Fifteen Years Later

Astir's fingernails were carving grooves into the arms of the chair in which he sat. He wasn't even aware that he was doing so, or he might have stopped; he wasn't one to carelessly mar furniture. But his restless energy and gnawing worry was all bottled up and it had no other outlet. Hours before, he had been pacing, but he made his lame foot hurt so terribly, he had to stop.

"How much longer?" he asked Addison, who was sitting on the bench next to him, dutifully keeping him company.

"Who can say, sire? It's been a few hours; it may be many more hours yet. I've heard of women in labor for ten, twelve, eighteen hours. I'm given to understand that a woman's first baby takes longer; after that, they tend to come a little faster.

First baby. It had been fifteen years since Astir and Ysabel had married. If the gods had been good, and if he and she had been as fertile and Link and Zelda, they should have been on their seventh or eighth child by now. Instead, this was their first.

They had, in fact, given up all hope of ever having a child. Astir had taken Ysabel to Sunrise Falls for their honeymoon to show her her bridal gift. There, next to the beautiful waterfalls, they had learned how to make love and they foolishly wondered if they would have a boy or girl first. They had spent many hours arguing over names until they finally decided that they would name a boy after Astir's father, Lucien, and a girl after Ysabel's mother, Dorthea. In fact, they had it all planned out: their second son would be named Hadrian for Ysabel's father; their second daughter after Addison's mother, Penelope; a third boy would be Addison. After that, they decided to use whatever names they fancied.

But their first anniversary came around and there was no sign of a baby. Women all over the castle reassured them that wasn't unusual. Ysabel was just eighteen; many women didn't get pregnant until they were a little more mature.

So they waited every month anxiously for a sign that she was with child, but they really didn't begin to worry until Ysabel turned twenty and everyone else seemed to be having babies except them. After another year slipped by, it was suggested that they be examined by a physician to see if there was anything obviously wrong.

Astir was convinced it was his fault. He was certain that whatever had caused him to be born lame had also made him sterile. The court physician couldn't find anything obviously wrong with him, but he was convinced, nonetheless, that he was sterile.

And thus began years of embarrassing examinations, medicines, charms, and prayers. They grasped at every straw like drowning men. Doctors, healers, wise women, and charlatans from all over the world came with some theory or potion or crazy idea that supposedly increased fertility. They had taken regular vacations because some doctors were convinced that the stress of court life could impair conception. Once a year they took the "salt water" treatment for a month in Kakariko Province. Every day, they spent an hour naked in the ocean to absorb the healing salts, and they choked down a cup of salt water three times a day to get the healing benefits internally. They had no more luck conceiving a child there than anywhere else, but Astir had to admit that he and Ysabel were otherwise completely healthy; he couldn't remember the last time either of them had so much as a cold. The salt water even seemed to improve the pain in his club foot that became an increasingly obvious companion. But it did nothing when it came to having a baby.

That had been the least bizarre thing they had tried. Other things were too embarrassing to speak of; only their bedroom walls were witness. Lovemaking turned into babymaking, and they ended up having no real enjoyment or baby. On nights when the moon was in the right phase, or during a thunderstorm, or on such-and-such day after Ysabel's last cycle, or every Wednesday at lunchtime, Astir had done his duty. And that's what it became: a duty. They had to have a baby for the continuation of the royal line. It was, in fact, their preeminent duty and they devoted more time to it than anything else. Astir's appearances became less frequent over the years. Addison remained his Lord High Chancellor and heard some of the more simple cases on his behalf. Ysbael—when she wasn't bathing in cream or lying for hours with her feet propped up higher than her head—hid herself in the library. She occasionally helped Samis, but mostly she spent her days searching for fertility treatments or just losing herself in stories when it became too painful to remain in her own life.

There had been some things they had not been willing to do—but not many. There had been one physician who suggested that Astir take a mistress to see if he could get a child on her. If so, then they would know the issue lay with Ysabel and he could set her aside and take another wife. That had earned a rare display of anger from Astir and he had exiled the man from Hyrule. He still hadn't been allowed to return.

