12Ahaha, you thought I was done. I thought I was done, but apparently I'm not. If you haven't read In the High Mountains, I suggest reading that first, otherwise you'll be like, who the f*** are these people?
Anyway. More horny giants. :D And (spoiler) TINY GIANT!
"You cannot smell it," she insists emphatically.
Padraig loves the way his wife's nostrils flare when she argues, the stubborn set of her jaw when she's convinced she's right. He pinches her chin between his thumb and forefinger, grinning as he presses his lips to the point of her nose.
"Give up, my love. Giants have a superior sense of smell. The bairn alters your scent. You smell sweeter, if it's any consolation."
Mora glares at him with her fierce brown eyes, arms wrapped protectively around her bulging stomach. "You can't know that," she insists.
Padraig laughs and runs his only hand through her hair, pushing it behind her ear. "Ask any one of my men. They'll tell you the same thing."
"I'm not asking a bunch of giants to smell me!" she retorts.
"Let me. Just one more sniff."
"No!" she protests, but a laugh bubbles up from her throat. "No!" she squeals as he grabs her, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her middle. He inhales deeply and playfully nips at her navel.
"Aye, that's finer than a good wine," he sighs happily, looking down at the woman curled in his arms.
"Padraig Olafsson, you put me down right now," Mora demands, struggling to get free. She's usually quite agile, but the large protrusion in her belly makes every movement of hers an ordeal. She suddenly stops, freezing with a bit of a grin. "Wait," she whispers, reaching for his hand.
He sets her back down on the bed and lets her guide his hand to her stomach. She lifts her shirt and presses his palm against her taut skin.
Something small and persistent nudges him repeatedly from within her belly. Padraig's insides immediately go soft and squishy, and a silly grin of his own spreads over his face. "Hello there, tiny one," he greets the bairn, though he knows it can't hear him. He runs one large thumb gently over Mora's swollen middle, rewarded by another series of small thumps. "Gods, he'll be quite the warrior someday. Do you feel that strength?"
She levels him with a flat look. "Every damn day. What makes you so sure it's a boy?"
Padraig's grin grows.
Mora's eyes widen. "Oh, don't you dare say—"
"I can smell it!" he interrupts proudly.
Groaning, Mora flops onto her back with exasperation.
Padraig doesn't press the matter. She'll know he's right soon enough.
"You're not uncomfortable?"
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
Mora rolls over with a sigh, meeting Padraig's concerned blue gaze. "There's nothing you can do about it anyway. Why are you so interested in my discomfort?"
"I feel responsible," he admits. "In part, at least."
"Aye." She nods. "My big, terrible husband sticking his cock in it." Laughing, she reassures him, "You can't hoard all the blame for this, you know. I had some say."
Propping himself up on an elbow, Padraig, regards his wife with gentle curiosity. "What convinced you anyway?"
She frowns, brow furrowing as she thinks. "I believe it was the time you rolled over and whispered something sexy, something like, 'I'm going to fill you with bairns.'"
He laughs. "You thought that was sexy?"
"Maybe I was just horny." Wincing, she holds her stomach and adds, "I'm regretting that now, let me tell you."
He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and rubbing his hand over her belly. "You look fit to burst."
"I feel it too. This babe is ready to come." She pats her stomach and sighs, "Any day now, love."
"Padraig!"
He hears the groan, the straining in her voice, but he doesn't fully wake until a hand connects forcefully with his chest, sharp little fingernails digging into his flesh. He sits up abruptly. "What is it?"
Mora is sitting, legs parted, clutching herself with a grimace. "Gods," she groans through gritted teeth. "I've been having pains all night, but now they're getting worse."
He's immediately on his feet, fastening his kilt. "Shall I call for the physician?"
She nods. "Aye, my love. I think you'd better."
He turns, another strained cry escaping her as he ducks through the door and runs for the physician. It's easy to rouse her—the austere, middle-aged woman has been waiting for this night for weeks. She rousts both assistants from their beds, the small party following Padraig to the bedroom. They find Mora on her feet, gripping a bedpost tightly in one hand, holding her belly with the other. Her face is flushed, hair stuck to her sweaty skin, nightshirt clinging to her.
The physician pushes past Padraig, rushing to Mora's side. "How close together are the pains? Are they regular?"
Mora nods, panting breathlessly, unable to respond for a moment.
