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Though her long hair is tied in an elegant twist at the base of her neck, and her earrings of pearl glimmer in the low candlelight, Darcy is still very much Darcy. Six beaded bracelets around her wrist, the blanket her grandma crocheted across her lap, and a goofy grin on her face. Her full lips are less than their usual colour; drained. Her eyelids are half shut, and she breathes gently, unable to think or feel anything other than the punchline of this private joke that she is literally on top of the world.
The dark chamber should be frightening - she has been frightened of the dark since childhood, and out here there are real monsters - but the chain of small lanterns above the bed lead to the door - a direct line. The tiny eyes - almost entirely pupil - stare up. The whole universe is blanket, breast and ornamented ceiling.
“Your mother made those,” a whisper comes from the doorway, and she sees him standing under the dim lights. The healers and nurse maids had been sent away, and yet still he seems apprehensive.
The newborn infant’s eyes flicker to her father, not quite sparking recognition, and he hesitates.
“Loki,” the beautiful sweetling says, her gorgeous mouth smiling now. “Come and say hello.”
He holds his breath as the infant is transferred into his lean arms, afraid the rose pink will turn to ice. She snuggles into his chest.
Loki swallows, realising his eyes are full of tears. Her eyes will be green. Like mine. Not red, green. Like mine.
He smiles, amazed that he can even breathe. The tears streak his face.
“Hello”.