"Wake up, it is time."
Dagonet jumps in his chair as the voice snaps him out of his dreams. Nightmares more like. But those he blames on his general nervousness; it is not everyday one bears witness to his child coming into the world. Not to mentions groans of pain coming from the wooden door in front of him. Craning his neck to see around the crack of the open door, he sighs as it is quickly closed again, only the sight of the healers skittering to and fro.
It has been two months since Amhar's death. One month since Dagonet and Heraniae bound themselves to one another on an early spring morning, as witnessed by her older twin brothers (the youngest brother of the three unable to attend due to a previous journey to Londinium) as well as Bors and Tristan. Granted, it wasn't a true marriage, for knights were denied that right until after completing their service, but it proved as close as one could get. As he swore in front of the witnesses then, Dagonet breathes the promise to himself; in health and in sickness, in times of fortune and despair, he will be side by her side. The only thing stopping him at the moment is her birthing pains. They've begun almost a dozen hours before, judging from dim light of the dusk spilling in from the window above his head.
"Drink," Ceridwen's voice calls out again as she hands him a cup of cool water. "You may not wish to eat on account of your general worry, but you cannot meet your child while delirious with thirst," she continues, voice softening. Suddenly, the door flies open in front of them, Maeve and Vanora running out. One concerned look from both of them sends the old woman flying back into the room, Vanora following.
"What's the meanin' of that, you think?" Bors whispers, leaning against the doorframe of the entrance of Heraniae's quarters. Dagonet bites back a laugh at his cousin's scared tone, taking note of how the other knight refuses to take a seat. It's the first he's seen him positively terrified, these woman matters confounding him to the point of repressed panic. One would think he's expecting a child.
"She's railing at everyone, 'tis all," Maeve mutters as she begins lighting the lanterns lining the walls of the chamber. Remembering the flying bowl that almost hit her in the head when she chastised Heraniae her for gripping her hand a bit too hard, she continues. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you. Unless you're the father of course," she nods in deference to Dagonet. "She's walking around now, trying to guide the baby out…"
"By the gods," Lancelot mumbles, eyes going wide at the idea of it. He worriedly runs a hand through his dark curls and scoots down lower in his chair, feet crossed carelessly upon the table into front of him. "She's certainly got a temper, to say the least. What ever possessed you to have a child by her?"
"That's my maid you're talking about," Dagonet warns.
"Maid? So hurling bowls at children's heads makes her the flower of the fort?"
"I'll hurl something else at you if you don't shut it!" Dagonet growls.
"My, you are nervous," Maeve chuckles uneasily as he sighs in apologetic reply. The silence is suddenly broken by a scream of pain, which causes Dagonet to jump to his feet and stalk towards the door. Maeve rushes after him, tugging on his tunic in a vain effort to stop him, which only results in her being dragged along with him until he notices her. "It'll become worse before it gets better," she stutters quickly as he turns around and fixes her with a worried glare.
"And just how do you know this?" Lancelot asks with genuine surprise as he sits up.
"In training for a healer, so I've seen these about four times before," she replies shyly, going back to light the lanterns.
"Eh, she's right," Bors shrugs. "Me mum was most gentle creature you'd have ever set your eyes on…"
"Somehow I doubt that," Lancelot chuckles, only to quickly fall silent when Bors casts him a glare.
"As I was saying," he continues, clearing his throat, "You'd have sworn she were a monster from the very depths of the Dead when she went through the birthing of me younger sis. The only thing to do is wait. And pray the midwives don't eat you alive for daring to exist."
"May the gods never bless me with a child," Lancelot breathed. "For I would be a poor father if ever I saw one. No wonder Tristan fled at the first round of shrieks!"
"At least you know yourself," Dagonet counters, a hint of grin coming to his face as he makes his way back to his seat. "As for the scout, well, at least we know there's finally something he's not a master of."
"Women?" Lancelot drawls.
"The to contrary, mate. More of what happens to them when you're done with 'em!" Bors guffaws.
"Careful, there are children about," Lancelot chuckles, nodding towards Maeve, who has a confused look on her face. That is until another scream rends through the air. Letting out a ragged breath, Dagonet's about to get up again until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
"Steady on, mate," Bors murmurs. "It'll all work itself out."
"Just breathe!" Brangaine mutters, flinching as Heraniae squeezes her hand yet again. "How long will this go on?" she asks as Ceridwen wipes the expecting mother's brow.
