The morning light filtered softly through the velvet curtains, brushing the room in gentle gold. Martin's lids fluttered open, slow and uncertain, as though he were waking from a dream that refused to linger.
He blinked, awareness creeping into him like sunlight through fog, and saw Dorian beside him, the curve of his swollen belly unmistakable beneath the silk of his gown. A warm smile tugged at Martin's lips, tender, fragile. Something had happened… something he could almost remember, but it hovered just beyond the edge of his mind, like a forgotten melody.
He scratched the back of his head, half amused, half bewildered. Then, quietly, he reached toward Dorian.
"Good morning, my love," he whispered, voice hoarse but soft.
Dorian stirred, shifting uncomfortably. The effort made him wince, every movement delicate and measured, the strain of nine months weighing heavy upon him. His hand rose instinctively to his belly, protective, almost reverent.
"I—Martin…" Dorian's eyes opened, Green flecked with amber, still clouded with sleep. Recognition passed through him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He tried to sit, to reach out, to pull Martin close, but a sudden sharp twinge halted him.
"Stay still," Martin murmured, pressing a warm kiss to his forehead. "Everything is alright."
Dorian's lips curved faintly into a smile, though pain lingered in the corners of his eyes. "You… you're better," he murmured, voice trembling but steady.
"Of course," Martin said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dorian's temple. "I am… I am fine. Nothing happened to me."
Dorian's hand rested on his belly, trembling ever so slightly. "I am glad," he said, a faint quiver beneath his words. His other hand brushed over Martin's wrist, grounding himself in the warmth of his beloved.
Martin leaned closer, cradling Dorian's cheek in his hand. "Don't worry, my love. Nothing will happen to me. I'm here. Always."
Dorian let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he whispered, voice breaking into fragile fragments: "My husband… words are always true."
Martin felt his own cheeks heat, burning with something tender and urgent. He lowered his gaze, brushing his lips gently along Dorian's cheek, savoring the warmth there. Slowly, he leaned down toward the soft swell of Dorian's abdomen.
Dorian's eyes widened slightly, a sharp wince passing over his features as the pressure of the movement pressed against the tender curve of his belly. But he did not pull away. His hand stayed atop Martin's, guiding him subtly, allowing the gesture, allowing the reassurance.
"Martin…" Dorian's voice came soft, hesitant, a mixture of awe and pain threaded through it.
Martin's lips lingered, gentle, careful, honoring both the life growing within and the trust in Dorian's quiet strength. He pressed another delicate kiss, lingering just long enough to whisper comfort without overstepping the fragile boundary.
"Martin…" Dorian's voice trembled, soft, hesitant, almost swallowed by the quiet of the chamber.
Martin looked up instantly, face open, eyes searching. "Yes dear?"
Dorian's hands clutched his swollen belly instinctively, fingers trembling. He hesitated, biting his lip, swallowing the sharp sting that threatened to escape in words. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken worry.
Martin's gaze sharpened, sensing the tension, and the color drained from his face, leaving pale lines beneath his eyes. "Dorian… what—what is it?" His voice was taut, urgent, every instinct alert.
Dorian swallowed, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flickering with both pain and awe. "I… I think… the baby… insists on coming out."
Instantly, Martin's eyes shot wide, pupils dilating with a rush of alarm and awe. "Now? You mean—right now?"
Dorian nodded, lips trembling into a small, strained smile, though pain coiled through his body like fire. "Yes… it hurts… but… I… I can manage…"
Martin's hands reached for him immediately, gentle but firm, brushing away loose strands of hair from Dorian's flushed face. "Do not move, Dear," he whispered, voice trembling, burning with a tender urgency. "I'll be right here. Nothing will happen to you. I promise."
Dorian exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to Martin's chest. "Your words… they're always true," he murmured, eyes glimmering with tears he did not bother to hide.
Martin's eyes locked on his beloved's, burning with a mixture of awe and panic. "I'll call for everything to be ready," he said, tone brisk but tender, already moving toward the chamber doors.
Dorian instinctively grabbed his hand. "Don't go," he pleaded, voice trembling, pale but insistent. "Stay… stay with me."
The palace had never moved so quickly.
