For the letter 'U', I was given 'unforgiving'.
Rating: M
Characters: (OCs) Julia, Esteban, Mercedes
Genre: 'Backstory', Family, Tragedy

Unforgiving

adjective un·for·giv·ing \ˌən-fər-ˈgi-viŋ\
: not willing to forgive other people : very harsh or difficult : not allowing weakness, error, etc.

(Year 804)

Julia Carello watched her husband hand over her rifle plans to the Aide, who scurried the two meters to the desk of his superior. The three trial models they had already constructed lay on that desk, and Julia felt anxious for them – they'd become like surrogate children to her over the past couple of years. A squirm in her belly followed by a sharp kick to the ribs reminded her that she was pregnant with an actual human child, her sixth in fact, of her own flesh and blood, and that they'd better offer her a chair soon.

However, the Court surrounding them in the throne room bore expressions as icy as the snow flurries she could see outside through the tall windows. She'd been expecting more excitement, more gratitude and wonder. Instead she saw intrigue of a fearful kind, and watched the nervous glances with concern. Wasn't this something to celebrate? She'd just solved one of their biggest problems – the efficiency of their firearms. She'd just handed over the means to make their shots and reload time much faster, and they were looking at her as if she'd handed over a rude drawing of the King. It was only the calming presence of Esteban beside her that stopped her from calling them out.

"These plans seem sound," the gray-haired official behind the desk acknowledged as he looked them over. "You have a brilliant mind for engineering for one so young, and for a woman."

Julia changed her mind at that point. She certainly didn't want them to offer her a chair now. She hid the strain she felt on her back and steeled herself, kept biting her tongue. When she looked up again, another court official had risen from his seat and was walking forward to pluck one of the rifles from the table.

The official, a man of average height with a pot belly and a receding hairline for his ridiculous mop of dirty-blond hair, pulled back the latch on the stock, loaded two of the provided bullets, closed the breech. He shouldered it, sighted along it, lowered it, tossed it strangely idly in one hand as if to test its weight. Nervously, Julia could easily see this was not a practiced marksman. There'd been no plans for a test firing, at least not indoors. She could feel Esteban tense beside her, and like the shifting of a mountain felt his broad, tall body inch forward as if to step in front of her – her hand rose and gently gripped his wrist through his uniform jacket. Their child, as though sensing him too, squirmed toward him, rocking her a little.

The shot was the clearest thing she'd ever heard in her life – clearer, even, than the first cries of her sons as she brought them into the world. It was clearer than the pain searing its way through her left hip and abdomen, ripping up into her heart.

Julia was catapulted backwards to the marble floor and Esteban fell with her, screaming. Her hands were too afraid to touch the mess that was her side, but his were there, slipping and pressing as he tried to staunch the hot blood that sprang from her. He was calling her name. She noticed, distantly, that she did not hear any scraping chairs or pounding feet. She could just about see the King – he hadn't moved – his head still rested on his hand, as if the entire thing continued to bore him.

Esteban's growl rumbled in his chest and Julia could feel his muscles growing rigid. He made to charge at the official but Julia used what little strength she had in her shaking arms to hold him back. "Este, no. It…it won't do anything."

His vivid blue eyes looked down into hers, the anger softening into helplessness. He was crying.

"Consider this as a warning," the blond, ragdoll-like official said as he came to stand over them. He hefted the rifle across his shoulders behind his neck. "If we find out that you continue to produce such machinations that endanger our King, your lives – and those of your sons – will not be spared."

Julia was fairly certain he said something else, but her entire body was beginning to convulse. Contractions had started. Combined with her anger at the official's preposterous words, her alarm quickened her breathing and reminded her that she was in pain.

She grabbed again at Esteban's jacket. "Este – the baby. The baby's coming."

He looked mortified. "The – no! No, it's – it's too –"

"Get them out of here."

Julia finally made eye contact with the unsympathetic gaze of the man who'd shot her. His eyes were milky, almost, as if his irises couldn't make up their mind what color they wanted to be. Esteban was trying to picking her up as guards rushed forward, grabbing at them, but even through the relentless flashes of pain and the blood pouring out of her, she hauled herself to her feet. In the process, her water broke, and she felt it begin to stream down her legs and puddle on the already-slick floor. Heedless, she threw herself forward, a fist raised, and punched the stupid ragdoll of a man squarely on the jaw, enough to make him stumble and nearly drop her rifle.

"Este, my darling," her voice undulated with her contractions, but remained strong. "I wish to stay." She was going to give birth on the goddamn throne room floor and there was nothing they could do to stop her.

"Then we'll stay, my love."

Julia smiled faintly. He'd understood.

Behind her, she heard Esteban struggling with the guards. The others probably thought she was crazy, because no one approached. She glanced only once around her at the horrified faces as she fell to her knees, the contractions increasing and quickening. Her entire body ached, but it was mostly with a strange intuition that her child was already dead.

She wanted them to see. She wanted them to know what their words had done, and would continue to do to every generation that followed hers. She wouldn't allow them to pretend it didn't exist; that their actions would have no consequence. She would have no mercy.

(Year 831)

Julia opened the door to the nursery at their ranch, and found the impressive bulk of her husband reclined in the rocking chair he'd made himself for this exact purpose – he held their tiny granddaughter, Mercedes, in his arms. The weak evening sunlight made the salt-and-pepper streaks in his hair gleam like gold thread, but to her, it was nearly thirty years ago still – it was what should have been.

"You should let her rest," she said quietly as she limped into the coral-colored room.

"What do you think she's doing?" Esteban chided. "She gets her best sleep with her papa." He smiled down at the red-swaddled dumpling of an infant.

Julia stood beside him. She couldn't help but briefly think of her own daughter, killed before she was born in the throne room at Mitras, and still felt that cold hard bullet of hate and mercilessness that had filled her that day as she held her up before the Court, screaming at them. Forgiveness would never truly be found but, here at least there was a seed of hope.

She reached out a hand and brushed at the full head of dark hair, smiled and cooed at the rosebud of her little lips. "Our little lady of mercies, hm. Your granna is so glad you're here."