She sees the baby.

Her mind is fading now; she hurts everywhere, but her sweat-streaked face lights up anyway. Determinedly pushing away her blonde hair, which is stuck to her face and dripping wet, she says, "I want to hold him."

They tell her to wait, to hold on, but she won't. She hasn't time to be patient, and she knows it. Her voice as soft and sweet as the wind, she says it again, "Let me see him. Let me see my baby, my future."

No one wants to deny a dying woman, her nearly-senseless mind tells her as her arms suddenly grow heavier with the weight of the babe—her babe. "Oh," she hears herself sigh, and she looks down at him. She has to see him before her sight is gone.

He's crying, and small and wrinkled, but that is normal for newborns, she's heard. His cheeks are soft and healthy, his eyes appearing bluer for the red of his face. There's not much hair on his head now, but she knows it will be blond, like hers.

"Is this what I'm dying for?" her cracked voice says, filled with joy. "This little thing in my arms?" She looks at the child. "I love you," she croons, "More than I love living and seeing the sun every morning. I love you with all my heart, my baby, my baby." She holds him close.

The pain grows worse, like bees buzzing around, filling her ears, stinging her entire body. But she has one last thing to say, and she will say it; they will listen.

She has to tell her husband, the man she loves but was betrayed by in more than one way: "It's worth it. Dying is worth it. Tell him… tell him I love him. Tell him if you love me at all."

Her husband is blinking back tears and can't answer, but she won't wait. Her time is now. "Tell me you will!" she hisses. "Tell him that, and love him for me!"

Her husband is crying as he replies, "I will. I promise."

She hopes she can believe him. Her baby will be great, and she wants him to know that he forever will have her love and confidence. She wants him to know she'll be watching. She wants the baby to know that, no matter what, she loves him forever and always, as a mother should.

She can no longer see the baby; her sight is going dark. But she can still feel him, enfolded in her arms, safe with his mother as protector. Her baby, her sweet angel.

As gently and peacefully as though she is falling asleep, Ygraine dies.