Hey everyone. In case you didn't see the new rating, I'm letting you know that the following scene is going to show Margaret's (semi-canonical) death. It's nothing overly graphic, but I do go into certain details, and if you don't want to/can't read it, I completely understand. Please know your limits and what is alright for you to read.
Thank you all for the support for the last chapter. It truly warmed my heart, and it always gives me extra motivation to continue this story.
There were a lot of things about parenting that Margaret never truly thought about. She knew about diapers and tantrums, but she never thought about the bigger things. The things that would be more important than anything else. She didn't realize the deep love she would feel for her child, nor the intense sense of obligation of keeping them safe. Those were things that took her completely by surprise, and because of that, Margaret was now doing something she herself had never done. Not even with her own father.
Margaret readjusted the oversized black dress over her large belly. It was far from what children would consider a witch's costume, but Thomas had said, "You're already a witch, so any dress you wear is a witch's dress!" Still, if Margaret was going to be the witch Thomas knew she was for Halloween, the least she could do was play along.
Yes. Trick-or-treating. After so many years on the run, Thomas had finally decided that he wanted to see what trick-or-treating was all about. So while Malcolm was out on a magician's gig out of two, Thomas and Margaret had rented a small motel room for a few days. It was next to a town that was just barely larger than the size of the farm Margaret grew up on, but it had a school, which meant that there were likely several houses ready to serve out bowls of candy.
"Thomas, are you ready yet?" Margaret asked as she picked up the broom. She didn't have a witch's hat—because honestly, what kind of a wizard actually wears an idiotic hat—but she did bring over the broom from the cabin they usually stayed at. She couldn't say she was looking forward to hauling it around alongside her eight-month-old belly, but Thomas was determined to make the most of this Halloween, and he was nothing if not insistent.
"I'm almost done!" Thomas called out from the motel's bathroom. "I want my costume to look good!"
Margaret sighed and sat down at the edge of the bed. This was likely the last moment her feet would get any rest tonight, and with her second child approaching their due date, Margaret savored the brief respite. She rubbed her large belly, which was already nearly as large as it had been right before Thomas was born, and sighed. "You and your brother are going to be the death of me," she said.
If this were any other week, Margaret would've insisted to Malcolm that he take Thomas out. That way she could relax in the motel, prop up her feet, and get some much-needed rest. But Malcolm had a job in a different town, and considering he was their only source of income for the moment, Margaret had insisted that she could manage a single night of trick-or-treating. Though it had taken a lot of convincing.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" Malcolm had said. Even after packing up everything into the station wagon, he still hovered by the driver's seat. "You know you're really pregnant, right? I don't want you overextending yourself."
"Malcolm Dresden, are you insinuating that I can't take care of myself?" Margaret had said.
"No, no, no. That's not it," Malcolm babbled. "I just want to make sure you're alright. After all, you are my wife." He smiled at her, his teeth bright against the light stubble that was coming in. He truly was handsome, at least to Margaret's eye. He had a charm about him that was more rugged than the wizards she used to meet, and much more open and relaxed compared to Lord Raith. Perhaps that's why she found him so charming.
"We'll be alright." Margaret clicked her tongue. "Like you said, I am your wife, which means you should know I can take care of myself."
Malcolm sighed. It was truly too easy for Margaret to win against him. "I'll be back in three days."
"The baby isn't due for another four weeks."
"I know." Malcolm wrapped his long arms around Margaret's waist, pulling her towards him until her large belly hit his. "But I still want to get back as soon as I can. I promised I'd be there for you no matter what, didn't I?"
"Yes you did," Margaret said. Malcolm leaned down to kiss her, and Margaret accepted his lips. They were rough, like always, and made Margaret ache for more once they finally broke away.
Malcolm had then slid into the station wagon and driven off. Margaret waved goodbye, and a day later, here she was. Waiting for her child to finish getting ready. Really, was it so hard for her son to be on time for anything? Margaret wasn't exactly the most proactive in her family—she vividly remembered her father scolding her for not mucking out the pig stalls, his scraggly beard shaking as he yelled at her—but honestly, Thomas's levels of tardiness were on another scale. If only—
The pain was small, at first. It felt like a little push from within her belly, extending itself downward towards Margaret's feet. The pain pushed, but in a single second, the pain exploded in a rush. A furious pressure laid into Margaret's body, pushing against her lower body. It pushed and pushed, like a rolling boulder pushing out against her stomach.
