The Southern Isles, as most of the known world called them, were to many a small Paradise on Earth; their radiance and gracious simplicity being more than absorbing to all those who went there. To all those who inhabited the Isles, the rarest of days were the ones in which the sun did not shine upon the realm, which said a lot about how glorious the kingdom was supposed to be.
King Sören, the rightful and strong willed monarch of the Isles that went 'as far as the line of the horizon could show'; was also unanimously loved by his people, content with the way he had lead the country to prosperity without looking down on those who stood beneath him in the social hierarchy. Maybe the fact that he was a man of God had convinced him to partake in a more loving and brotherly kind of rule, as opposed to many other countries at the time; which made the Church's grip on the crown something far more present, even though no scandals had ever arisen.
Such was Sören's devotion to the words of his beloved Lord, that upon learning of his wife's newest pregnancy, the monarch was utterly terrified and disturbed. Kings were strong and absolute, and even so, the coming of a thirteenth child sounded almost like an omen to the usually steel willed king. Up until this stage, he had been blessed with twelve healthy and vigorous boys that immediately displayed the greatest potential for being great princes. Would his luck run out with an omen child christened as the thirteenth of his line?
To further disturb the sovereign of the Southern Isles, words of deities and trolls in the northern kingdom of Arendelle and of magical incantations from the eastern Corona made him convinced that he was getting surrounded by unlimited forms of witchcraft that had to be contained no matter what. Never would he allow one of his children to be tainted by the hands of the profane arts that had been tormenting the best of his world.
Queen Rebekka, his porcelain wife imported from a neighboring country, stood calm and silent just as she had been effectively taught years before as her husband vigorously discussed his fears and anxieties with the Cardinal that had long since wandered the hallways of the palace she now called home. Above anything, Rebekka was a frail woman, whose soft bitter nature was only rivaled by her never ending desire of breaking free from her restraints and the prison she had been doomed since the crib. Through her life, the source of her solace in an unhappy marriage had been the sight of her twelve little prodigies developing as she hoped they would drop the ridiculous convictions her father restrained her with. Her dreams also took her to places most civilized society would frown upon, but those were for her entertainment only, and her concerns at the moment were different.
The conversation between the King and Cardinal Gregers had become as vague and repetitive as she had expected, seeing that the old preacher was once again filling her husband's ears with words of fake wisdom and corrupt manipulation, demanding tributes to the Lord's grace in return for the protection of her unborn child from evil. She knew if she worded how ridiculous the fee to pay for the sake of a child, her child at that, really was she'd get violently slapped in the face, but Rebekka could never let go of the fact that the way Gregers took advantage of what had brought their kingdoms together to fit the interests of his own greedy kind turned her stomach sick. If anything, having her mouth metaphorically sewn as she witnessed the old wolves veiled under sheep's clothing brutally consuming all that she could love was the reason why she secretly hoped the Cardinal would die in his sleep every single night.
It did not take long for the mighty monarch to once again be humbled at the feet of the elder man who had accompanied him through his entire rule. His superstitions had once again been used as a way for Gregers to gain more influence. Apparently, sending more men to battle in the name of a war campaign veiled under the name of God atoned for the sin that was giving birth to one's thirteenth child.
Thus, her presence as the faithful wife was no longer necessary and she was allowed to depart, the smile that slit her cheeks hiding the contempt as much as she could.
Standing at the edge of one of the palace's balconies, Queen Rebekka glared at the faint red tint the sunset sprayed upon her husband's kingdom, her eyes now burning as intensely as the sun that shone in the distance, a repressed roar for freedom and for change. Raising her eyebrows as she dared look down at her stomach, a small, mischievous smirk grew in the corner of her thin lips as she mused to herself that perhaps God himself would take a stab at the corruption and idiocy of the men who claimed to love and serve him more than they would ever respect themselves. Maybe she would indeed be blessed with the one who would bring forth the new age she had secretly waited for so long and prove that the real God was gracious.
That was why, a few months later, after several hours of pain, she finally gave birth to another healthy baby boy; the one her husband would always fear and the one she would always favor.
Hans would be a good name.