happy mother's day
Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green,
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen
Her husband, who smiles and presses a kiss on her cheek as he zooms past her each morning, is weary and overworked.
And he has every reason to be.
The simple dream of his childhood―the one he'd nurtured, held, and clung to when he was nothing but a snarky teenage boy whose entire worth was tied to a tattered rucksack and several lifetimes' worth of bad memories―has grown into a multi-million jewel empire. He has taken the idea that people had once poked, prodded and mocked and given it wings. Now it soars, just as he has always done, high above the rest. And she is so unbelievably proud of him.
But this dream of his, she is learning, is actually quite a lot of work. Financial forecasts. Employee relations. Marketing. Meetings with accountants. Business trips. Public relations. He has his finger on the pulse of every area of the company and it is because of his attentive eye that it continues to beat proudly and steadily.
But the late nights are starting to take a toll.
The bags under his eyes are deepening. The sweet words he whispers to her in the cover of darkness are punctuated with yawns and drooping eyelids. He is exhausted and she can tell. His team, however, cannot and so they bring their boss more and more paper work. So much, in fact, that loose and very important sheets are now scattered throughout his office, the halls, the living room, and have even expanded their reach to their bedroom. The pressure and responsibility is piling and piling on top of him and he is drowning in it all.
But despite all of this, he doesn't seem to mind.
He still smiles at her every morning. He still holds her tight against his chest at night. Still kisses her on the cheek as he leaves for work.
He is still Jude.
And so he hides his worries very well.
But she is Layla.
And as much as he may try to keep his troubles to himself, his eyes have always belonged to her. Always been so eager to tell her stories. And so early in the morning, when he is still weighted down by the remnants of his sleep and the light of the morning sun makes the onyx of his eyes a murky grey, they do not hesitate to speak to her.
I once had nothing, they tell her, and so I will work hard. Because I cannot lose everything.
You are everything, Layla, they warn, you are all I have. All I have ever wanted.
She catches him late one night.
He is sitting up in their bed. His glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, slipping slightly as he glances down at the pages he has clasped in his hands. His lips are moving as he mutters softly to himself. The sound of it is almost silent. He does not want to wake her.
She reaches for him, warm hand falling on the cold of his uncovered forearm and startling him. His glasses slip off his nose and fall into the depths of the blankets and she giggles at the irritation painting his face. The sound of it softens his expression and he apologies for waking her. Before she can reply―and perhaps chastise him for working so late―he lays his documents on the bed side cabinet, turns the lacrima light off and settles back into bed.
She snuggles closer to him, settling her front against his toned back, and shuts her eyes.
He does not think that she hears the soft ruffle of papers just a few minutes later, but she does.
She is worried about him.
And she finally gets an opportunity to do something about it on that cold winter night when they dress the estate in white, gold, and silver.
Planners and chefs are running up and down the halls carrying clipboards and piping hot cakes. All getting ready for the celebration of the company's fifth, sixth, seventh success. The Heartfillia Konzern is still relatively young but there have been so many parties and dinners that by this point she has lost count. She is sure there is joy to be found in such a thought but as she sees the slump of her husband's shoulders as he speaks to the chefs and hears the tiredness painting his words, she cannot find it.
And so it is that night that she finally takes action.
People have since poured through the doors and are mingling in the largest of the halls, when she pulls him by the sleeve of his expensive suit away from the murmur of polite conversation and into one of the many dark corners of the estate. The space is small, just big enough to shelter the couple in dark shadows and the fit is tight. Layla can feel all of him pressed up against her, and it takes all her will power not to let out a content sigh and just melt.
He begins to pull away from her, pushing her out of her thoughts and back into the present, and she smirks at him. She does not budge. Scolding whispers remind her that these are their guests. We cannot just leave the party whenever we want anymore, Layla. I have a role to play. We have a role to play.
But before he can find the strength to make his escape, she grasps his cold hands tightly, surrounding them in the warmth of her own, and extinguishes any further complaints with strategically placed kisses.