"I cannot say," Ceridwen replies flatly, though she bites her lip with worry. While birthings are certainly not easy, this one was beginning to go on for quite a long time, with no sign of the baby wishing to come out, Heraniae exhausted from walking around the room in circles in an attempt to coax out the baby. This would not do at all. But the only thing to do is wait.
And wait she does, even as the sun bursts over the horizon the next morning, the bright rays of it hitting her face and startling her awake from her quick nap. Stretching and cracking her rather aged frame, it takes her a while to realize the room is virtually silent. Jerking up from her seat, she frowns as Brangaine shoves a cup of hot mead to her, the young barmaid's hands trembling.
"Childbed fever," she whispers, blinking back tears.
"Come again?" Ceridwen creaks, the cup almost slipping out of her hand in barely repressed horror.
"Childbed fever…Puerperal fever!" Brangaine retorts desperately, wringing her hands and looking at the floor. "F-forgive me…"
"Nothing to be sorry for," Ceridwen snorts, rushing over to Heraniae's side and ordering the other women to stoke the fire as hot as possible and prepare hot presses. Tossing some herbs into the pot of water on the hearth and breathing deeply as the medicinal steam begins filling the room, she quickly feels along Heraniae's stomach, sighing in relief as she detects the flutter of the unborn child. However, the mother is in a worse way; face reddened and sweating, her breath comes in shallow spurts as she struggles to shift into a comfortable position. Her screams of the birthing have stopped, for she's too exhausted and sick with fever to say much at this point. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep," Ceridwen mutters. "What happened?"
"The babe won't come out and somehow Heraniae's contracted the fever…the infection…"
"May kill her, especially if the babe dies in her. Her body will fight it, trying to destroy the supposed invasion of the child. Have you told Dagonet?"
"No, though he's wonderin' what's taking so long…"
"Good, good," she mutters. "No need to worry him yet," she replies wiping her bloody hands on her apron after checking the progress of Heraniae's dilation. "You haven't slept all night, have you?" Brangaine nods in reply. "Go, you deserve some rest. Without you, she may have died," the old healer continues, directing Brangaine to the door. "Remember though, don't tell him. We should be able to make her sweat out the fever, and all shall turn out well. Though if it comes to pass, we may have to cut the babe out."
"How will she survive such an operation?" Brangaine groans.
"I don't know. To choose between mother and child is a decision I hope I shall not have to make."
The baby is blue. Its breath does not come, even as Ceridwen attempts to breathe life into its tiny lungs yet again. Finally, there is a weak cry, though the sigh of relief from the women in the room all but drowns it out, the child shaking with cold even as her little face turns red with the heat of fever.
"She's beautiful," Brangaine cries, reaching out to touch the little girl's finger. The undersized bundle in Ceridwen's arms contains a tuft tuft of dark blonde hair. And though her eyes have opened but once in the few hours she's lived in this world, they shine a deep blue sapphire, though that gleam is more the result of illness rather than natural luster.
"She burns," the older woman murmurs. "Like her mother," she nods to Heraniae, who lies glassy eyed in her bed, muttering of whatever hallucinations rack her fevered mind as another healer bathes her brow, forcing her to drink a concoction that should hopefully help fortify her. At least she will have to fight only the fever; there proved no need to cut out the child, for all held off on such a dangerous operation until the end. Thankfully, she finally came after a handful of agonizing hours. However, both were left barely alive, the same infection that gripped the mother passing onto the child, no doubt in the almost two day long process of bringing her into the world. "Pray to whatever God you pray to that neither fire lasts," Ceridwen continues. "Or there may be two fresh graves to dig on this terrible night. And even if that does not come to pass, neither may not last a week."
Even a week later, he still cannot believe it. While some were sorry it was not a son to carry on his name, it did not matter. Of course he could not raise her to fight with Arthur's troops, but he could still instill her with the way of his people; yes, she would be a fighter, if not in body, then in spirit. No man would take advantage of her or he would answer to him. If not to him, than to his brother knights. Loathe to any who dared cross his daughter's dangerous path. She was a Sarmatian. She was a Roman. She was of the best of both worlds, containing the strongest bloodlines in the known world.
If only she would live.
By the gods, if only her mother would live.
