child knew him not at all, but she looked at him as fearlessly as her mother had, and as trustingly. And Fenris knew that he would do whatever it took to be worthy of that trust, to earn it, to care for this little one in his arms with everything in him.

"She likes you," Hawke said, smiling.

"I—I never imagined it would be like this. She—is a person. Her own person, as well as ours."

Hawke's smile widened. "Yes. That she is. You know, a person needs a name."

Fenris raised his eyebrows. "Indeed."

They hadn't been able to decide on one. He had suggested Leandra, after Hawke's mother, but she had seemed reluctant, and now, looking at their daughter, Fenris thought the name lacked the requisite charm for such a delicate and beautiful little being.

Had the baby been a boy, Hawke had hinted at, but never come right out and said, that she wanted to name it after Varric. Fenris had pretended not to take the idea seriously, while resigning himself to inevitably giving in. Now, looking into his daughter's face, he chuckled suddenly, realizing that the perfect name for her had been obvious all along.

"What?" Hawke asked.

"I have it."

"Do you? What is it?"

"Naturally, her name must be Bianca."

Hawke laughed. "You're right. It's perfect."

"Bianca Hawke."

"She needs a middle name," Hawke said thoughtfully. "Let's call her Bianca Vael Hawke."

Fenris nodded, thinking of their friend Sebastian, lost so long ago in the destruction of the Chantry. "Bianca Vael Hawke. Yes."

Tiny Bianca opened her mouth, and Fenris almost thought she was about to comment on the perfection of the name they had given her as well, until the scream that came from her sent him backward a step in surprise that such a loud sound could come from such a small person.

"I think that sound means she's hungry," Hawke said, holding her arms out for the baby.

Fenris carried the child to the bed, laying her gently in Hawke's arms, already feeling more comfortable handling her. He watched as Hawke positioned the child, entranced by the sounds the baby made as she took her first meal, by the starlike hand waving in the air as she drank. He pressed a kiss on Hawke's hair. "You are extraordinary."

She smiled. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"And you will never have to," he promised, gathering them both into his arms.