Cheek. Jawline. Tip of the nose. Lips. Repeat.
And with each gentle press of her lips and the smell of her perfume swathing him, she has him completely at her disposal.
She has always been the only one who can make him forget his surroundings.
His worries.
His responsibilities.
Himself.
And now, hidden in the shadows of the home that they have built together, away from the grandeur of the party raging beyond tall oak doors, it is no different. He will allow her to steal this time―the next ten minutes, the next hour, or two or three or the rest of his life―if it means that he is spending every second with her. He will always be a willing victim, if she will always be such a persuasive thief. And maybe if he had slept longer than the thirty minutes between meetings, he would have found it in him to be embarrassed by how quickly and easily he has succumbed to this slender slip of a woman. But as it is, Jude cannot find it in him to care.
Especially when she is pressed so tightly against him, letting her greedy hands wander across the expanse of his clothed chest. When her emerald dress, one he has never seen before, is emphasizing each and every one of her dangerous curves. When her lips are moving to the very same rhythm as his own. When 'I love you' falls so easily and so genuinely from her supple lips as his teeth tease the skin of her willowy neck.
Especially when she is his everything.
Hours later when satin sheets pool at their feet and skin glistens with well-earned sweat, she finally asks him to relax. He kisses her hand and says anything for you, my love before reaching for his giggling wife once more.
A month and a half later, she is sat on the bathroom floor.
She raises her head just in time to see him wander in. His head is down as he scans the documents he has clenched in his right hand. She clears her throat (gently as not to disrupt her stomach again). His eyes widen as he looks up to see her embracing the toilet and all she can do is smile weakly back at him. Her usually rosy cheeks have a greenish tinge and her hair is falling everywhere but down, and so he drops the paperwork as he falls to his knees. Strong hands hold her face gently, thumbs caressing her temples.
He is worried, she can see it clearly on his face. His forehead is creased and he is biting his bottom lip as his eyes scan her face. Those onyx eyes that have always been so honest and so true are brimming with concern.
And she is overcome by just how much she loves him. And how much she wants to tell him that and so much more…
But all she can do is laugh and laugh and laugh. Even as his face turns from genuine concern to annoyance, the happiness she feels in her heart―in her stomach―bubbles out in loud and joyful bursts. She grabs his hands and kisses them.
Once. Twice.
I am fine, she says, we are fine.
She is pregnant.
She watches him as shadows of realization appear on his face and the smile widens across her face until it is as bright as the sunrise. She will be the mother of a happy little boy or girl who will have his eyes and her smile. Or her eyes and his smile. Or her nose and his hands. Or his laugh and her smile.
Whatever. Either way this is glorious and she is so very happy.
Warm tears run down his tanned cheek as Jude smiles at his beautiful wife and places a shaky hand on her flat stomach.
You are my everything. You are all that I have.
His eyes burn into hers.
But this child? This child will be ours.
And so he works harder.
But this time she says nothing―she does not need to.
She understands him, has always understood him so completely that she expects nothing less from the man she loves.
He will offer their child what he never had. Stability. A lifestyle that is guaranteed. A house and toys and a family. He will give this child of Jude and Layla, this lucky little one, a real home. One that they will wake up in and come home to every day of their life. One that is safe and secure. One that they can truly be proud of.
That will be his legacy.
And even now as she looks at him she can tell that he is still very tired but god, he is so much more alive.
She cannot help but notice the soft glow of his skin and the lightness in his steps as he coos affectionately at her growing stomach. His touch is purposefully gentle and as the silver band adorning his left hand rubs against her bare skin. The baby kicks. The motion, at first, startles him and he looks up at her with eyes wide like a child waiting to be chastised. It makes her laugh and the sound of it bewitches him and he reaches out to touch her bump again. Look Layla, he says, my child is so strong.
She cannot look away as he smiles at her stomach so proudly. He is glowing and the light of it surprises her.