As he sits staring at his little girl in her bassinette, wishing to hold her, but forbidden from doing so on account of her illness, he grips Heraniae's hot hand. She sleeps now, her fever still raging, though they tell him it is about to break. Brangaine sits in the corner, silently sowing, moving every so often to see if mother and child still breathe. They do, though the child's breathe is shallow. Nodding to Dagonet, she returns back to her seat. She does not know how long it is until the knight nods off. But the sun has completely set below the horizon by then.
After some hours spent checking on her patients, she feels herself all too often fighting sleep. Leaving to get a healer for the next watch, she quickly returns. And that is when the sight before her causes her to fall into a dead faint, the other healer rushing to the infirmary.
Tears stream down Brangaine's reddened face as she remains crumbled in shock on the floor Heraniae's quarters, not bothering to turn around at the click of the opening door. Taking a deep breath, Ceridwen pushes enters, her breath hitching in her throat; Dagonet paces the room, clutching the child to him and rocking her back forth, Heraniae staring mutely at the wall as her body shakes with silent sobs.
The loss of a child is always the worst hurt, not matter how times Ceridwen has witnessed such death.
"Dagonet," she murmurs, moving in front of him as he paces back to the middle of the room. "Dagonet," she repeats as she attempts to stop him in order to take the child from his arms. "It is done," she whispers. "She is at peace." At her last words, he suddenly looks up, eyes red, face tear-streaked as she takes his little girl from him. "Forgive me," she begs.
"T-there is no one at fault," Heraniae breathes, the sound of her voice causing Dagonet to immediately go to her side. "We cannot prevent God's design," she continues. "What defense do we have against what he wills?" she moans, voice breaking and sobs becoming louder as Dagonet lies down next to her, pulling her into a hard embrace. Stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort, he rocks her back and forth, his grief becoming audible as well despite his efforts. Willing herself to remain steadfast, Ceridwen begins to leave.
"Please," she hears a weak voice call out. "May I…may I hold her. For one…last time?" Wordlessly the healer moves towards the bed, gently placing the child in her mother's arms.
"I will be outside when you are ready," she promises, to which the couple simply nods. As she's about to exit, she remembers one question she must ask, as painful as it may be.
"Have you named her? For the…last rites?"
"Tacita," Heraniae murmurs. "The Silent One."
Ceridwen does not bother to wipe away the tears falling down her cheeks as she closes the door silently behind her.
The mass was small, the burial itself attended by the mother's family as well as a small group of knights and Arthur but two days later. And so it is some three weeks later Ceridwen finds Dagonet silently standing in front of the marker, as he has done every single evening since the burial. As always, she places a new bouquet of flowers on growing group at the foot of the grave.
"Will she live?" he utters, not bothering to look at her. The routine has not varied; she meets him here everyday at this same hour in order to relay the progress of Heraniae's health.
"She is in full recovery now, the infection gone."
"Good. At least she will live."
"Physically," she counters. Silence falls between them as usual, signaling the conversation is at end. Slipping away, she heads to the edge of the graveyard to stand with Bors, Tristan and Lancelot. Rain or shine, the three have stood guard at the same spot as he undertakes this daily ritual. Though they do not speak of it, they know it serves to ensure he does nothing rash. Such is the silent agreement among all the knights; hence Dagonet never finds himself alone, not matter how much he insists on the painful solitude.
"When do you think the grief will lessen?" she whispers.
"Can't say," Bors retorts uncertainly. "He lost his older brother when he was a but a boy to some bloody skirmish between our tribe and a wandering band of Huns. Then 'round the same time, me younger sis died when but a wee babe of the Ague. Well, he took it quite hard…as did I," Bors sniffs. "But, uh," he continues, collecting himself, "I ain't never seen 'im like this."
"'Tis different," Tristan shrugs as he continues drawing random figures in the dirt with the tip of a fallen branch he's picked up.
"His own blood, born of him," Lancelot mumbles. "A part of you never…forgets it."
"Well, if he keeps this up, he'll certainly find 'imself in a dark place he can't crawl out of. In his mind, at least," Bors grouses worriedly.
"We all cope by our own means," Tristan replies thoughtfully.
"Let us hope the coping doesn't destroy him," Lancelot sighs.
"Here, here," Bors raggedly breathes.
