"Twins?" Leo's voice cracked. The room tilted slightly as he gripped the bedpost for support.
Greta nodded briskly. "Position yourself behind her, help her sit up more. She'll need your strength now."
The next hour passed in a blur of Marissa's pained cries, Greta's firm instructions, and Leo's murmured encouragement. When the first tiny wail filled the room, Leo peered over Marissa's shoulder, heart hammering against his ribs.
"A girl," Greta announced, quickly cleaning the infant before placing her on Marissa's chest.
Leo stared, transfixed. The baby's features were unmistakably human—round cheeks, small nose, and perfectly rounded ears. No trace of elven heritage visible anywhere.
Before he could fully process this relief, Marissa tensed again.
"Here comes the second one," Greta warned.
Minutes later, a second cry joined the first.
"A boy," Greta said, placing the second infant beside his sister.
Leo gazed at the two tiny humans on Marissa's chest, their skin flushed pink, their features perfectly, wonderfully human. The tension he'd carried for nine months dissolved into stunned disbelief.
Hours later, with Marissa finally resting and Greta departed, Leo sat in a chair beside the bed, one baby cradled in each arm. He couldn't stop staring at them, searching for any sign of pointed ears or the distinctive facial structure of elves. But there was nothing—just two perfect human babies.
"We need to name them," Marissa murmured, stirring from her exhausted slumber.
Leo looked up, still dazed. "Twins," he whispered. "I never expected..."
"I know." Marissa smiled weakly. "The midwife said sometimes they hide behind each other during examinations. What shall we call them?"
"You decide," Leo said.
Marissa shook her head. "No, it's your job. You must have thought of names during these past months."
Leo had indeed considered names—one for a boy, one for a girl. He'd never imagined needing both simultaneously.
"Annete," he said without hesitation, looking at the girl in his left arm. "And Alfred," he added, glancing at the boy.
"Annete and Alfred," Marissa repeated, testing the names. "They're perfect."
Leo nodded, relief washing through him in waves. His children—human children—with rounded ears and no visible trace of their elven heritage. The fear that had shadowed him throughout Marissa's pregnancy evaporated, replaced by a tentative joy.
Leo adjusted his hold on the twins, marvelling at how such tiny beings could suddenly reshape his entire worldview. The weight of them in his arms—so light yet so significant—shifted something fundamental within him.
"What are you thinking about?" Marissa asked, her voice soft with exhaustion.
Leo gazed down at Alfred and Annete, their faces peaceful in sleep. "The future," he admitted. "Our future."
Until today, Leo's plans had stretched across decades—gradual accumulation of power, careful study of earth magic, strategic alliances. The measured pace of an elf's long life. But now...
"Riverstone won't be enough for them," he said, voicing the thought as it formed. "Not forever."
Marissa tilted her head questioningly.
"This town is fine for now. Good, even. Safe." Leo's thumb brushed Alfred's tiny fist. "But when they're older—thirteen, fourteen perhaps—they'll need more than what Riverstone can offer."
"You mean schooling?"
Leo nodded. "Education. Opportunities. The chance to discover their own paths." He thought of the limitations of the town's small academy, adequate for basic learning but nothing more. "We should move to a larger city by then."
The realization felt strange—compressing his carefully measured timeline into a mere fourteen years. For humans, that span represented significant time. For an elf, it was barely a moment.
"I'd planned to stay here much longer," Leo confessed. "Decades, perhaps. Building strength slowly, carefully. But now..." He looked down at his children. "Now there are more important considerations."
Marissa reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. "You're already thinking about all this? They're only hours old."
"I need to plan differently now." Leo's voice grew firm with resolve. "They deserve every advantage we can give them."
The twins slept on, oblivious to how their very existence had just compressed their father's centuries-long perspective into human timescales. Leo felt the strange sensation of time simultaneously expanding and contracting—the immediate future suddenly filled with diapers and sleepless nights, while his long-term horizon had abruptly shortened.
"We have time," Marissa reminded him gently. "Years before such decisions must be made."
Leo nodded, but his mind was already mapping possibilities, calculating resources needed, considering which larger cities might offer the best opportunities for his children.
The weight of eternity settled over Leo as he gazed at his sleeping family. A cruel arithmetic performed itself in his mind—the decades Marissa might have ahead of her, the perhaps eighty years his children could expect if they did not have magic or knight talent. All of them mere heartbeats in the lifespan of an elf.
He would watch them grow old. He would bury them all.
Leo's throat tightened. The children stirred in his arms, Alfred making a tiny snuffling sound that pulled Leo back from his dark thoughts. He studied their peaceful faces, the soft rise and fall of their chests.
"What's wrong?" Marissa's voice cut through his reverie. Even exhausted from childbirth, she could read the shadow that had crossed his face.
Leo considered deflecting but found he couldn't. "I was thinking about time," he admitted quietly.
"Time?"
"How little of it humans have." The words came out more bitter than he'd intended.
Understanding dawned in Marissa's eyes. She reached for his hand, her fingers warm against his skin. "You're thinking too far ahead."
"It's difficult not to."
"Look at them," Marissa said, nodding toward the twins. "They're here now. We're here now."
Leo gazed down at Alfred and Annete, so new to the world, untouched by its sorrows. Their lives stretched before them—not centuries, but decades rich with possibility.
"My grandmother used to say that anticipating sorrow only makes you live it twice," Marissa continued. "We have today, Leo. And tomorrow, and many tomorrows after that."
She was right, of course. What use was there in mourning losses not yet experienced? In darkening the present with shadows from a distant future?
Leo drew a deep breath, feeling something shift within him—a conscious decision to anchor himself in the present moment. To cherish what was, rather than mourn what would eventually be.
"Besides," Marissa added with a small smile, "who knows what the future holds? Perhaps your children will surprise you."
Leo nodded, allowing himself to be comforted by her words. He would live in this moment—in the weight of his children in his arms, in Marissa's tired smile, in the quiet miracle of his family.
The future would arrive regardless of how he anticipated it. Better to meet it when it came, rather than sacrifice the joy of now for the sorrows of later.