At Martin's command, the corridors erupted into quiet, controlled urgency — servants rushing with linens and hot water, physicians summoned from their chambers, midwives bowing as they took their places. The air carried a charge of reverence and dread; the birth of an heir was both miracle and storm.
Inside the royal chamber, everything gleamed under candlelight — gold basins, snow-white sheets, bowls of lavender water releasing calm into the trembling air. The windows were thrown open just enough for the morning light to pour in, warm and clear, washing over the silken drapes like a silent blessing.
Dorian clutched Martin's wrist, his knuckles white, eyes wide and wet. "Martin… it hurts." His voice broke, raw and trembling, the pain rippling through him like lightning.
Martin leaned closer instantly, his hand finding Dorian's cheek, thumb brushing sweat from his temple. "I know, my love," he whispered, pressing his lips to Dorian's forehead. "You can do this. You are strong. You can do this."
Dorian exhaled shakily, every breath stolen by the rhythm of pain. " I'll try," he whispered, his voice tight as his body tensed again, his grip on Martin's wrist unrelenting.
Martin stayed beside him, refusing to move, though the chamber outside was a storm of footsteps and hushed commands.
"Prepare everything," he had ordered earlier, voice steady though his heart raced like a trapped bird. "No delays. The child is coming."
Now the entire palace obeyed.
Outside the doors, the head maid directed the line of servants with practiced precision. "Water," she hissed softly. "Towels — fresh ones. And keep the air warm. His Majesty said no cold must touch the Queen."
"Yes, my lady," came the replies, swift and trembling.
The royal physicians gathered near the entrance, waiting for the signal. Their instruments were polished, their hands steady — but even they exchanged nervous glances.
Inside, Martin brushed back Dorian's hair, his voice low and soothing despite the storm around them. "Breathe, my love," he murmured, counting the rhythm with him. "In… and out. That's it."
Dorian's lips parted, breath catching on another wave of pain. "Martin… it's hurting much…"
Martin caught his hand, kissed his knuckles softly. "Look at me," he whispered, his tone both command and prayer. "Look only at me. You're not alone. I'm here."
Dorian's eyes fluttered open, glimmering through tears. He met Martin's gaze, and something in that look steadied him — love burning through agony, devotion bright.
From the other side of the chamber, a young maid approached quietly with a basin of warm water. "Your Majesty," she whispered, bowing deeply, "the preparations are ready. The midwives await your word."
Martin nodded once. "Bring them in."
The doors opened just enough to let the women enter, their faces calm, their steps measured. They carried soft cloths, herbs, and gentle authority. The head midwife, an older woman with silver hair bound tight, approached the bedside. She bowed briefly before Martin.
"Your Majesty," she said quietly, "we will do all that is needed. But the King must remain calm — his Highness needs your steadiness now."
Martin inclined his head. "He has it." His hand never left Dorian's.
The midwife turned to Dorian, her voice low, patient. "Your Highness, breathe with me. It will hurt, yes, but soon — soon your child will be here."
Dorian nodded faintly, tears streaking his cheeks. "Our child…" he whispered, voice cracking. "It just hurts a little…"
Martin leaned closer, his lips brushing Dorian's ear. "Yes," he murmured, soft and trembling. "Our child."
The next contraction tore through Dorian like fire. He arched slightly, a choked cry escaping him. Martin caught him immediately, holding him steady, whispering against his hair. "You're doing so well. Just breathe. I've got you."
Outside the chamber, the palace had fallen into reverent silence — the kind that comes before dawn, before the breaking of something divine. Every servant waited, heads bowed, the hum of prayers slipping through the marble halls.
Inside, the world was smaller — only the sound of Dorian's breath, Martin's whispered comfort, and the rhythmic preparations of those attending to the birth.
And through it all, Martin remained unmoving, his hand still entwined with Dorian's, his heart beating in frantic sync with the one about to enter the world.
He whispered again, voice low, fierce, trembling with devotion.
"You can do this, my love. You are the bravest soul I've ever known."
Dorian's answer came through a labored breath, his eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet Martin's. "Stay," he whispered. "Stay… and don't let go."
Martin's hand tightened around his. "Never."
While in the palace, the guest chamber of Lirael The noise came first—muffled at the edges of Lirael's fading dream.
