#littlemisstrancy

When he doesn’t answer, hehears her sigh – a sound far too old for her years, and, “Solas,” she says,patiently. “I’m fine. Still standing – well, sort of.”

He lifts hishead, and finds her own tilted slightly, her expression gently pondering. “Youovertax yourself,” he tells her evenly.

Ellana gives a fond roll of hereyes. “You call reaching for the top cupboard overtaxing myself? What’s next –am I waddling too quickly? Should I be confined tobed for the next two weeks, or is laying down too much exertion for my body to handle?”

His look says enough aboutwhat he thinks of her attempted humour. “You are carrying twins,” he remindsher. A discovery he’d had confirmed some time ago now, and with some trepidation. Her pregnancy has not been without complications, and there is still the birthleft to see through before he feels he can properly relax.

He half expects her tocounter with another joke – Am I? Truly? Andhere I thought I was carrying melons! – and is surprised when all she doesis reach for his hand.

“Here,” she says, slender fingerscurling around his, to place his palm against her stomach, above her left hip and towards her heart. A deep breath, and, “Do you feel that?”

Solas waits for what he’s cometo expect now, after long nights spent feeling the curvature of her belly beneathhis fingertips. It’s not a kick – this one rarely kicks, but shifts gentlyunder his palm, as though getting comfortable.

“Rowan,” Ellana says, quietly,tongue wrapping lovingly around the word.

Surprise makes his browslift. “You’ve decided?” They’d agreed not to, on account of the bad luck associated with naming children prematurely – like tempting fate with too much confidence. And though they’re neither of them superstitious, there’s enough of theDalish ways left in her to make her hesitate before openly challenging the old gods.

And after her last birth,nearly two days confined to her bed with contractions, and a blood loss that had left her almost tooweak to see it through, he’s not been willing to risk it, either.

Ellana gives a small shrug,and her smile turns wistful. “After my father. I don’t remember him, butKeeper Deshanna used to say he was the calmest of his kin. Pensive, but with a fire in his heart.” Resting her hand over his, she gives his fingers a squeeze. “Likethis one, I think. And it works both for a boy and a girl.”

Solas says nothing, but theimage arises despite himself – a set of wide, curious eyes in a heart-shaped face, deeply thoughtful. He’stried not to give them features yet, the twins, knowing full well the risk, and that a potentialloss would be all the harder to bear.

But it’s hard not to picture it now, he finds, with a name to go with thesmall shape nestled beneath Ellana’s heart.

“I know I said we weren’tgoing to name them yet,” she says then. “Like we did with Sage. But I rememberthinking last time that if I don’t make it I’ll die without knowing the nameof my child.” Her grip tightens around his hand, and when she looks at him the good humour is gone from her face, leaving a naked fear she doesn’t even try to hide now, but beneath it sits a fierce conviction he recognizes instantly. “I don’t want that, Solas.”

“I will not let you die,” hesays, knowing the promise to be redundant, but her expression softens with a smile.

“I know. But I’m not hingingmy hopes on something that’s out of my hands.” The corner of her mouthquirks. “Well. Hand.”

His chuckle is a startledbreath, but her smile lifts his spirits, and her conviction is a dear and familiar thing, keeping his fears from fully taking root.

“Rowan,” he says then, testingthe name on his tongue.

“Rowan,” Ellana repeats, witha fondness that’s been there for years, but made new with the gentle movement beneath their hands.

“We are one name short,”Solas reminds her, and her answering grin is a sudden, fierce thing, chasing away theshadows from her eyes.

“Only one thing to do aboutthat,” she says, shifting his hand a little lower and to the right, and this time he’s rewardedwith a steady kick against his palm.

“Our troublemaker,” shemurmurs. “I haven’t thought of anything yet.”

Another hearty kick againsthis hand, followed by two more in quick succession, the rippling movement strangely mirthful, and the word comes to him with his next breath.

“Samahl,” he says, lifting his eyes to Ellana. “For a boy.”

She hums with delight, and, “I like that,” shelaughs, and with the sound, he finds he cannot imagine a better name. “You doknow that Varric will never let you live that down?”

Solas only smiles, and doesn’ttell her of the feeling that burns in his chest now – the desperate realization that hewants nothing more than for that to happen; for the birth to go smoothly, andgrant them to strong, healthy children to name in truth, and for an uncle to dote upon. He more than anyone knows better than to put his faith in hopes and expectations, but for the span of a single moment, he allows himself to throw caution to the wind.

Ellana looks up then, head angled towards the door to the back garden. “It’s awfully quiet,” she observes. “Where’sSage?”

It doesn’t take much effort to locate her; that small flicker of warmth against his mind that’s become second nature for him to pick out amidst the chaos of the waking world. “Gathering stones by the river.”

There’s an impish gleam inher eyes now when she turns them towards him. “An hour of peace to ourselves? Imagine that.”

“You overestimate her patience,” Solas says, but he’s already getting to his feet.

Ellana shrugs, and makes asmall noise of struggle when he helps her out of the chair. “Maybe. But it’sabout to become a lot more crowded in this cottage, and I’m determined to makethe best of whatever moments we get.”

She speaks with suchsurety, it’s tempting to bury his concerns for good and think only ahead – past the birth, to the two cribs sitting under their roof, and the small shapes that will fill them.

And his silence must truly speaklouder than his words, because when she looks at him next it’s clear that sheknows what he’s still thinking.

“It will be alright, Solas,” shesays, winding her fingers through his. “We’ll be alright. All of us.”

There are familiar words of caution at the tip ofhis tongue, but he doesn’t speak them. Fatalism is in his nature, but it’s notin hers, and he would keep it that way.

And so,“May it be so,” he murmurs a kiss against her brow; a trembling sigh sketching across her cheeks. And it’s not the confidence she truly desires, he knows, but it’s something. For someone who’s lived as long as he, who’s seen as much and lost as much as he, it’sthe most he can give.