The physician turns to her assistants, ordering, "Fetch hot water. You, blankets."
Padraig, frozen in the doorway, asks, "Is this—?"
A look of surprising animosity from the physician silences him. "You, out," she demands. "You'll be nothing but in the way."
He gathers his indignity and squares his shoulders, preparing to argue. "I am—"
"Leaving!" the physician barks, the force of her order knocking the fight right out of Padraig.
"But will she be all right?" he inquires as he edges back through the doorway.
Sighing, the physician nods curtly. "I'll do my best to see to it if you'll stop distracting me. Go. I will send word if you are needed."
He nods and reluctantly leaves the room.
The kitchens are dark, lit only by a few sputtering torches. He's not sure how long he's been down there at a small table in the corner, trying not to think of his wife up in their bedroom, giving birth. There's so much that could go wrong. His own mother—a giant of a woman, even for a giant—died giving birth to him, and he was not a large child. Mora is small, the babe in her part giant.
He reminds himself that she's not fragile—far from it, in fact—but his heart won't accept what his mind knows. He should be there. He protects her.
"What are you doing up so late, chief?"
Padraig looks up. It's Rikker, vain, redheaded fool that he is. The giant's eyes fall to the pint of ale in front of Padraig.
"Drinking, my laird? Your wife didn't toss you out in a fury, did she? What shite thing did you say to her this time?"
He doesn't laugh. With a wry, weak smile, he takes a small swig of ale and shakes his head. "Nah. Labor."
"Oh!" Rikker's face brightens. "Well that's different then! This calls for celebrating! And something stronger than that horse piss you're having."
"I'd rather not greet my son drunk or hungover," Padraig replies before Rikker can rise to pull down a cask of stronger spirits.
"Ah, well, I suppose there's wisdom in that. Pour me some of that ale then. You'll not be drinking alone tonight."
Padraig is glad for the company, to be honest.
He doesn't drink much, nursing the same pint of ale, slowly draining the cup, which looks like a child's utensil in his massive hand. Eventually the kitchen staff begin to trickle in, going about their morning routine, careful to step around their laird and his friend. Nobody dares tell the lord of the castle that he's in the way, at least until the cook comes along, pointing both men to the door like a pair of miscreants.
"How long does birthing take?" Padraig grumbles under his breath, ducking from the kitchen.
"Ach, chief, it's been naught but a few hours. This is her first child. Give her some time; don't be impatient."
"I'm not impatient. I'm worried."
"Worried? For Moraine?" Rikker's laugh echoes up the narrow stairwell. "She's the scrappiest little fighter on the mountain! Do you not recall that she attacked me with a nail buffer once?"
Padraig manages a soft chuckle. It was an herb-cutting knife, but still a bold choice of weapon for fending off a giant.
"Don't you worry for her or the babe," Rikker continues. "They're made of harder stuff than that."
Logically, he believes him. Mora's a healthy, strong, fierce little woman, and the bairn has the blood of warriors in him. But there's the rub—she is little, so very, very little to be bearing a giant's child.
"Would it help to hit something?" Rikker suggests as they step into the great hall. It's empty for now.
Padraig turns to him. "Like what?"
He almost doesn't see the first blow. He barely manages to dodge Rikker's fist just in time. "I thought I was supposed to be doing the hitting!" he points out.
"Come on then!" Rikker shouts with a grin, bouncing on his toes. "Have at me!"
Minutes later, the physician's assistant finds both men tangled on the floor, trading insults and punches.
"My laird," the young man begins nervously.
Padraig pulls himself free and stands, offering Rikker a hand up before facing the boy. He's hardly more than a child himself, his horns still smooth and short. "What is it, lad?"
"Your son, my laird. You have a son."
Padraig whirls on Rikker, flinging his arms around him without a care and lifting the big man into the air, swinging him in a circle. "I have a son!"
"You have a son!" Rikker bellows, laughing and cheering.
"Physician Senya says you can go up now," the boy interjects tentatively.
"Right." Padraig abruptly drops Rikker and hurries up to the bedroom, flinging the door open and striding through.
He almost knocks over the second assistant, who struggles to carry a bundle of soiled bedclothes down to the laundry. Stepping aside, Padraig casts his gaze at the bed and the weary woman tucked in among the pillows.
