Some random things today inspired this - I own nothing. I'm just an avid Rupert/Clarisse fan.
Without further ado...
Sitting in the carriage that proceeded through the streets of Genovia and waving graciously to the people she reigned alongside her husband, King Rupert Renaldi, Clarisse's breath caught in her throat and she fought to stay composed—a vicious pain quickly shot around in a wave from her lower back to her abdomen. Her hand quickly found the warm one of her husband's resting on her knee, and she grasped it in a vise-like grip, praying for the last twenty yards of the cobblestone street to disappear quickly. It figured that she had to go into labor with her first child during the Independence Day parade.
Feeling his wife's iron grip on his hand, Rupert quickly turned his head to look into his wife's eyes. There was a spasm of pain behind them, so well hidden from the masses. Clarisse had always been a woman of grace and composure, putting the welfare of her people above her own. But considering that she was pregnant, and most obviously in labor, Rupert wanted to shake that concept out of her. Childbirth could easily cause death—the worst that would happen amongst the nation's populace would be a frenzy of the media, which was easily controlled. But then, this was no time to get angry with his queen for keeping such composure—it was an arduous task, he was sure. She deserved every praise for her efforts, and Rupert decided he'd better follow her lead, quickly changing his expression to one of adoration as he looked upon his young wife. But he also hid a message in his eyes, one that she read with relief—he understood what was wrong.
As their carriage rounded the corner and disappeared from the clamoring crowds, Rupert turned and signaled to his bodyguard to get the car immediately, gesturing casually to his wife. The security also understood at once and leapt immediately into action. The short ride home to the palace seemed to pass slower than anything Clarisse had ever known as she rested her head on Rupert's lap and endured another contraction, praying for it to end soon—it did, but she knew this was only the beginning. It would probably be a long night.
Rupert watched worriedly as his wife was whisked off to their bedroom, flocked by some of the maids, who resembled closely mother hens. The doctor's car pulled up behind the royal family's that second, and Rupert turned to accompany the kind doctor to his and his queen's living quarters. The doctor patted his king on the shoulder and said, "Don't worry, your Majesty—she's young and everything has gone perfectly up to now—we just have to be patient and let nature run its course."
Genovia's king nodded dumbly, lost for words. He was right, Clarisse was young—nineteen. Rupert hardly thought she should be bearing children so young, but a few successful attempts at coercion on her part had resulted in the child she was giving birth to, and Rupert truly wasn't complaining. It was more than he honestly could have hoped for—the arguments they'd had over bringing children into the world after only a year of marriage did bring a smile to his face—
"Rupert, I don't want a child because I feel it's my duty to the country! I want a child because it's exactly what I've always wanted… darling, please try to understand me. It's something purely female—I never had any control over whether I was to marry you or not, but dreams did develop in my childhood that blossomed into far more mature things as a teenager, Rupert!" Her cheeks were flushed, here eyes were filled with a blue fire, and determination was written all over her face. She plunged on, "Even though I didn't know you as anything other than my king, I've grown fond of you, and intimacy is something I want between myself and the man I've always been destined to marry. Children. A sense of family and completion."
It took all of Rupert's effort to contradict her—he wasn't used to telling her no. But he said it anyways. "No. For God's sake, Clarisse, you're only eighteen! This isn't the era of log cabins and covered wagons! This is Genovia, in the precise year of nineteen fifty-five. I will not tolerate you bearing children for another five years, at least."
"Rupert, my body has been capable of childbearing since I was twelve. If I was that age, or even thirteen or fourteen, when I'd married you, I probably would have curbed every suggestion, attempt at impregnation. I'm nearly nineteen. I'm not a child, I am your wife. Unless you want to be Genovia's first heirless Renaldi, I suggest you quit behaving like such an impossible mule. We need to work together on every aspect of our lives, and I do think this is one of them."
