Chapter 1
Charles was sure it was unkingly of him, to dash down the corridors with sweat on his brow, shedding royal robes when they got in his way and trusting his pursuing attendants to pick them up. Under the circumstances, he dared anyone to think less of him for it.
The Omega Consort was in labor.
They'd been expecting it any time, of course, and yet not so soon as for Charles to suspend royal activities in anticipation; he'd been in the midst of a council about taxes, equal parts extremely dull and extremely important. He would have to go over the minutes, later, to catch up, for he had already forgotten everything about it. His brain had no room for taxes when his and Erik's first child was coming into the world.
The sweet lilt of prayer-songs came to his ears long before he reached the chamber, and he tried to let the sound bring him the intended comfort and peace. He'd had to fight for the right to have the singers present; it was a Western tradition, not a Genoshan one, and Erik hadn't been at all keen on it. In the end, though, since it was important to Charles, and since the prayers went to the same God they both worshipped (though in wildly different ways), Erik had agreed to permit the singers.
Charles burst into Erik's chamber and paused in the doorway, his eyes seeking Erik's—and there he was, mussed and sweaty and beautiful, snarling his way through a contraction on the same birthing stool his mother had used. He was flanked by his sister on one side, an omega cousin on the other, both of whom looked up and frowned at his entrance.
"Charles!"
The angry voice snapping his name belonged to Her Majesty the Queen of Genosha, i.e. his mother-in-law, Edie. She was scowling, standing between her laboring son and an annoyed-looking alpha doctor, one of Charles's Royal Physicians.
"Charles, remove this horrible man before I have him beheaded."
"I'm sure no beheadings will be necessary, Mother. Doctor, why are you here?" Charles tried to summon his signature patience; it was difficult when Erik was crying out in pain and Charles needed to be over there with him.
"Your Majesty, the Omega Consort is in travail and despite what these Genoshans might believe, that does in fact merit medical supervi—"
"We discussed this, Doctor," Charles said coldly. "In the persons of his experienced mother and relations, Prince Erik has all the assistance he needs for a routine birth. Should things go awry, the omega doctors of the medical team are standing by—and you are not among them. Remove yourself." This last was bitten between his teeth, and he did not wait to see if he was obeyed before turning away and crossing the room to Erik.
"How are you, love?" he murmured, brushing back Erik's sweaty hair. He couldn't stop his soft smile even when Erik's only response was a glare.
"How does it look like I am? And you get to just—stand there and—not be in screaming pain—"
"Oh, darling, you know I would if I could."
"You get no credit for saying that," Erik grumbled, "when you're entirely safe from ever having to follow through." All the same, he leaned into the touch when Charles kissed his temple, and shook his cousin off one hand so he could grasp Charles's instead.
"An alpha in the birthing room," the cousin muttered, "and all these strangers, too." He flicked a glance at the prayer-singers, who had trailed off for now, between contractions, and apparently been roped into helping Edie fetch water and cloths.
"I ask only the same consideration for Western traditions that I have given your own," Charles said, for what felt like the hundredth time since Erik's pregnancy began.
"More importantly, if I have to suffer through this nonsense, so does Charles," Erik growled, and dipped his head to drink from the cup his mother offered.
"It is only fair." Charles could take Erik's snaps and snarls with perfect serenity now; his omega's temper had been a surprise when they first married, having worsened considerably from their halcyon forbidden-courtship days. Erik liked to point out that anyone would get a little grouchy after ten years of isolated confinement.
"You're not alone anymore," Charles had answered more than once—cheeky jokes in ballrooms, low murmurs in bed, even shouts during arguments—and it never failed to bring at least a hint of a smile to Erik's face, softening his hardest edges.
And he wouldn't be alone now, in this painful, exciting and terrifying time, even if it meant Charles getting every bone in his hand crushed as the contractions grew stronger.
Labor was even more difficult for an omega male than for a woman, since the birth passage didn't entirely exist until a few weeks before the birth. Bleeding and tearing were almost inevitable, and any number of things could go wrong. Charles and Erik had found themselves discussing burial traditions in the same breath as birthing songs. The very idea of losing Erik made Charles grip his hand harder, swallowing a flutter of stark fear. Even after two years of marriage, it felt like he had only just gotten Erik back. He couldn't lose him now.
Labor was long, and hot, and terrifying, but coolheaded Edie assured them that everything was progressing quite well. As the pain worsened, Erik gave up snarling and shouting, and mostly just looked at Charles—though "looked" seemed an entirely insufficient word for the way their gazes locked, breathing synchronized, gripping each other's arms—sometimes touching foreheads, in the worst moments, eyes closing, only to lock unwavering once again as soon as they opened.
It was almost too intimate to watch. Edie felt tears in her eyes, more than once, though she couldn't have said exactly why.
And then finally, finally, the crown of the baby's head—one more push, just one more, darling—and the child was safely delivered.
"A girl," Edie called joyously, her voice raspy with thirst and exhaustion. "An alpha!"
"The heir to the throne of Westchester," one of the prayer-singers cried, and the chorus leaped into the appropriate version of the Prayer of Thanks.
The room filled with relieved, shaky laughter as the baby let out her first scream of outrage at the indignity of being born. Charles helped Erik off the stool and onto the bed, both of them collapsing against the headboard with shaking hands and sweat-soaked hair. Edie cleaned the worst of the birth-mess from her new granddaughter and handed her to her parents.
Erik bundled her tightly to his chest, pushing his light robe impatiently out of the way to feel her against his skin. It was Genoshan tradition to give birth entirely naked, partly for this reason, but in Westchester that was apparently scandalous.
The baby quieted, not yet trying to nurse but only staring up at them with cloudy-blue eyes. Charles did not bother trying to contain his tears, brushing a fingertip down their daughter's cheek, then her shoulder and arm, until she closed her tiny, tiny hand around it. Erik leaned back against Charles, nestling his head into the crook of his husband's neck, and Charles pressed a kiss against his forehead.
"Look at her," Erik whispered hoarsely. "She's perfect. How could two lumbering idiots like us make something so perfect?"
"I don't know," Charles replied with a watery laugh, but Erik was right, she was perfect—everything was perfect, for this one moment, sitting here with Erik and their child safe in his arms.
Loud voices sounded outside the bedchamber, and Raven, who had doubtless been waiting there for hours, opened the door with her face aglow. "The baby's here?"
"Alphas are not yet permitted in the birthing room!"
"The baby's here!" Raven's shout rode right over Erik's irritated sister. "Send the messengers! Wait, is it an alpha?"
"Yes," Charles called, overflowing with weary, indulgent affection for Raven, Erik's relatives, and everyone else in the kingdom. "A girl."
Cheers sounded from outside. "What's her name?" someone asked.
"Lorna," Raven said, at the same time as Edie said very firmly, "Anya."
Erik and Charles looked at each other and winced.