Barsad stood at the rear of the room pacing back and forth. There were tread marks in the floor from the path of his feet; 23 hours worn down to the wood beneath the paint. He could see the sweat rolling off of Talia’s forehead and he shivered as her cries filled the room. He felt helpless for the first time in years. What was there to do but pace? What could he do but stare daggers back at Bane? The steady gaze had been their only communication the entire day and it wanted him to stop moving, to relax.
He would have to disobey.
The baby cried out sharply and the life that had been drained from the room flooded back in. The tension ripped like a veil and there was the baby being caught up in the Doctor’s arms, relief on Talia’s face, wonder in Bane’s eyes. Barsad sprinted forward changing the direction of his feet and traveling closer to his family—the new Prince. He tore his scarf off and handed it to the Doctor and watched as they bundled the child in and handed him to Talia.
So many years he’d lived, so many places they’d gone to destroy the ugliness of the world and here finally was evidence of beauty that could still exist. Beauty with his father’s eyes and, if the echo of his cries was any indication, his mother’s strength.
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