If You've Killed an Archdemon, You Can Deliver a Baby

"If you've killed an Archdemon, you can deliver a baby!" Alistair's voice was next to her, breaking through the sounds of her moans and occasional screams of pain. Andrea had been in labor for hours, since the sun came up until sundown. The Royal Bedchamber was lit by slowly melting candles, the usually calming orange glow providing no comfort. She couldn't help but feel incredibly worried, terrified that something was wrong. The midwives kept telling her to push, push, push, the head nurse encouraging her on. She heard Alistair's hand slightly crack, she was gripping him so tight she feared she'd broken something.

"Almost there!" The head nurse said, "come on, your Highness, push!"

"I am!" Andrea yelled back, the torture of birth unbearable. She'd never been the best with pain, and this was horribly different than fighting.

"You're okay!" Alistair said, gritting his teeth through the pain of her hand gripping his. "Come on, love, you've got this!" With one final push, she felt the child push out, the head nurse quickly making another midwife cut the umbilical cord and hand her a slightly damp blanket. Her breathing was heavy, but the relief of the slowly subsiding pain was most welcome.

"My baby," she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming, and her eyelids drooping in fatigue. "Is my baby okay?" The head nurse gasped, and the look of shock on the other midwives faces made her eyes fly open in a panic. "Is my baby okay?" Her rough voice rose in fear, leaning forward despite the pain. The midwives didn't respond, and they seemed frozen in shock.

"What's wrong?" Alistair asked, he, too, growing incredibly concerned. "Tell me, is it okay? Why is it so quiet?" She began to shake, fearing the worst, until she heard the small gurgle of a child.

"Give me my child!" She demanded, knowing now that it was alive, she wanted nothing more than to hold it. "As your Queen, I demand you to!" The nurse handed the child over with shaking hands.

"It's a girl," she said, her elderly voice slightly trembling. Andrea took her in her arms, not caring about whatever the nurses had been fearful of. Her baby was alive, and she seemed perfectly healthy. Andrea bent down, giving her daughter a gentle kiss with lightly closed eyes.

"What in the Maker's name...?" She heard Alistair whisper, and she turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Look at her ears," he gasped, his light brown eyes as wide as the midwives'. She looked as he said, and felt her own eyes widen.

The child was an elf.

A proper, actual elf.

Her ears were pointed, and her infant lashes were long, her tiny frame certainly smaller than any human child.

Her child was an elf.

The princess of Ferelden was an elf.

She gently touched the child's ear, and her eyelids fluttered open, blinking as she adjusted to the dim light of the world. They sparkled in a beautiful yellow-green hue, the pupils wide as she stared up at her mother, tiny pink lips open in a sort of surprise. Almost as if she knew that her mother was different than her.

"Hello, my child," Andrea whispered, her long, inky black hair falling to the side of her face. "Donella Andrea Eleanor Theirin," she said, her voice still hushed. "You're even prettier than I dreamed you'd be." She didn't care about the way her baby's ears looked. It didn't matter. Here she was, holding the princess of Ferelden, her baby, who was cuter than anything she'd hoped she'd be.

"An elf cannot be royalty," the head nurse whispered. "It is against the law."

"I am the Queen," Andrea said, looking up at the woman with a scowl on her face. "And I declare that law voided."