Author's note: Here you go, hot off the press. Please review.
Gunther left the Knight's quarters early. Not quite as early as he liked, but once one of the new kitchen staff (Her name was Rosemartha or something like that) declared him fit, he left. He saw that Smithy was already up, working on something or other. It was amazing that anyone was sleeping considering the clanging of hammer on anvil. Gunther walked slowly, as his leg still hurt where he had taken several hits. Just as he approached the gates, he noticed that something blue-clad seemed to be in a hurr-
"Sorry!" yelled the Jester, pausing only for a moment to apologize for crashing into the knight. Behind him came a breathless youth. He appeared about fifteen, and from the dirty fingernails and deep tan, he was the gardener, some relative of the cooking sisters.
"No one had told Uncle Jes that Aunt Jane was sick, so I thought that I should," the boy explained through pants. Uncle Jes? thought Gunther, Jester! Of course! His parents were the servants always with Jane. Gunther placed a large hand on the boys shoulder, a silent sign of approval. The boy practically glowed with pride under the large knight's hand. "I should get back to my carrots before Rosemary comes looking for them."
Rosemary! That was the girl's name! Gunther continued his slow walk toward the village. As he moved, the town began to wake up. Women were opening windows to the fresh air, men were heading to whatever jobs they occupied, children played merrily in the streets. A toddler with red hair was playing with some older kids. Gunther wondered if it was Jane's. He continued walking.
Gunther noticed yet another of the servant's brood making her way back to that inn they lived in, walking with a man who must be her husband, for they walked too closely for him not to be. A little farther he saw the old gardener himself. He was tending to the small garden just to the right of the inn. Inside, Gunther could see the servant he had married scurrying from table to table. I really must learn their names, Gunther considered, but there are so many of them!
It was yet a short distance from his house when he heard a scream pierce the lazy sounds of the morning. There was an audible groan from everyone around him. Apparently, this was common. When my son is born, I will never let him scream and yell like that. Then Gunther realized that the yell had come from his own residence. He started running, more than a little bit confused. His son wasn't due for another week, so who was yelling. It wouldn't be Fiona, but who else could it be?
He came to the door, knocked lightly, and strode in. The entire entryway was a complete disaster. It looked as though Fiona hadn't been cleaning, which was odd, since all she did was clean. The scream continued, coming from up the stairway. He vaulted up the steps, still intrigued as to the source.
The first thing he saw was a bright shock of red. Fiona had her back to him. Her hair was even more disorderly than normal, and her dress looked wrinkled, even more unusual. She seemed to have heard him, as she spun around. She looked as though she hadn't slept in days, and the obvious reason was in her arms, screaming so the entire town could hear. She took one moment to ascertain he was who he was, and threw herself into his arms, careful of their child.
He was surprised on multiple levels. First, the child wasn't supposed to be born yet. Second, Fiona never showed any emotion, not to anyone, especially not him. So for a moment, he just stood there with his arms at his sides, listening as his wife cried desperately on his shoulder. Then, very slowly, he lifted his right arm, and placed it on her back, slowly moving it up and down in a soothing motion, while his left he lifted to her head.
After a moment, she stepped away, still disheveled. He reached out and took his son. "You need to rest," he said, as she was not standing steadily on her feet.
She nodded, not really comprehending. "Name…he needs a name…" She then fainted. Gunther moved quickly to catch her, balancing his wife in one arm and his son in the other. He gently brought her to their bedroom, where he laid her down over the quilt. He then sat down next to her.
His son had stopped crying, and in fact was oddly quiet. Gunther noticed that the boy's eyes had closed, and he obviously was sleeping. Gunther thought briefly before saying in a steadfast voice, "Fredrick," having decided already what to name his son. His wife twisted in her sleep, coming to rest nestled against his chest. It was then that he realized, in that perfect moment of family, how much he had done against his wife. He resolved to not hurt her, either purposefully or accidentally, ever again. It was not her fault he could not love her.
But perhaps more than that, he realized that he must make a good example to his son. For, his own father was a despicable creature worthy of contempt, and his father before that was cut from the same cloth. Gunther, however, wanted, no, needed to do right by his son, and by his wife. He was a father now. He must be a better man, for the sake of his child. He must live the life of a father.