"I lost four children before Malmuira came along, proving unable to have any more after her." Ceridwen sighs as she places yet another arrangement of flowers at the grave. He looks up at her, surprised at additional conversation after their usual exchange is done. Such as it's been for the last two months or so. "And then I lost my Malmuira as she brought Maeve into the world, though I think Jols proved far more openly devastated at it all," she continues curtly. "Not that I did not love my only child. But that rather overwhelming turn of fate forced me to focus on other things rather than my grief. Such are the sacrifices we make."
"However, I tell you this," she says quietly as she wipes a bit of dust off the simple wooden marker and begins rearranging the bouquets of flowers lying in front of it. "Nothing burns so much as the loss of the first child. A hole in the heart does not even begin to describe it. So bear no shame in your grief, dear knight."
Dagonet's shoulders unexpectedly heave, his breathing quickening as she steps away. And suddenly he falls his knees, his hands covering his face as the hushed sounds of his sorrow punctuate the air. She swallows hard, looking away as his grief steadily climbs into muffled wails, his body shaking with his efforts.
After a seemingly infinite time in the uncomfortable virtual silence, she moves towards him, placing both hands on his shoulders. He reaches up, suddenly grasping her hand in his and pulling her down to sit next to him, to which she easily obliges, crossing her legs to get more comfortable. Accordingly they sit, letting the stillness wash over them, save for the occasional echo of his wracking sobs.
Watching as the sun sinks behind the distant green mountains and wrapping her cloak tighter about her to fight the descending cold, she's realizes all has fallen silent. Looking over, she sees he sits with knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as he stares mutely at the grave; a broken-hearted boy. Giving no thought to what she does, she reaches out. Pulling him to her into a tight embrace, she takes note that he doesn't fight it, after a while lying back and placing his head in her lap so that he still faces the marker. And thus they remain as such, a surrogate mother and son, at least for the time being.
She's startled awake by gentle rocking, her hand automatically going to the dagger sheathed at her waist until she recognizes the murmur of the quiet voice.
"He needs to get to bed," Tristan intones, taking a hand off her shoulder. An unreadable expression comes to his face as his eyes momentarily flicker to the marker in front of them. Dagonet still lies in her lap, his breathing hitching as though he weeps even in his sleep. Looking above her, Ceridwen takes note of the starry sky, attempting to calculate the time.
"Almost past the mid night," Lancelot tosses out. "We…they were concerned for him," he nods to Dagonet.
"Much thanks," she sighs, torn between getting to her feet or disturbing the sleeping knight.
"His wife needs him," Bors adds, answering her own question as he rouses Dagonet. The big knight sleepily opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings as Bors helps him stagger to his feet.
"Not quite as young as I used to be," she breathes, feeling her bones reply sluggishly as Tristan pulls her to her feet. He simply nods in reply, dark eyes trained on Dagonet who's already begun to leave, wandering blindly out of the cemetery.
"I'll ensure he returns back," Bors quickly says moving to catch up with him as they begin heading towards the main part of the citadel. Moving into the great courtyard of the fort, the party makes their way to Ceridwen's quarters in silence.
"He will need looking after," she suddenly says, turning to face them. Dagonet hangs back, slumped against the inner courtyard wall. Half-asleep and no doubt lost in his own thoughts, he appears oblivious to everything else around him.
"He will not break," Tristan retorts enigmatically as Lancelot strolls ahead of them both. "We all bend now and then, but to break is not the way of our people, ensuring survival wherever we may."
"Then we understand each other." Tristan simply nods in reply, and with a word of thanks, she leaves, heading up to the stairs. He watches until the light is extinguished in her window, then turning away.
"Home," he murmurs to Dagonet, clasping him about the shoulder as they make their way to Heraniae's quarters.
"Home," Dagonet repeats, his voice stronger than Tristan recalls it's been in the last few weeks.
"Much thanks," she breathes as Dagonet climbs into bed. Wordlessly, he pulls her close to him, cradling her in his arms. Even in the dim candlelight, he can see her red, tear-stained face. Feeling how her heart races at her wrist, he pulls her even nearer, burying his head in her hair, beginning to rock her gently as her shallow breathing fills the air. Taking her hand, he grins slightly as her fingers automatically lace with his.
"In health and in sickness," he intones, kissing her temple.
"In times of fortune and despair," she breathes, bringing his hand to her lips and blessing it with a chaste kiss.
The hole their hearts gradually begins to mend.