"Gah!" Margaret gasped. The broom fell from her hand and tumbled over the floor. She leaned over her aching belly and did her best to breathe in deeply. The pain continued for several more moments before finally dissipating. The aching feeling stopped, but a whisper of the pain remained. It weakened every bit of Margaret's body, making her feel like a rag doll that had been twisted around.
This is active labor, Margaret realized. But it can't be. When Thomas was born, I was in early labor for several hours, and it was nowhere near this painful.
Just as she thought that, another rolling wave of pain thrummed through her. It extended from her stomach outwards, burning every nerve Margaret had. It made her shake, writhe as her body ached with a hurt that ignited every single sense of hers.
That's when a new type of hurt burst in her lower stomach. It was like someone was pulling at her, stretching the muscle tissue down and out of her.
A tear, Margaret reasoned. The tearing sensation grew, sending a sharp spike of pain through Margaret's body. "Gah!" She groaned, and a low whine escaped her lips. She gasped as spikes of white-hot pain coursed through her, but she forced herself to breathe, just like she had been instructed to do at the Raith mansion when her first child was born. It helped somewhat, but the pain remained.
It had been less than a minute since the previous contraction, and Margaret needn't have given birth before to know something was wrong. This was how pregnancies worked. It wasn't how births worked. Something else was at play here—something that could affect Margaret when she was far away from anyone who wanted to hurt her. But even so, they'd need some bit of her DNA. Margaret was careful about that, even when she cut her own hair, and there was no way anyone could have gotten it. The only time she couldn't dispose of it properly when she was with—
Oh. She realized. Hell's goddamned bells.
An entropy curse. Stars and stones, the damned Lord Raith had cast an entropy curse on her!
No. She couldn't die yet. If she died, then the baby might die with her. She had to hold out. She had to be strong enough to survive, at least until—
Margaret gasped. "Oh," she said. With a trembling hand, she touched her stomach and rubbed it gently. She could feel the little life inside of her, ready to come out into the world. "I see."
She thought about Lea's words, how she knew that there would be a price. It looked like it was finally time to pay.
"I knew you would be the death of me," she said with a smile. Hot tears fell down from her cheeks and onto her belly. Margaret rubbed them away, even as her tears came faster and her breaths turned into sobs.
"Mom! Look at my costume!" Thomas burst out of the bathroom and into the motel room. He had a pirate sword in hand and a bandana on his head, and though Malcolm's old white shirt was too big on him, Thomas had tied several parts of it into knots so that it looked like a well-worn sailor shirt. The eye that wasn't covered by an eyepatch shined with joy, but the moment it landed on Margaret, that joy was replaced by undisguised shock and confusion. "Mom? Why are you crying?"
Margaret pushed down her sobs and gave Thomas the widest smile she could manage. A new pulse of pain racked her body, but she pressed her fingernail into her palm and forced herself to hold down her scream. "The baby's coming," she told him.
"Now?" Thomas lowered his toy store and took a couple of tentative steps forward. "Now now? On the bed?"
Margaret laughed. "No, not on the bed. There's still time for me to get to the hospital." She began to push herself upwards, but a new contraction started. It felt as if her stomach was being ripped from the inside out, making everything around the baby burn with the force of a blazing fire. Margaret slumped back down onto the bed and looked at Thomas. "Thomas, I need you to grab the phone and grab 911. Tell them that your mother is giving birth and that we need an ambulance here as fast as possible."
Thomas nodded. Margaret could see the panic in her son's eyes, but he did as he was told and rushed to the phone on the bedside table.
The blazing contraction finished, but Margaret didn't have the energy to move. So she sat there, breathing heavily, as she half-heard Thomas talking into the phone. He was giving the operator Margaret's name, how far along the pregnancy was, where the motel was, all in a clear yet shaken voice, and Margaret tried to focus on it to calm her down.
"Mom." Thomas raised his voice. "They want to know if it hurts."