A chorus of hurried footsteps. Voices, layered with tension and command.
His lashes fluttered open. Pale light spilled across the guest chamber, tracing the curve of his cheek and the faint tremor in his hands. For a moment, he couldn't move. His body felt heavy—drained, as though sleep itself had weighed him down in chains.
Then another sound reached him. A shout.
He blinked sharply, pushing himself upright.
Something's wrong.
His pulse stumbled. Has something happened to Martin?
The thought alone was enough to jolt him from bed. He rose, unsteady, every step like dragging his soul through water. But still—he moved. The corridor outside was alive with chaos: servants rushing past with basins and cloths, maids bowing hastily as physicians brushed through the air like shadows.
Lirael stopped one of the maids mid-run, his voice low, urgent.
"Wait—what's happening? Is His Majesty unwell?"
The maid, flushed and breathless, hesitated only a heartbeat. "No, sir—His Highness is giving birth."
The world tilted.
Lirael stood there, caught between disbelief and dawning realization. Then, slowly—almost foolishly—a small smile broke across his lips. "Ah… of course. I nearly forgot."
His gaze drifted past the maid, toward the great double doors where light flickered like gold behind the cracks. The sound of commands, of strained breath, of life beginning.
He felt no envy. No bitterness. Only a quiet swell of pride—because after all the ruin, all the heartbreak, Martin and Dorian can stay together forever.
But then—
A sharp pain cut through his chest. Sudden. Merciless.
He pressed a trembling hand over his heart, breath stuttering. "He was not mine…" he whispered. "Yet—"
The words broke there, lost beneath the rush of footsteps and the sound of joy echoing down the corridor.
Still, he stood alone—smiling through the ache, as jasmine-scented air drifted through the hall like a ghost of something that once bloomed in his hands.
The chamber throbbed with urgency—soft voices, quick hands, the scent of sweat and lavender oil heavy in the air.
Dorian's cheeks were streaked with tears, each one tracing a trembling path down to the curve of his jaw. His breath came in ragged bursts, his knuckles white as he gripped the sheets. Martin's hand clasped his wrist tightly, his thumb drawing frantic circles against Dorian's skin.
"You can do this," Martin whispered hoarsely, his voice shaking with more prayer than command. "You can do this, my love."
Dorian's body arched, pain searing through him one last time—then a cry split the silence.
A sound so small, yet so shattering, it seemed to halt the world.
Martin froze. His eyes widened, mouth parting in disbelief. For a moment, all he could hear was that cry—his child's voice, raw and miraculous.
Dorian fell back against the pillows, his body trembling with exhaustion, tears still streaming. A weak smile curved his lips. "Martin…"
The midwives exchanged startled glances as they lifted the newborn, gasping softly at the sight. For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. Then, reverently, they began their work—cleaning, wrapping, whispering blessings beneath their breath.
Martin's chest felt too tight, his heart pounding in uneven rhythm. He leaned down and pressed a shaking kiss to Dorian's damp forehead. His tears mingled with Dorian's as he whispered, "You did it… you did it my love."
Dorian's lashes fluttered, his voice a ghost of sound. "Let me see… please."
The midwife stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as she placed the small, swaddled form into Dorian's arms. Martin leaned closer, breath caught in his throat.
And there—beneath the glow of morning light—lay their child.
Silver hair, fine as silk. Lashes pale as frost. Eyes still closed, lips parted in a faint, steady breath.
Dorian blinked up at the tiny face, his chest breaking with love and disbelief. Martin stared too—utterly still—until his own tears slipped free, unrestrained.
"He's… he's beautiful," Martin breathed. "A miracle."
Dorian nodded weakly, clutching the child closer. His voice quivered, but it carried a quiet joy. "He is indeed beautiful…."
Martin's hand rested over his wife's, fingers trembling. "Our," he murmured, smiling through tears. "Child is miracle."
He turned then, his tone steady and royal again. "Everyone—leave us."
The midwives and servants bowed deeply before slipping out, their whispers fading beyond the door.
In the stillness that followed, only three heartbeats filled the chamber—one slow, one weary, one new.
Martin brushed a kiss to Dorian's temple, his voice breaking on a whisper.
"It's a miracle," he said again, softer now. "Our miracle."