Finished with her lecture, she crept closer to her husband, big blue eyes the very definition of doe eyes. His breath caught as she let her silk robe drop to the floor around her feet and reached for his face, connecting their lips in a kiss that led to one of the best nights of Rupert's life. He never could tell her no…
—and he now hoped that everything would proceed smoothly. He slid his body down the wall across from the doors leading to his and Clarisse's suite and sat to wait.
Inside the exquisite suite, Clarisse felt slightly disoriented, as if her world of order was forever going to be thrown into a frenzy as Lynn helped her into her nightgown and released her long, thick, dirty blond hair from its neat and elegant chignon. The young woman sat quietly before her mirror and brushed her hair out into a loose braid, breathing deeply as another contraction came and went. She hoped her water would break soon—the thought compelled her to curl up on the large bed she shared with her husband, and she did just that, curling herself around the precious life her stomach held. Her mind reeled over everything that had transpired in the past nine months.
She'd been so ecstatic to find out she was expecting, and Rupert and the rest of Genovia shared her joy, though she knew there were times when Rupert's joy was overshadowed by worry for her and doubt that he would make a good father. Clarisse had every confidence that everything would fall into place when he saw and held his child, and she'd refused to be sent to a hospital for the birth of their child. She wasn't frightened, but she knew that what was going to be a grueling experience for her would be ten times easier on her mind and body if she remained within the familiar confines of the palace. It had become home to her over the last two years.
Clarisse twisted around when she felt soft hands on her shoulder—Dr. Knutson. "Your Majesty, I would feel much more at ease if you either turned on your back or walked around for now. It will help the labor along and your water will break sooner—the pressure of your baby will help that progress."
The young queen groaned quietly, curling into a tighter ball, teeth gritted against another contraction. She murmured, "If it's of any help to you at all, they're quite regular now, and steadily getting more hellish." She slowly complied with her doctor's orders and switched to her back. Her nightgown was bunching higher and higher around her waist and she finally grew frustrated with it and pulled it all up, giving her legs room to breathe. Then, when another contraction came, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, palms digging into the edge of the mattress, head bowed as she tried to breathe steadily. It was at that point that her water chose to break, and she muttered, "Thank God." Now the real hell could start and it would soon be behind her. She hoped.
She burrowed back into her bed, letting the doctor check her progress, waiting for the okay to push. He said quietly in answer to her unspoken question, "You're not quite there, Clarisse—I want you to try walking around for a bit, please. I know it's most uncomfortable, but it will help."
Clarisse nodded, and complied, but the force of the next contraction nearly brought her to her knees just as she was letting go of the bedpost. "Oh, my God, this hurts!" Her teeth ground loudly as she gripped to the bedpost hard enough to turn her knuckles white. That did it for her, and she slowly inched back into her bed and stayed there, refusing to be swayed. But even the minimal movement had helped—Dr. Knutson gave her the rein to react as instinct demanded to her contractions.
These contractions that were now coursing through were agonizing and powerful, and Clarisse quickly picked up on how to work with the rhythm they provided, telling herself not to rush it—that would get her nowhere. She didn't know how this was all coming so simply, so naturally, but then, that's what birth was for women, just as children were—a thing in their lives that simply came in a natural fashion, not a thing to be taught.
She didn't know if it was ten minutes later or ten hours later, but Clarisse, exhausted and drenched, was suddenly reenergized when she felt her child slip out of her body and immediately begin to wail. She saw him clearly between her legs as Dr. Knutson held him up out of harm's way and began rubbing him all over, and whispered, "Pierre Charles…"
The next moment—or was it a year?—her baby was in her arms and Rupert was at her side, stroking her head and murmuring to her how beautiful she and their newborn son were. She smiled tiredly up at him and asked quietly as she helped their child to latch onto her breast and get the feel of suckling, "Have you any further doubts, my love?"
Rupert gazed quietly upon his wife and son, and knew that the moment he'd heard his baby's muffled screaming through the door that his doubts and fears had vanished. Never again would he so boldly and heavily contradict his wife—on these matters, she knew best, he was sure. To answer her question, he leaned down and kissed her on the lips, one hand cupping his son's tiny head.