The oldest of her maids, a kind woman with pretty wrinkles in her ebony skin and shining blue eyes, tells her that it is common that men share in their wife's glow when expecting a child. Especially men who are as enchanted by their wives, she says, as Jude is by you, Layla.
She is lucky. She knows it.
She feels it whenever Jude passes her in the hallway and a familiar―uncontrollable―blush warms her cheeks at his tender smile.
It is always like this. The world fades when they are together and it is suddenly as if they are back on the front steps of 'Love & Lucky'. A celestial wizard with nothing in this world but the silver and gold keys attached to old backpack. A young man with nothing but a quick-wit and a heart made cold by an unforgiving world, which does not remain so for long. Two kids, blissfully unaware of the adventures that lay beyond that old wooden door.
But they are no longer kids.
Those kids are naïve and pure. They know nothing of pain, blood and war. They are sad and they are weak. They could write books on struggle but know nothing about true love. Nakama. But they will soon learn.
Yes. They have much to learn. But their hands are clean in a way that Layla's haven't been in so very long and that is still something.
But for now they will remain ghosts. Only to resurface in these clandestine glances shared by husband and wife. Layla will not let that young boy's heart freeze over again or that girl's hot-temper flare. Not when they have come so far. Not when they now have libraries full of adventure and magic and Jude&Layla. Stories that she wishes to share with her child.
But Layla will remember them in these brief and treasured moments when the weight of what they are begins to eclipse who they were and she almost forgets the sound of that boy's laugh. The feel of that girl's tears on her cheeks. The blood that was left on battlefields and the magic that raced through clasped hands.
And one day, she says to her slightly rounded belly, one day I will tell you stories about mommy, daddy and their magic.
Stories of the times when they had to be nothing more than themselves. When they fought side by side and went on adventures that would make their child's eyes widen in amazement. When they were just a man and just a woman fighting side by side. When it seemed like they had an eternity to fall in love. When these halls they walk did not belong to them. Did not require them to work. Did not require more money to be made.
She will share everything with her child.
Even the dark times when the world returns and all she is left with is the clicking of her own heels and the slamming of doors.
When she has to pretend that the most important thing in this whole world to the both of them is the tiny heartbeat of the life that she carries in her womb.
The lights in the clinic hurt her eyes.
She is laying on a medical bed with a cold magic infused cream slathered on her belly. Her back is pressed against the cushioned stretcher because the paper underneath her keeps shifting. Her shirt is tight and the hem capped sleeves are cutting into her arm. She is freezing and rather uncomfortable, but happy nonetheless. She has been waiting for this appointment for months. Willing her child to grow so that this day would come quicker. Grow strong, my child, so that mommy and daddy can finally see you.
She is alone with one of the best healers in Fiore. The pink-haired woman does not have the same kindness to her face as her midwife at the estate, but her eyes had softened when Layla had waddled into the office and she found some comfort in that. And while she had once imagined a warm hand holding hers during the scan, her disappointment gives way to her childlike excitement. Because today is the day that she will see her baby.
She is now in her fifth month and it is getting easier. She does not have as much trouble sleeping as she did. She now finds it easier to hold down food. Her energy is back up. And her magic power―which had been oscillating strangely during the last few weeks, resulting in extreme fatigue and more than one shattered chandelier―is once again stable. It is to be expected, the healing wizard tells her, for such a skilled celestial wizard as yourself to have such a powerful child.
She places a hand on her belly. Are you also a celestial wizard, my darling? Do you not only share my heart, but my magic as well?
(Her keys jingle in the breeze that flows from the open window. She smiles as the sun hits Aquarius and she shines just a tinge brighter than the rest.)
Her healer rises and after a few incantations, Layla finally sees her.
The picture is not completely clear―the limitations of this type of magic, the wizard apologies―but Layla finally sees her.
