Daughter of the Forsworn

by the Lady of the Mists

Chapter One: A Birth and A Death

Clutching her stomach as another contraction forced her to clamp her mouth shut to prevent from screaming in pain, a young woman rode through the forest, aware of the danger, both to her and to her unborn child. Eyes like daggers, she dared glance behind her, praying that her pursuers hadn't caught up to her just yet.

"You won't be getting her," she whispered in the ancient language. "This child does not belong to you."

But the baby was coming, faster than she had anticipated. The midwife had warned her about this, but she ignored her, not caring what had happened. She would rather lose another baby than see it grow up in the hands of its father.

After everything that had happened, it was impossible to think that he had betrayed her. In the end, he had betrayed her from the beginning. He was sworn to the very man who she had sworn to bring down. They were two very different people; she was aligned with light, he was dark.

She just prayed that her child would not turn out to be like its father. That would break her heart more than anything.

Crying out as another pain surged through her, the young woman whispered a protection spell around as she saw a cottage just ahead. Relief surged through her as she slowed to a stop, climbing off her horse.

"Go, ride on," she told the horse in the ancient language. "Don't worry about me; I'll be fine. Keep riding and don't stop, no matter what happens. Go!" The mare nickered as it obeyed, breaking into a canter again and leaving its pregnant mistress behind.

The young woman looked behind her and ducked behind the garden fence, keeping quiet as her pursuers gave chase, riding past her ignorantly, hunting the lone mare deeper into the woods . . . and leaving the young woman alone for the time being.

Taking deep breaths, the young woman struggled to her feet, using the fence to assist her as she made her way towards the house. "Help," she gasped weakly, pounding on the door as hard as she could.

"I'll be right there," a woman's voice called, but she could barely even hear her. The young woman could barely endure the pain, but she had to. She had to survive this . . . hadn't women being doing this for as long as there were stars in the sky? Surely, she could survive this . . . but then again, her child might be safer if she didn't.

"Good gods!" Mistress Margery exclaimed as she opened the door and found a pregnant young girl sitting outside her steps, clutching her stomach in pain. It only took the space of a heartbeat to realise what was wrong with the girl.

Calling for her husband, Margery directed him to move the girl to their room while she got the herbs that she needed for the birth. It was a long labour and a difficult delivery, one of the most difficult births that Margery had ever attended. And as the village midwife, she had attended many, many births. But not one such as this.

Finally, just before daybreak on midwinter's eve, the young woman pushed her child into the world of Alagaesia. The child was a healthy baby girl, already with a mop of dark curls plastered onto her head. Her wide, green eyes stared up at Margery with interest as the midwife cleaned her off and handed her to her mother.

But the mother, unfortunately, was not doing as well as her daughter was. She could barely sit up to hold her child and her strength was weakening with every second.

"Easy, there, lass," Margery cautioned. "Don't use up all of your strength. It's all right. You're going to be all right."

"Here or going back, I'm dead, anyway," the young woman whispered, her voice faint. "Better here, for then at least, he can never get his hands on my child. She'll be safe." Her green eyes, the exact image of her child's, looked fiercely up at Margery. "Please . . . take care of my baby."

"Enough of that talk," Margery said firmly. "You're going to be fine." But she was trying to convince herself as well; the girl was getting weaker and weaker.

"Call—call her . . ." the young woman gasped, forcing the words out. She took a deep breath and managed to say, "Call her Muirgen. Let no harm come to her. He will come looking for her, but let no one find out that she was mine. She was born to you, understand?"

Margery slowly nodded, taking the baby in her arms and looking down at the young woman, who was fumbling for something underneath her gown. She held out a necklace to Margery, who accepted the silver chain and pendant that she handed to her. "When she . . . she is old enough, give this to my daughter. One day, she will confront her heritage, her destiny. But she will have grown up away from his influence. I hope that will be enough to stop her from becoming as twisted and evil as he was. Never let him lay his hands on her, don't let him find out about her and claim her."

Margery nodded firmly. "Don't worry, lass," she assured the young woman. "We'll take care of your baby, me husband and I. She'll be safe with us. But who is the 'he' that will be coming after her?"

The young woman shook her head. "You—you will know when he comes. And he will come." She reached out her hand towards her daughter, placing a kiss on her forehead. And then she said something that Margery didn't understand, but recognised the language of the elves.

"My daughter," she whispered faintly, "good luck. And I pray that your destiny lies upon a different path than mine."

It was one of the worst things about being a midwife, Margery knew, was that she could do nothing about it as the young woman's life slipped away. Her hand was on the baby before it dropped away, her head leaning to the side, unable to support itself any longer.

As if sensing her mother's passing, Muirgen started wailing in Margery's arms, exhibiting soft, quiet sobs as Margery rocked her back and forth, soothing the child.

--

Niall looked up from his farming outside as his wife came outside with a baby in her arms. He frowned slightly as she came over to him. "What is this, woman?" he asked. Seeing the look on his wife's face, he realised, "The mother didn't make it?"

Margery sighed, sitting down on the bench as she held the child. "She didn't make it," she echoed. Niall frowned sympathetically, placing a gentle hand on his wife before looking at the child. "She's a pretty little girl, isn't she, Niall?"

"Oh, no," Niall warned. "Don't even go there, Margery. We have enough to do around here without having to raise a baby."

"I promised the mother." Niall dropped his stake and looked towards his wife, astonished. "She was afraid, so afraid for her safety. There is a danger for her, Niall. Some man . . . he'll be coming for her. I promised her mother that we would keep her from him."

"Why? If its the father—"

"It would be disastrous for us all if he laid a hand on her." Margery looked up at him, her grey eyes troubled. "I could see that in her eyes. If we don't do this, then it could very well doom us all."

Niall closed his eyes before retrieving his tool, choosing his words very carefully before he spoke. "Margery, my love, everyone knows that you were never pregnant. And there are some women in the village square who know that you can't get pregnant."

"So, she'll be my sister's child," Margery responded. "Nobody knows about my family around here, Niall, and my sister and her husband passed away recently. It would make sense that their child would be sent to us to raise. Nobody would ever have to know."

Suppressing a sigh, Niall shook his head, looking at the baby. He had to admit that it would be a shame if somebody destroyed something so gentle and innocent. She was such a sweet little baby.

"Oh, all right!" he said with a sigh. "But Margery, you and I both know that the truth comes out in the end. One day, the girl will know who her mother really was . . . and who her father is. Whoever he is, she will find out the truth about him one day."

"I know, but that day is long in coming. And by then, she will be old enough to decide which path she wishes to take." Margery smiled as she stood up. "And now, it's time for her first meal."

Niall smiled at his wife as she carried the baby up to the house, no doubt preparing the milk that she gave mothers who couldn't produce milk on their own, or fathers whose wife had died in childbirth and there was no wet nurse for miles around.

But he had the feeling that this girl was going to grow up into a young woman who would either doom them all . . . or be their salvation.