A Frozen Man's Sun

Epilogue

Epilogue

Eral's screams cut through the sterile white walls of the delivery room, sharp enough to make my bones shake. Her hand clamped around mine like a vice, her nails carving crescents into my skin. She cursed with every push, every wave of pain.

"Fuck, Ice, he's coming out! Putang—ahhh!"

I leaned down, pressing my forehead briefly against hers, forcing my voice to be steady though my heart was thundering. "Hey, ssh. Our kids don't need to hear that language before they even take their first breath."

She glared at me through sweat—soaked strands of hair plastered across her face, her chest rising and falling like a storm. Her lips quivered as she sucked in air, then screamed again as another contraction tore through her.

The doctors were in position, their voices calm, practiced. I glanced toward the observation window. Behind the glass, our parents stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes wide, their mouths moving in silent prayers. Mom pressed both her hands against the glass, and when she caught my gaze, she gave me a shaky thumbs—up.

My throat tightened.

I turned back just in time to feel Eral's grip crush mine again. She looked at me like I was the only thing tethering her to this earth. "I can't! Ice, I can't do this—"

"Yes, you can," I said firmly, even though a part of me wanted to break down with her. I bent closer, kissed the corner of her damp forehead. "You're the strongest woman I know. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone. You can do this, baby. You already are."

The doctor raised his hand. "On three—push with everything you have. One. Two. Three!"

Eral arched off the bed, screaming, her entire body trembling. I felt my own hand going numb under her grip. Then—suddenly—the air split open.

A cry.

A sharp, desperate cry.

I froze. My lungs forgot how to work.

The doctor lifted a tiny, squirming body into the air—a boy. Our boy. His cries filled the room, high-pitched and alive, as he waved his fragile arms in protest against the cold world he'd just entered.

My knees nearly buckled. My heart split open. He was alive.

My boy was alive.

Tears blurred my vision as I leaned closer. He looked like Frost. God, he looked so much like him. For a heartbeat, grief and joy collided inside me so hard I thought I might break apart.

"Alright, we're not done yet," the doctor called out quickly. "One more baby still inside. Ready? One. Two. Three—push!"

Eral gave a raw, guttural cry, all her strength pouring out of her trembling body.

And then—the second sound came.

Another cry. Softer, higher, but just as real.

Our daughter.

It was over.

Eral collapsed against the bed, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving, her lips trembling between a smile and exhaustion. She couldn't move her arms, couldn't even hold both of them, but she looked at them—at us—with the softest smile I'd ever seen.

The doctor placed the baby girl near her chest, and she raised a trembling hand to stroke her tiny head. I held Frost the Second, my son, against my chest.

He stared up at me with half-lidded eyes, sapphire blue, so much like mine. His tiny nose belonged to his mother, but his lips—his lips were all me. And when I smiled through the blur of tears, he smiled back.