Her child is perfect. Little clumsy limbs are kept close to the child's body as if she is afraid of the world outside her mother's womb, making herself smaller and rounder. Layla's face gives away her worry but the healer reassures her that the baby's positioning is completely normal. Motions her to look at the child's tiny clenched fists. Your child is already a fighter. She smiles at the screen because her baby is healthy and comfortable and oh wow. The rhythmic thumping of the child's heartbeat echoes throughout the room, and although she can feel the sound being stitched into her soul, Layla commits its rhythm to memory. Layla hovers closer to the projection, one hand clasped over her mouth and the other resting on the side of her belly. She can see the outline of eyes and a nose and fingers and oh god.
Her child―her little celestial wizard, her light, her baby girl―is so perfect.
Tears flow down her face as Layla rubs at her belly, and even Porlyusica can't help but smile.
She knocks against the tall wooden door that separates the cold of the hall from the warmth of her husband's study.
Her knocks are hard and, she is sure, loud enough to penetrate the thick wood and echo into the room but he does not answer. Her pale, slender hands are now reddish at the knuckles and her knees are beginning to wobble under the weight of her large stomach. She has stood here for so long that the nearby maids have brought the very pregnant lady of the manor a plush chair to sit on.
She would rather stand.
Her knuckles rap against the door, with hard unforgiving knocks, four more times before she hears it. The faint sound of a heavy chair being pushed back against the wooden flooring and the loud sigh that her husband releases as the chair squeaks. She hears him mutter a few words, and though the majority of the sentence is unclear and most of the words foreign, she knows that he is on another business call. He has been trying to secure business relations with a potential investor in Isvan, a country west to Fiore, and that is why he wasn't with her at her appointment.
And also the reason she has seen so little of her husband in the last three weeks.
But she cannot wait any longer. This cannot wait any longer.
He leaves for Isvan the next morning and will not be back for a full month. And she is aware that there is no available room in his schedule until much later in the evening―his snippy assistant had told her as much―but the photo she holds in her left hand has been burning a hole in her dresser for much too long. And she can no longer wait.
The sounds in the room stop and she lays her flat palm against the door, willing her husband to open it just this once.
She hears the chair squeak once again as her husband returns to his seat. His words have now become louder and she can tell that the person on the other end of the line is being particularly difficult. She rests her forehead against the door, listening to the sounds of her husband arguing on the phone mix with the sound of the maids racing down the halls behind her.
Please Jude, she begs, please.
She waits and waits and waits.
With sad steps she turns to walk away, and catches the sight of several younger maids hiding behind one of the stone pillars littered across the hall. She should be upset that they are catching her in such a weak moment, but she cannot find it in her to care.
It will not matter, anyway.
She knows that they would never utter a word about the shaking of her knees as she walks away. No will hear about the heaviness of her breathe or the moment when she stops and turns to look back at the still closed door. And she is sure they will pretend not to see the tears falling down her face as she passes them. Or the photograph she drops at the foot of the door.
Just as she will pretend that when her husband finally opens the door and picks the photo off the dusty floor it is not the first time he will see his daughter.
His trip is going well.
The journey was shorter than he had expected. Their driver had taken a few clever shortcuts and so their tedious four day trip becomes a slightly less tiresome two day journey. There had been a brief issue with an overzealous road bandit―just some sad looking kid with a rusty old knife, he writes, nothing serious, love―but after giving the kid a bag of silver coins and a ride to a local inn, it had been nothing but smooth sailing and he and his associates had arrived on the grassy planes of Isvan in no time.
The meeting, also, had gone especially well.
Mr Arden, the sole owner of the largest railway corporation in Isvan, the Arden Konzern, is an animated and jolly old man who is nothing like the lawyers and the directors that Jude has been conversing with. He is full of big smiles and hope. Hope that the partnership between the Heartfillia Konzern and Arden Konzern will be a fruitful investment for both parties. Now all that is left is to attend a few dinners and sign a few documents and he will finally be on his way home.
At least that is what he tells her in his letters.
He says more.
