#nierlia

I know I'll forget if I don't post this, even though it's just a snippet for reference instead of an actual log or experience. Nierlia's daughter is named Lytha. So the twins are Lytha and Rhysaerion. Currently, they make gurgling sounds and occasionally they shriek, which makes them roughly identical in behavior to small human children only about a month old x.x

The boy is sleeping, a little drool dampening one chubby cheek. Nierlia smutches it away with a corner of the blanket. His hair is still dark, but it has not been so long that I would expect it to change, if it were going to. "Rhysaerion," she tells me, smiling so broadly her cheeks must hurt. "For his father, as is fitting." I embrace her, smiling as she does. It's a good name. The Fae do not name children verbatim after their parents, using Junior or numerals. Instead, their memorial names are more like homages, calling the previous generations to mind while still being distinct and personal. "And your daughter?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Rhysaerion, I dreamed of -- or he did. I heard it in the night wind, night after night. But no name has formed in her dreams yet that I might overhear it, or in my own. For now," her nose crinkles with good humor, "her father calls her Darling or Sweetheart. If there is no name in my dreams by the time this moon wanes, I will choose one with my waking mind. But it would be better for it to be a name from her heart." There's nothing I can do but nod, especially since I agree with her. Their daughter's name will come in the next few days, or she'll carry a name chosen for her instead of one that came from within her, until such time as she can choose her own. The blanket in Rhysaerion's cot shifts, and I lean closer. One of the dragonets, the crystalline ones, has curled up behind his knees. Its body is more slender than some of its companions I've seen, somewhere between a squirrel and a ferret. It is sleek and pale pink, like tumbled rose quartz, save for white, pearly accents along its spinal ridge, facial markings, and claws. It emits a grumbling croon as it nestles further into the blanket. I raise my eyebrows at Nierlia. "He's been adopted?" She shrugs at me, her smile gone wry. "You're the one who invited them to live in the Palace if they wanted, or visit whenever they pleased. This is your fault as much as mine." I wave her words away. The dragonet is as adorable as her boy, and there are plenty of worse friends to grow up with.

Nierlia is soaked in sweat and exhausted. Changing the bloody sheets around her is difficult, but we manage -- they manage. I am trying to hold her steady and keep her from fading away. The Fae do not carry children easily, and she is drained near to the breaking point after these long months and the past ... over a day, now, of effort. Screaming, hoarse, bloody effort. Her lover is holding their two children, so we could call this a success. She'd call it worth it. And true, with each breath her Jewels are sending life back into her, now that she can access them fully again. We all hold our breaths and watch hers, praying that the Healers' best efforts and her body's renewal will outpace the speed at which she's fading. And when she opens her gentian-blue eyes, we know she's made it. Her gaze flicks first to Rhys and their newborns; Elleyn braces her up on a mound of pillows softer than thought so that she can hold them. Carefully, one at a time, they are placed in her arms, and she smiles. We'll have to tell her later who was older; I doubt she can remember. The boy was born first, dark-haired like his father but with strikingly green eyes, glossy like leaves after rain. Human newborns have blue eyes, often. I did not, but I'm told it's common. No surprise that the Fae are different. A painful length of time, Nierlia's voice rasped away to almost nothing from the groans of pain and exertion, and his younger sister was born. Her hair is lighter, the wisps of it I can see, but her eyes are the same vivid jungle green. They are in Nierlia's arms for only a few minutes before they nod off, rosebud mouths puckering and yawning. She sleeps, too, the deep sleep of healing instead of the restless exhaustion she's suffered through recently. And I take my leave, to tell the court we have cause to celebrate tonight.