177. Nicholaus

177. Nicholaus
The chaos doesn't stop until long after the healers leave. The candles burn low. Streaks mark the linens, which are damp and tangled around Echo’s legs. She sits propped against pillows, hair stuck to her temples, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. Our son lies curled against her skin—tiny, warm, impossibly real—his cheek pressed to her sternum as though he already knows exactly where he belongs. The healers had offered to stay. Echo had refused with a small, tired shake of her head.
“I want the first night with just us.”
So now it is only the three of us, in the quiet aftermath of a life that has just begun.
I settle beside her, brushing damp hair from her forehead. She leans into the touch, exhausted but glowing in that way only she can. The tiny bundle against her chest shifts, a soft sound escaping him, and Echo’s entire face melts.
“He’s perfect,” she whispers.
I have no words strong enough for agreement. My hand hovers over his back, small as my palm, warm and delicate beneath my fingers. His rapid, fluttering heartbeat vibrates softly against Echo’s ribs.
“We need to name him,” I murmur.
She nods, eyes still on his face, studying every soft line as though she’s been waiting her entire life to memorise them.
Several names drift through my mind—old names from the royal line, new names that surfaced the moment I saw his eyes open.
“Elias,” I whisper.
“Cassian.”
“Rowen.”
“Theron.”
“Kairos.”
“Lior.”
“Emrys.”
Echo smiles faintly at each one, but when I say the last—Emrys—her breath catches.
She looks down at our son, swaddled loosely against her, and murmurs, “Emrys… it feels right.”
And gods, it does. He shifts against her, as if agreeing.
“Emrys it is,” I say softly, and the name settles into the air like a blessing, like a promise.
Echo exhales slowly. “Do you think he’s hungry?”
As if summoned by the word itself, Emrys turns his head, mouth brushing her skin, tiny lips searching blindly. Echo adjusts him gently, he latches instinctively, and a sound leaves her, half-laughter, half-wonder.
“He’s drinking,” she breathes. “It actually… works.”
Relief floods through me, warm and overwhelming. “Of course it does.” I brush a thumb over his downy cheek. “You were made to be his mother.”
But a moment later, his tiny eyebrows pinch. His jaw shifts, and—
Echo gasps, sharp and startled. “Nicholaus—”
His newborn gums split, and small, unmistakable fangs emerge. Before Echo can react, he bites and she flinches, breath shuddering. Her hand grips my forearm.
“Okay—okay—he’s feeding but—gods—”
I’m already moving.
“Give him to me.” My voice is steady but soft. “It’s natural. He needs both.”
Echo carefully uncurls him from her chest, wincing at the sting. I take him gently, supporting his head, and he turns toward me with a low, hungry sound that shouldn’t belong to anything so small.
I bring my finger to his lips and he latches instantly. The bite is sharp, unexpected, but I barely feel it beyond the jolt of shock and awe. My blood beads, and he draws it into his mouth in soft, weak pulls, drinking with a newborn’s urgency.
Echo watches, breathless. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” I murmur, “it feels… right. Natural.”
She sighs, relieved and aching and beautiful. Her shoulders drop as she leans back against the pillows. He suckles for a minute longer, then releases with a soft sigh, lips faintly stained crimson. His fangs retract, leaving nothing but gums, and he blinks up at me with eyes that look too old and too new at once.
I smile, unable to stop myself. “He has your stubbornness already.”
Echo snorts softly. “He has your appetite.”
I laugh because she’s right.

When Emrys’s eyelids droop, I lift him to my shoulder. He fits there perfectly, small head tucked beneath my chin. I rub his back gently, and after a few soft pats, a tiny burp escapes him. Echo laughs again, tired, breathless and glowing.
“There it is,” I murmur, pride swelling in my chest. “His first victory.”
Her smile softens. “Bring him here. Let me dress him.”
I retrieve the smallest blanket from the cradle, along with the clothes Echo chose weeks ago, and help her dress and wrap him. Her hands tremble with exhaustion, but the precision in her touch is instinctive. She tucks the corners carefully, smoothing the fabric over his tiny chest.
“He’s so warm,” she murmurs.
“He’s strong,” I say, brushing Emrys’s hair. “Stronger than either of us were prepared for.”
We share a quiet moment over him, our heads close, our breaths mingling.
Then Echo shifts, grimacing faintly. “I need to… clean up.”
“Of course.” I kiss her temple. “I’ll put him down.”
I take Emrys into the nursery, lantern light casting soft gold across the restored room. The cradle looks impossibly small now, but perfect. I lower him gently, tucking the blanket around his sides. He makes a tiny sound, something that could be a protest or a sigh.
“It’s alright,” I whisper. “We’re right here.”
His eyes flutter closed.

When I return, Echo is trying and failing to push herself upright. I’m at her side instantly.
“Don’t move alone.” I slide an arm behind her back, lifting her gently. “Lean on me.”
She does, letting me guide her to the washroom. I stay at her side as she cleans herself, helping when she grows too weak to stand. She leans against me, drained, trusting, every line of her body softened by the weight of childbirth.
“You’re incredible,” I whisper against her hair.
She huffs a breath that might be laughter. “I feel like a broken log.”
“You look like a goddess.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. Once she’s clean and changed, I carry her back to the nursery. Emrys stirs the moment we enter, a tiny cry and a soft, blinking search for her. I set Echo gently in the rocking chair. He stops crying the moment she reaches for him. She settles him against her chest, rocking slowly, the soft creak of the chair filling the quiet room. I stand in the doorway, watching them—my wife, my queen, my miracle—holding the future in her arms. The firelight warms her profile, her eyes half-closed, her lips brushing our son’s hair as she whispers something I can’t quite hear. My throat tightens. This moment—this silence—this fragile, perfect reality… This is everything I never thought I would have.