He comments on the strange customs of the Isvanian people and marvels at the beauty of the countryside surrounding the Arden estate where he is staying. Mr Arden has asked about her, says that Jude should not have left his beautiful wife at home. Wishes she had come and met his own wife, an aspiring wizard and mother of three beautiful boys, for some friendly conversation and, perhaps, some motherly advice. His wife sends her love in the form of a floral arrangement that arrives days after Jude leaves and is so large that she has to keep it in one of the ballroom. Flowers, the note says, for the blossoming joy you carry, my friend.
Jude wishes she had come. You would have loved to see the sunrise, he says, would have marveled at the way the colors danced in the air. He will bring photos. And gifts. I love you, he says, I love you so much and I will see you soon.
She does not respond.
It began with a throbbing pain in her left arm.
She had actually spent several moments in her bed that morning, covered in a cold sweat, holding her arm as it shook from the ripples of pain coursing through it. She reached for the bell resting on her bed side table, hoping to call for one of the maids scurrying outside the door, but a sudden shot of pain shot up her left leg, forcing her to lay back into the bed. It had been and excruciating, awful pain for several long laborious minutes.
But, looking back, as she had laid there, a trembling mess of tears and shallow breaths, unable to cry or shout, she had known.
She had.
But just as quickly as the pain had overwhelmed her every sense, it had ended. So suddenly, in fact, that as she lay there looking at the cream ceiling of the room she wonders if the whole experience was nothing more than a dram.
And for much of the day she believes this.
Ignores the anxious weight gripping her heart as she moves throughout the estate. The shaking of her hand as she signs document after document in her husband's absence. The sense of a dark and inevitable tragedy brewing and looming and growing, the likes of which she hasn't known in years.
She ignores it and goes about her day as normal.
Until suddenly, the very pregnant lady of the manor collapses in the lunar ballroom. The maids and servants run to her side.
She isn't breathing, the older maid with brilliant blue eyes says. Someone please! Call the healer!
"Layla? Oh, Layla. What have you done?"
When Porlyusica tells her, she weeps.
Ugly, uncontrolled tears that come from the deepest parts of her soul wet her plump face as sorrow, deep and all-encompassing, escapes her shaking lips in the form of earth shattering sobs. Sobs that rack through her tiny, pregnant frame so powerfully that she struggles to stay seated on the medical bed, as she releases tears of sorrow were once she had shed tears of joy. Of pure euphoria. Of love. Of hope. But now―on this unusually cold summer day when the isolated location of Porlyusica's clinic and the stillness of her usually energetic child makes her feel all the more alone―the emotion streaming down her cheeks is nothing but pure regret. Regret that grips her throat, permitting nothing but sad incoherent words to escape its hold. That has her rocking herself gently, right palm laid flat on the center of her stomach, as the healer offers her calm words of reassurance that barely penetrate the seal of her despair.
"You will carry your child to full term. I can promise you that. She will be just fine."
"As you know, Anna managed to live for many happy happy years despite…"
"There is not much I can do for you, Layla, but please do not cry. Think of your child. The world will be a better place for her and that is all thanks to you, Layla…"
"They will forgive you, Layla. Just as they always have…"
"He will understand… In time…"
"She will understand one day…"
She hears these words, but they do nothing to comfort her. They sound wrong and fake and fuzzy. As if Porlyusica is shouting them to her, words of encouragement meant to save her, while she is drowning―she catches sound, words, and, sometimes, even whole sentences but they sound distant and weak, and she thinks the strength of them is not enough to reach her in the dark depths of her mourning. And this simply makes her cry hard.
Because she is dying. Yes, but that is not all.
She will take all of them―her special ones, her loved ones―with her into the murky depths when she is gone. They will have to shoulder the misery of the abyss alone. And so she cries for all of them.
For her spirits.
Her zodiac spirits. Her comrades. Her first family.
Capricorn. Scorpio. Aquarius.
