"she realized michael was much like her childhood cottage. behind the softness and veneer, there was a darkness within him—a deep melancholy that was impossible to wash out."
in 1967, eliza rosewain was born to a world on the cusp of war—soon to be washed with the blood of her people and the innocent. danger, secrets, and war loomed large over the nephilim as she made her way throughout england and idris. her boldness caught the attention of many throughout the years, but none more so than michael wayland. boldness made way to an entity more dangerous than anything she could have conceived. rumors of an underground society and michael wayland's love drew her deeper into a treacherous web of lies—and valentine morgenstern's social set.
tldr; an AU where eliza rosewain lives and that makes a whole difference in the uprising and the mortal war.
prologue
phillip made note of the landscape outside the cottage. rolling slate grey clouds gave their rain on a midsummer's day and tapped gently against the antique glass. the hills were slopes of dull green in the dim light and he looked down at his pocketwatch, letting out a loud sigh of frustration.
his grandchild was to be born today—september 19—to a world of ancient bloodlines and sacred duties. his birth was an anticipated occasion; not a single rosewain male had been born since his son's twenty years prior and it appeared every branch of rosewains had the propensity to produce beautiful, but useless, daughters. women couldn't carry the family name any further than they could fight.
"when will this blasted child come out?" he snarled, feeling the dread weather away at his patience. the child had already caused enough of a scandal throughout all of europe—it didn't need to be tardy out of all things in the world. it appeared the child took after his disappointing father in the aspect of punctuality. in his youth, his son had the vexing predisposition to arrive late, whether through his own lack of responsibility or procrastination.
and his daughter-in-law was another complication all together….
she'd fallen terribly ill in the last week of her pregnancy and from what the nurse had whispered, the bedsheets ran red with her blood as the woman turned a deathly white. her husband—his son—stood outside the birthing room, pacing and biting his fingerbeds as fear had always compelled him to do. the silent brother emerged from the room, pulling his hood back to reveal his stitched lips and empty sockets that appeared more gruesome in the dark light of the corridor.
he turned to phillip's son. peter, i fear your wife will not survive .
with a roll of the eyes, he shoved past peter and demanded harshly, "and what about the child?" there was a bitterness in the words that he could not disguise and the cold glint of his obsidian eyes were even more empty than the silent brother before him. "is it alive?"
you have a healthy new-born granddaughter, phillip rosewain .
he scoffed, "a granddaughter. lucky me indeed." he shifted his gaze from brother ezekiel to the young man behind him. a granddaughter indeed—it was another addition to the string of disappointments that came attached with his soft-hearted, foolish son. even more disappointing was the lack of sentimentality in phillip's voice and eyes—even behind all the layers of nephilim stoicness—as he spoke about the new addition to his family.
"brother ezekiel … my wife…" peter implored meekly. "please…"
i will do everything in my power to ensure that she survives. you have my word .
phillip was slightly impressed with the willfulness in the silent brother's words; they left no room for more objections. his son merely wilted back into the shadows, in response, like the fading rose he was. when the midwife brought out the girl, swaddled in white cloth and wailing loudly, phillip determined he should be the first to hold the newborn. "you'd best hope the child is worth all the trouble," he sneered at his son who stared at the bundle with newfound hope and awe, "and that wife of yours too—if she survives."
phillip peered down at his granddaughter and made note of her features, scrunched up in discomfort and redden like most newborns were apt to be. she was a rosewain through and through, he noted with a twinge of displeasure. her eyes were a dark hazel, framed with long curling lashes, and she sported a large tuft of unruly black hair on her head. he could not hide his disappointment at the fact that his son produced a daughter—the weak mundane girl could not see to give them a son and heir.
another prized rose thrown into the dirt. what use would a small girl have to them?
elizabeth let out a loud wail and started to thrash in phillip's arms. when his son moved to comfort her, phillip swiftly handed her over and left the bedroom in favor of his son's study. he headed through the corridors of the cottage very softly thanks to the stealth rune inked on his forearm and noted the lack of witchlight burning. his son's troublesome wife must have been in labor for the majority of the night, with her husband dutifully waiting outside of their bedroom. others in their social echelons did not stand by as their wives screamed and bled during birth, but peter had remained.
he looked across the expanse of the study and sighed, suddenly feeling his age. there was a wooden box on the mahogany desk, with delicate vines engraved on the side and a large rose carved on the top. a gift from his wife when his only son turned eighteen and escaped england in favor of mumbai. peter claimed he wished to explore india for his travel year to further discover their indian roots but his father knew the truth. he gave a derisive snort. he traced the artfully crafted box on the edge of the table and found it was kept in pristine condition. as he sat down in the seat of the large table, he felt the urge to pour himself a generous amount of whiskey but found he could not justify drinking on such an occasion. not when his son's wife lingered between life and death and his new grandchild's cries could be heard throughout the cottage.
his calloused fingers drummed against the arm of the seat and his eyes lingered on the drawers of his son's. they were locked no doubt and he didn't have his stele on hand to open them. in front of him was a moleskin journal—evidently well used from the cracks on the spine—with a bookmark sticking out between the yellowing pages. phillip flipped to the marked page and scanned his son's latest journal entry:
15 september, 1967
it is nearing amara's due date. i find it most curious—women often gripe and groan about their various pains and i find pregnancy to be a tiresome journey. yet amara has sparkled, even in her last month, and i find her enthusiasm to be most infectious. i suppose that's why i married her in the first place: she's a truly catching woman. she dances around the cottage and sings hindu lullabies to the baby. the baby is healthy and well but entirely prone to fits of kicking. i think they've gotten impatient and wish to see the world already.
we have spoken about names: elizabeth if they are a girl and phillip if they are a boy. amara suggested elizabeth because she admired the tenacity and strength of the virgin queen. phillip was my suggestion. i have rocked our family with enough scandal these past few months and naming my firstborn after my father ought to get him off our backs for a while—although i fear nothing satiates the man. he is a coldblooded snake, through and through, and vowed that i would rue the day i brought a mundane into our family. even then, i cannot say that i truthfully regret amara or the child.
i look forward to becoming a father. i want to see my child smile and hear their voice as they call me, "papa." it is a romantic wish, one that many men before would rather die before expressing, but i feel the longing in my heart nonetheless. i wonder if my own father felt such affection and hope for me when mother was pregnant with me. it appears that my actions these past twenty years have squashed any paternal endearment he might have once felt towards me. they say that motherly love never fades, even in the face of life's great trials and tribulations. but the poems and hymns never speak to a father's great love for their child. perhaps it is because most men appear indifferent and cold to their scions or perhaps we were not meant to love with the same abandon and passion as women are prone to do. whatever the case may be, i desire to care for my child purely and wholly, to leave behind a mark of fond memories and recollections for them—a reminder of my great love.
it will not be my warrior's prowess or scholar's intellect or impressive pedigree that they remember. my love will be my greatest legacy —
phillip snapped the book shut and felt himself recoil in disgust at such woefully foolish notions. a gentle fool, his son was.
when the nurse came to the study to inform him that his daughter-in-law survived, phillip felt a rush of relief and watched from afar as his son sat by her bedside and cradled the newborn in his arms. until they had another child, a son, elizabeth rosewain would be peter's only legacy.
notes:
- since it was never made clear what eliza rosewain looked like, i took the liberty of imagining her as a british-indian woman. - i've also reimagined several characters as poc simply because i think the books need more representation and because i liked the tv show. hope you enjoyed the prologue! let me know what you think :))