Margaret opened her mouth to speak, and that's when another rioting pain blazed in her stomach.
The pain was even worse than before. Every fiber of her being felt like it was getting pulled in a million directions, pulling her outwards in a way that would twist her in ways unimaginable. So in spite of her efforts, Margaret screamed.
"Aaaah!" She cried out. She hitched forwards on instinct, gripping the edge of the bed with both hands.
"Mom!" Margaret heard the phone clatter behind her as Thomas ran to grip her shoulder. "Mom!"
Some of the pain had died down, but not enough. The curse was in full effect now, and there was nothing Margaret could do to stop it. This would be her last day on Earth, she knew that, but she couldn't give up just yet. Not until her baby was born.
Margaret placed her feet firmly on the floor and readjusted her grip on the bed's edge. Her hair had fallen in front of her face, and she peered through the strands to look at Thomas. "Child," she said to her son. "Get back to the phone."
Thomas pulled off his eyepatch and stared at her. "But—"
"No buts." The pain inside her began to rise again, like lava rising from the depths of a volcano. She felt something writhe and tear her stomach, and she knew that it wouldn't be long before another too-early contraction started. "Thomas, I need you to listen to me. You have to tell the operator that we need an ambulance now. Tell them that without it, I might not last more than twenty minutes."
All the color in Thomas's face disappeared. His skin turned ash-white, eerily similar to that of his father. "What?"
"Thomas, go!"
Either on Margaret's orders or out of pure fear, Thomas rushed back to the phone. Something oozed out between Margaret's legs, all while Thomas answered every question with rapidfire speed. "She's hurting. A lot. No, there isn't any blood—no, she says there is. No, her husband isn't here. She screamed just one time, but I think she wants to do it again. Noooo. She's never had a baby before. She just wished really, really hard for me!"
Staring at her blood-soaked hand, Margaret laughed, but it wasn't long before the laughter turned into a guttural scream.
"Aaaaaaargh!"
"Hurry!" Thomas screamed before hanging up the phone with a slam.
Margaret didn't know how long it took for the ambulance to arrive. It could've been minutes, it could've been an hour. All she knew was that she spoke soft words to Thomas. She wasn't entirely sure what she was saying, or even if she was saying much at all, but it kept her son calm enough to bring her a towel to stop more blood from spilling out of her. And when the paramedics arrived, it was Thomas who rushed to let them in.
Margaret bit her lips as the paramedics hauled her onto the gurney. It hurt, but the instant one of them put an oxygen mask on her face, she gulped in a huge breath of light anesthesia. The paramedics were arguing amongst themselves about Thomas. One was insisting on not letting Thomas into the ambulance, and Thomas responded by sprinting past them and into the vehicle.
"My husband is away," Margaret said over their panicked yells at Thomas. "There is no one to look after my son. He comes with me."
Perhaps it was because she was pregnant and bleeding, but after a quick look at each other, the paramedics pushed Margaret into the ambulance without another word. Once she was strapped in, Thomas gripped the gurney's railing. Margaret saw that his fingers were shaking.
The paramedics shut the door and went to work. They talked to each other more than they talked to Margaret, and she couldn't blame them. When you have someone in active labor and is bleeding profusely, you tend to focus more on keeping them alive rather than making small talk. Margaret accepted it because it meant she could look at her son.
"Be brave, my child," she said to Thomas. "Malcolm will take care of you."
Thomas shook his head from side to side, his long dark hair flying wildly beneath the red bandana that held it back. "He isn't here yet."
"He'll get here as soon as he can." A new pulse of pain hummed through Margaret, but with the anesthesia, she was able to push down the scream that was rising in her throat. "Be patient with him. He loves you."
"What? Mom, what are you talking about?" Thomas bit his lip. He looked so young like that. He actually looked like the eight-year-old he was, not like the child who was forced to grow up too soon because of his mother's mistakes.
"And take care of your sibling," Margaret continued. "There will come a time when you need them, and they will need you."
Thomas looked around the ambulance with huge eyes. He took in the paramedics working diligently to stop the bleeding, Margaret's huge stomach that held his sibling, and the oxygen mask that covered half of Margaret's face. "Mom, what's going on?"