The ones who have selflessly lent her their power time and time again. Who have protected her despite the risks to themselves. Who have always respected her decisions. Even when they didn't agree. Have helped her gain the power, the security, the courage that she had been so desperately seeking since she left the ashes of her homeland with nothing but three gold keys clasped between bleeding fingers. Were her only comfort during those long lonely years spent training with nothing but Capricorn's guidance, Scorpio's enthusiasm and Aquarius' sarcasm to keep her in tone with her own humanity.
God. She is so very sorry.
Sorry for the pain her absence will cause them. Physically, for that is the bond between key holder and spirit, but also emotionally. For the loneliness they will feel when she closes their gates for that final time will hurt more than any battle they could ever face. Leave scars that even their magical, transcendent bodies cannot heal. For when she closes their gates, forces them to mourn in a land that knows no sadness, she will take a sliver of their light with her. And her beautiful stars will no longer shine as brightly, and it will be her fault. And that is how she will be remembered: Layla Hearfillia, the one who dimmed the stars.
Her tears are for Love & Lucky.
The quirky little guild that buffed her rough edges and introduced her to all of life's wonders. Magic of all types. Nakama. Rivals. Laughter. Tears. Blood. Love. They flow for her guild mates, those who still live with the pain of the past and those who were buried by it. They will mourn her for the rest of their life, she knows. Because she too mourns her fallen comrades with every breath and every step she remembers those who fell much too soon. Her memories, filled with grand adventures, laughter and magic, will always be stained black by the loss that they all share.
And her death will be no different.
Her absence will drain a little bit more of the love out of her wacky little family. They will all shed the vibrate colours of their clothes and smiles in remembrance of her. They will all blame themselves. Wonder if there was anything they could have said―could have said―to save her. But they have never really been that lucky―not in a world that was just as much darkness as it was light.
And him.
Despite the change she can feel brewing in their relationship, the sobs that rip through her like a shot of lightning belong to him.
He loves her. He loves her so very much and this will destroy him.
She knows.
That little boy, the one who had never cared for anyone besides himself, opened his heart to her all those years ago on those beaten stone steps. She watched him grow. Watched his attitude change. His magic evolve. Saw the way that the ice around his eyes would melt whenever he looked at her. And he watched her. He watched her grown and change, for the best and, sometimes, for the worst, but he always stayed. When the world was crumbling, threatening to separate them, he held steadfast. When the battle became too much for her, he fought harder. When the pain of her past became too much to bare and all she wanted to do was run, run, run―he held her and promised, swore, that they would make new memories. Memories that would be so powerful and so real that her past would feel like nothing but a bad dream because, he told her, that was what being with her did for him. Even when she told him to leave―Get out of here, you idiot! There is nothing you can do! And I can't…I won't take you down with me. Now go! ―he always stayed.
So maybe she had been a little greedy when she took his heart. Maybe she had known that for this sad, grumpy little boy who has never been given the chance to love anyone, taking his hand that day would intertwine his destiny with hers. Maybe she just hadn't wanted to be alone anymore, not when there was someone so ready, so willing to her love. Not when she was so ready to love him too.
But she knows that her death will be the death of something for him too.
Because she is Layla. Night.
And Jude? Even in his darkest hours he has always had so much light. More than he realizes.
And from the moment they met, their souls had merged. Everyone had known back then. They could see it. There was always just a hint of Jude laced into every single one of Layla's smiles, and a sliver of Layla shining in Jude's eyes. He had known. He has always been so observant. But the blunt way he shared his unsolicited observations and the clumsiness of his romantic gestures, had infuriated her to no end. But he had never given up.
Because somehow he was light and she was darkness. And overtime he had burned with such a hot, almost foolish, heat that his light had become the stars she needed to brighten her onyx sky. Laying himself down at her feet, and allowing her to take his being in her hands and arrange him into constellations―to brighten her night and cover up her past and her pain.