"Mora!" All his breath leaves him in a sigh of relief as soon as he sees her, sweaty and exhausted, but alive.
The physician shoots Padraig a warning look as she washes her hands in a bowl of water. "They're healthy but tired," she informs him. "Don't go making a pest of yourself."
Padraig draws himself up to his full and intimidating height. "Have you forgotten that I'm laird of this mountain?"
"Hardly," she scoffs. "Nor have I forgotten that you're ofttimes a pest as well." Her expression softens a little and she nods toward the bed. "Go. Be with your family."
He hastens to the bedside, kneeling beside Mora, pushing her hair out of her face. He grins at her, but his eyes don't linger long, drawn down to the small bundle she holds to her chest. He can't see much beneath the thick swaddling—a mess of fine dark hair, the tip of a tiny red ear. He hears the child greedily sucking at its mother's breast. A good sign.
"Hungry little thing," he notes quietly, grinning up at his wife.
"Reminds me of someone," she jokes. Her voice is low and husky, and he just wants to kiss her, but he forgets the impulse as soon as she says, "Give him a minute. Then you can hold him."
At that prospect, Padraig's heart thumps heavily in his chest. "Aye," he rumbles impatiently. "I want to hold my son."
Mora lowers her lips to the bairn's head. He's never seen that particular tender look in her eyes, the gentle affection with which she regards the child. His child. Their child. Padraig feels a surge of pride and love.
"He smells strange," she murmurs, face still pressed into the suckling bairn's hair. "Almost sweet." Her eyes lift, meeting Padraig's with unspoken curiosity.
He leans in closely and inhales deeply. "Aye. That's it. That's what I've been smelling on you for months."
Mora laughs softly, shaking her head. "I'm still not sure I believe you."
"You don't have to." He looks back down at the babe and demands in a low growl, "Are you quite finished? I know those are fine breasts, but your father's impatient to meet you."
Finally, after several infinitely long minutes, the child releases Mora, cheek pressed to her chest, eyes slowly blinking closed. Smiling, she lifts the swaddled babe and holds it out to Padraig. He delicately takes it and is suddenly aware of how small and fragile it really is, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
Cradling the bairn in the crook of his arm, he stares down at it. Its red face squishes into a disapproving grimace, tiny toothless mouth opening in an angry square. It wails and squirms, arms fiercely trying to escape their swaddle. Squinty blue eyes stare into his, accusing and offended. It is the ugliest little creature Padraig has ever laid eyes on, and he is instantly in love.
Rocking the child gently, Padraig strokes a finger tenderly down one pouchy cheek.
"You're safe," he murmurs reassuringly. The babe certainly doesn't understand him, but the low rumble of his voice seems to soothe the child. He smiles and continues to talk. "Hello, little one. I'm so pleased to finally meet you. You gave your mother quite a bit of trouble there, but we're glad you're here now."
He glances at Mora, catches her watching them. She bites her bottom lip, looking happily up at him. The babe's eyes have closed, and Padraig continues to rock back and forth until the child is fast asleep in his arms. He's still kneeling at the beside, and his knees are starting to hurt, but he doesn't dare move for fear of waking the bairn.
"Good thing he likes you. I need a break after that ordeal."
Padraig chuckles. "Surely it wasn't that bad," he teases. "Not for a dragonslayer."
"Trust me, I'd rather fight a dragon. It's less exhausting."
"I love you," he tells her suddenly.
"Aye." She smiles, waving him closer so that she can peek at the sleeping babe. "What do you think of our name? Does it suit him?"
Padraig looks down at the child, warm and snuggled deep in the crook of his elbow. "Asa," he murmurs. "Sweet little Asa Padrigson."
"He might be sweet now, but he'll be a fighter someday if his parents are anything to judge by," Mora notes wryly. Her brow furrows, and she asks, "I know you've answered this before, but remind me. When do his horns come in?"
Padraig looks up. "It'll be a few weeks at least, and even then, they'll just be little stubs under his skin until he's a few years old. If they ever come in at all."
"You think they won't?"
He shrugs, careful not to upset the sleeping child. "Hard to say. He's more than half human."
"Huh," she muses. "Can you imagine a hornless giant ruling the mountain someday? That would be odd."
"We'll see. Give him time." Padraig strokes the soft, downy hair that curls over his son's brow. "He has a lot of growing to do yet."