"There's something happening to my body, little one," she said. "Something that will not be kind to me."
Thomas gulped. His eyes trailed over Margaret's belly. "I—Is it hurting the baby?"
"No," she said as comfortingly as she could. "I won't let it." Her son nodded, but there was still fear blooming in his eyes. "Thomas, listen to me carefully."
Thomas looked at her and held his breath. Margaret knew she needed to say something, something that would one day tell him what happened to her, but she couldn't say it outright. He wouldn't understand right now, and if he understood too early, she could be sending him straight back into the lair of his demon father in an attempt to avenge her. She would send him to his death, and she refused to let that happen.
"Someone did something terrible to me," she said, her deep breaths fogging up the mask on her face. "To us. Do you understand that?"
Thomas's eyes shifted from side to side, but he nodded. Good. She knew he wasn't really understanding, but he was remembering, and that was enough.
"They have come for me, and they will likely come for you," Margaret said, "but I know that one day you'll be strong enough to understand what happened tonight. And one day, you and your sibling will be strong enough to fight back. Do you understand?"
Thomas nodded.
"Good." Tears fell down Margaret's face. "I love you. So much."
"I—I love you, too…." Thomas whispered.
Margaret looked over her firstborn. She looked over his dark hair, his pale skin, and his blue eyes. He was still young, but Margaret could see the beginning of a strong jawline, the start of a thick mane of hair that would tumble down his shoulders. Even if by some miracle he never joined his sisters as the vampire children of Lord Raith, he would grow up to be handsome. He would grow up to be strong. To be kind.
Realizing that she would never see that broke Margaret's heart.
The ambulance slowed to a stop as the doors flew open. With shaking fingers, Margaret unfastened her silver pentacle necklace and placed it in her son's hand. "This is for them. So they can have one just like yours."
Thomas curled his fingers around the pendant. Reaching out, Margaret grabbed her son's other hand and placed it on the baby still residing in her stomach. "Give my love to your sibling."
She tore her eyes away from him at the last moment, preventing Thomas from looking into her eyes. The child was already going to experience one nightmare tonight. He did not need another.
"Mom!" Thomas yelled as they wheeled Margaret into the hospital. The voice of her child faded, and a huge swath of doctors and nurses began wheeling her down the pristine white walls. Tears fell down Margaret's face, but she could not let herself break down. Not now.
Margaret braced herself. She reached up and yanked the oxygen mask off her face, and she felt the effects of the anesthesia wear off immediately. Her stomach contracted in a blast of abysmal pain, and Margaret could suddenly feel the lower half of her stomach crinkle and stretch amid the tears that had formed on the drive.
"Ma'am, we need you to keep this on." A nurse in green scrubs reached up to place the mask back on, but Margaret grabbed her wrist before she could do so.
"I'm dying anyway," Margaret said in a low and even voice. "Before I go, the least you could do is let me see my child with a clear head."
The nurse traded a glance with the doctor, but when she looked down at Margaret, she bit her lip and let go of the mask. "We need to get her to the delivery room now!" The nurse cried.
"All operating room's on this floor are full," another said as they reached a large elevator. "Don't worry, ma'am, we're taking you to an emergency room on the second floor—"
The contraction started before Margaret could even blink. It tore at her middle, crunching everything it touched in a boiling sea of blood and acid. Margaret felt her baby kick hard and fast against her stomach, slamming their little feet into Margaret's bruised insides. The contraction crescendoed, reaching its peak with a heavy yank that tore at her stomach. It tore, stretched, ached. Burned.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" Margaret let out a wail louder than she had ever cried in her life. Lights flickered around her, sparks shot out of the elevator, phones exploded in a haze of tiny electric bolts, and a faint scent of smoke began to sneak its way out of the elevator doors. Margaret's magic flew everywhere around her, but it did nothing to stop the pain.
"Elevator is no longer an option," the nurse in the green scrubs said. "Find Dr Morrow and tell him he needs to go upstairs because we need his delivery room right now!"
Margaret felt more than saw the nurses wheel her into the delivery room. She knew that there was a bright light above her closed eyelids, and she could feel her feet being placed into stirrups, but her eyes felt shot. It was as if the pain had traveled up her body through every nerve it could. It took and it took, wanting her to suffer as much as possible before she died.