But the stars cannot shine in without the night―not in the same way that the light can―and maybe, she thinks, maybe it was a mistake falling in love with a man whose very existence is so entangled with my own.
So she sits there and cries and cries and cries until all that escapes are dry moans.
But despite the unfortunate circumstances that she has found herself in, and the pain that may have surrounded the beginnings of her short life, she cannot find the tears to cry for herself.
She has managed to turn her insignificant existence into something noteworthy, and she can find nothing but an empty sort of joy in that.
She has turned the sad, scared little girl of her past into a woman who can stand proudly on her own two feet. She has been on adventure. Has travelled every corner of this wonderful, magical world and basked in everything it had to offer her. She, along with the help of her beloved spirits (her friends, her comrades, her family) has worked so very very hard. And that hard work has paid off. She has finally gained the power, the security, and the bravery that she had so desperately sought after. She has saved the world several times over, surrounded by her very best friends and has, also, spent enough long, lonely years training and practicing and thriving to understand the importance of nakama.
She is a proud member of the 'Love & Lucky' guild.
An S-class Celestial Wizard.
The love of Jude Hearfillia's life.
A mother.
Layla Heartfillia.
She has turned a pathetic existence into a life overflowing with joy.
And so these tears she sheds in the healer's clinic are not for her own life. How can they be? When she has known that her time was waning since the day she had cast that spell.
"Layla? There is one way…"
"No."
"Just consider it. It could save your life."
"Not my daughter. I could never do that."
She is not surprised that the news reaches Jude so quickly.
He is aware of everything that happens in the estate. She is sure that his assistant, who is decidedly less snarky than before, gives him daily reports on the activity in the house and that his pregnant wife's health and whereabouts are high on the topic list. She expects nothing but complete awareness from the chairman of the Heartfillia Konzern.
The week long bout of complete silence, however, is exactly what she expects from her husband.
He will tell her that he has been thinking and contemplating the situation. Discussing potential treatments with Porlyusica. Consulting magic experts. Finding out how to save his wife. But she knows that he is also sad. She hears the sniffles coming from his office. Feels his desperation in the tightness of his arms around her at night. Sees his eyes memorizing every detail of her face when she passes him in the hall. She is the one dying, but his death has already started.
He is sad and confused and ashamed and…angry.
And so when he finally decides to speak to her, it is this emotion that he chooses to focus on.
He asks her, again and again, why? Why now? Why did she do it? Why didn't she tell him? Why, after all these years of saving the world together, did she decide to do this alone? Why does she have to leave him?
His words are punctuated with cursing and pacing, and they come out rough and mean.
He blames Anna.
He blames her.
He blames himself.
He curses and he yells and he cries. Angry, thick tears that redden his face and it all breaks her heart.
He cannot lose her, he tells her. He won't. She is the most important thing in the world to him and he will save her―his wife, his best friend, his partner, his everything―no matter what that may cost him.
It is then that she leaves.
"Jude, I will not lose her. She is the most important thing to me."
Layla is eight and a half months pregnant and wide awake next to her sleeping husband.
It is not unusual for her to sit up on late nights like these.
It is mid-summer and the room is shimmering with a comfortable heat, though her pregnancy makes the air feel sweltering. Her baby girl presses tiny hands and feet against her stomach and it is almost as if she is excited. The warmth seems to agree with her child, for she is wide awake and very active. Each kick is now stronger and the soft flesh of her belly moves with the might of it, so she watches it in the light of the moon.
She should wake Jude.
He has always enjoyed watching the little girl kick.
She turns to him.
His eyes are closed and soft breathes are escaping his slightly open mouth. It makes her laugh for the first time in weeks. The moonlight hits his face, and Layla lightly traces the features of his face with her index finger. She traces the outline of his jaw and her lip starts to wobble. Jude, she thinks, has always looked so peaceful in the night.
She pretends the tears trailing down her face and dropping onto the cotton material of her nightdress right onto her swollen stomach are due to the late hour. Her child stops kicking and she moves her hand from his face to her swollen belly and caresses it gently. Sorry, my child, she thinks, I did not mean to upset you.
But she does not wipe away her tears.
Layla is talking to the event planner about the upcoming ball, when her water breaks.
She has heard that child birth is a beautiful, mystical thing. Some of her maids, those with little ones waiting at home, have told her that it is an experience unlike any she has or will ever experience. That once she has her beautiful baby in her arms she will forget everything―the pain, the blood, the world―and her life will begin anew when she looks into the eyes of that precious baby.
Her midwife tells her that this is all true. But she is also realistic, and so she warns the young woman about the pain.
Her child is impatient, just like her mother, and so by the time the midwife and her husband reach the lunar ballroom she is already crowning.
Her husband is suddenly by her side, gripping her hand tightly and wiping her damp forehead with the back of his other hand. The midwife is knelt between her legs, shouting instructions to the maids and servants that fill the ballroom. She asks Layla something, but she doesn't hear her. She can't understand. All she can feel is pain, such intense pain that rips through her continuously, and she cannot hear anything but the beating of her heart. Tears well up in her eyes as she screams and shakes from the effort.
She must be strong. She must get through this for her. Her baby girl.
Jude rests his head against her forehead, kissing her temples and cooing in her ear. His face is wet and his hand is shaking, but he is here. He is here with her and that is all she can dwell on at the moment.
She turns her head and kisses him right below the ear.
Her daughter is born right after her kiss.
She takes deep, quick breathes as she watches the midwife take her baby to a group of maids. The child cries, strong and loud, and Layla is overcome with emotion. She cries with her child, sobs that are heavy and light all at the same time, as she begs the midwife to give her, her baby. The midwife gives the new mother a sweet smile and a gently giggle as she brings the baby, swathed in bright yellow blanket that she does not recognize, into her arms. Her eyes water once more, blurring her vision, but she knows that she is in love. This little girl is beautiful and healthy and perfect and here. She is here, in her mother's arms where she belongs. The baby glances up at her mother with warm brown eyes, and squirms before making a sound that she swears is a giggle and falling asleep. She takes a moment to admire her features―the milky complexion mixed, the small tuffs of blonde hair, and the gorgeous brown eyes―and has a sneaking suspicion that her little girl will look a lot like her.
She smiles.
"Layla?"
The new mother glances over at her husband―the father of her child―for the first time since the newborn was placed in her arms.
He is still knelt beside her as he calls her name, but his eyes are trained on the sleeping baby she has against her chest. She glances down at her daughter and smiles, before handing the child over to her father.
Jude squirms, startled, but secures the little girl in his large arms. His eyes are still trained on his wife's sleepy face. She smiles at him and gestures at the little girl. Take a look, Jude.
Her husband looks down at the sleeping little girl, stares at her peaceful little face, listens to the soft coos the child makes and raises his hand to touch her blonde hair. The child wriggles, startling Jude, before reaching a plump, clumsy hand up and grasping her father's index finger. Jude stares at their joined hands in wonder and cries. She is here. His daughter is finally here. And he has fallen in love for the second time.
She says nothing. She does not have to.
She understands him so thoroughly and perfectly that she is sure he understands now.
He looks up at her. His misty onyx eyes met her warm brown and she does not need his eyes to tell her what he is thinking, because he does.
"Thank you, Layla." He weeps. "Thank you."
She smiles.
Because the two of them? Jude and Lucy? They will be okay.
"Hey, Jude."
"Yes?"
"Look at the sign?"
"What abou―. Oh. Well that's strange."
"It must have happened during the battle. Master is going to go crazy when he sees this."
"Definitely. 'Love & Lucy', huh?"
"Yeah."
"That's…um…that's a nice name don't you think? Lucy?"
"Lucy, huh? Light?"
"Yeah. What do you think?"
She smiles. "It's a beautiful name."
bittersweet endings and writing birthing scenes is hard.
let me know what you think!