So this is the power of an entropy curse, her pain-addled mind thought. Had I known, I might have used them myself.
But right now, her magic was useless. The only thing she could use was her death curse, but she had to wait, because for once, she didn't have to live. She didn't have to fight for another year. She didn't have to fight for tomorrow. All she had to fight for was this moment. For the moment she could ensure her child was safely born.
If this is the only thing I get to do as their mother, she thought, then I will not disappoint.
The lights flickered on and off with every scream that left Margaret. The nurses did what they could, even sending for the head doctor, and Margaret nearly told them to not bother. There was no point in trying to save her. All they could do was save her child. So she lay there as her body tore itself into strips and as her child twisted their way out of her.
They will call Malcolm, Margaret thought. He's my emergency contact, so he will come. He will take care of our child.
They tried to give her anesthesia once more, but Margaret pushed them away. She needed a clear head for the death curse, and she wanted to see her child live. Were they a girl? A boy?
How will my father learn of my death? She wondered amid pain and sweat and screams. Will he miss me? Will he mourn? What would he say if he could see me right now? Would he be disappointed? Angry?
Ha! If her father were there, he'd be in the delivery room with her, yelling at her at what a fool she'd been and how she should've called him sooner. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps then she wouldn't be surrounded by strangers in her final moments.
I wish my husband were here, Margaret thought. I wish he could be here to see the birth of his child.
She had to hold out. Just a little while longer—
"I see the head!" The nurse yelled. "I just need one more push."
With the rest of the energy left inside her, Margaret pushed with all her might. "Aaaaaaah!"
She felt a heavy weight fall out of her body, and then the nurse said the most beautiful words Margaret had ever heard. "It's a boy!" She announced. "You have a boy."
Margaret's eyes shot open. Within the arms of the nurse was a tiny baby, just barely big enough to fit within the woman's hold. He was small and wrinkled and red, just like his brother had been. His eyes were closed, there were tiny wisps of hair on his head.
A boy. There was her son, and he was perfect.
The nurse lowered her head towards Margaret's baby. "His breaths are shallow."
A doctor in a white coat rushed over. "Check his mouth."
Fear pierced Margaret's heart. Other nurses rushed to help control her bleeding, but she pushed them away with what little force she had. "Go to him!" She ordered. "Now!"
Two of the nurses listened to her, and they rushed to go check on her son. They took Margaret's baby over to a small table on the side of the room. They all looked over him, hitting the bottom of his feet and looking into his mouth. But even as everyone crowded around him, they stood around him in a way Margaret could still see his face. The tiny face that had yet to cry.
In the back of her mind, Margaret felt the sense of unconsciousness threatening to take her over, and she knew she had to work fast. She didn't have much time before her body gave out on her, and she had to make one final push. Just one more.
Within her, Margaret found all the pain that had ravaged her. All the rage and fury bottled up in her chest, pounding at the chance to find someone to unleash it on. She pictured Lord Ratih. She pictured his smug, suave face that had always looked down on her, even in the beginning. Thinking of him, she drew in every bit of power inside of her and shaped it into a sphere inside her mind, but for the death curse to last, she had to tie it down.
She looked over at her newborn son, the blood of her blood, and reached out with her magic. Like magnets being pulled towards one another, Margaret felt the magical connection fix into place. It wound itself around the boy as an invisible shroud, and Margaret felt a little spark in him. It was deep and dormant, but Margaret could recognize the thrum of power anywhere. It was in there, deep inside her child, waiting to be nurtured into something beyond imagination.
"Forgive me for not being with you longer," she whispered. "I'll make him suffer for that."
A nurse patted her baby's back, and Margaret's son let out a deafening wail.
"Never feed." Margaret poured all her magic and will into her death curse, and she let it rip away the life inside her.
Margaret was never a religious woman. With a father like hers, how was she supposed to be? But if there was a god, then Margaret thanked him for letting her die while looking at her newborn son. She thanked him for letting her hear him cry for the very first time.
And like the embers of a fire fading into smoke, the last of Margaret's magic dissipated into the air. At first, she saw stars, and then she saw nothing.