Then there had been the woman who suggested that that the gods needed a blood sacrifice before they would allow the Astir and Ysbael to have a child. Astir had immediately dismissed her. Sacrifices to the gods were the stuff of prehistoric legend. No one had done it in tens of thousands of years. And Astir wasn't about to be the first to restart the tradition.

But everything else they tried—no matter how foolish or far-fetched or implausible. And then, after a dozen years, it got to the point that Astir wasn't even able to do his duty anymore. "I quit," he declared one day when he couldn't even make a reasonable attempt at getting a child. He lay down beside Ysabel and, for the first time, he cried. He cried like a baby and Ysabel had held him and cried too. It was as if they were grieving for a dead child—and, in a way, they were; they were mourning for all the children that they were never going to have.

They didn't touch one another intimately for six months after that. They agreed that they would never have any children and once they accepted that, a great weight was lifted off of them. Their loss of hope left them with a lingering sadness, but at the same time, they were free to think rationally again. Astir's cousin, Justine, didn't lack for children, so he willed the succession to her and her descendants. If wasn't as if the family line was ending completely; it was just going through a younger branch of the family tree.

Ysabel, accepting that she had failed in her primary queenly duty, began to take up the other duties of a queen. She made more appearances, helped Astir with more of the work, and hosted more dinners and balls. The people had great sympathy for her and her plight, and the more they got to know her, the more they openly adored her. Other women who had suffered through childlessness were especially attached to her and she was always remembered in their prayers.

Astir and Ysabel went through a second period of dating where they learned to enjoy one another's company again, free of the weight of duty that had sucked all the enjoyment out of their lives for so many years. They began to have fun again. They traveled not for some exotic treatment, but for their own enjoyment. They began to really talk to one another again and share their passion for history and philosophy and other pursuits—everything but medicine. They had had enough talk of medicine.

After a time, their courting became romantic, and eventually they returned to their marital bed with newlywed passion. It was no longer about babymaking and it became about love once again—love for each other and nothing more.

So, imagine their surprise when, two years after accepting that they would never have children, Ysabel missed her cycle. They were certain that it had some other medical reason, so they paid it no mind. It wasn't until she missed a second month and began to feel sick in the morning that they accepted the fact that she was going to have a child. But even then, they didn't dare let themselves hope. They didn't announce it and they didn't even speak of it to one another; only the physician who examined Ysabel regularly said anything. For eight months, they held their breath, terrified that she might miscarry or deliver too early. As cursed as they had seemed to be with conception, they worried that the same problem would manifest in pregnancy.

But Ysabel's pregnancy had progressed normally and eventually it became impossible for her to hide it from the castle staff. Word spread around the kingdom like wildfire and everywhere people prayed for their king and queen and future heir. The monks in the monastery had around-the-clock prayers, so there was never a moment of any day when there weren't prayers being said for a healthy baby and the queen's safe delivery.

Astir was grateful to know the monks were at it in full force now. There was nothing to indicate that Ysabel's delivery wasn't proceeding normally, but Astir was still immensely worried.

"Even now I can't believe that we're having a child," he confessed to Addison. "I worry for Ysabel, but I can't bring myself to worry for the baby."

"I understand," Addison replied. "I know you and Her Majesty have long been without hope. It's easier to not hope than to be disappointed yet again."

"Exactly."

Time crawled by like a slug. And then Astir began to hear cries—almost screams—coming from the bedroom.

He jumped to his feet. "Ysabel . . ." he whispered. He was halfway to the door when Addison grabbed him by the arm and stopped him.

"No, Your Majesty."

"She's dying," he said, a tide of panic rising in him. "She's dying."

"I'm sure she's not dying," Addison said, his voice steady and reasonable. "I'm sure that's just the birth pangs. It shouldn't be long now."

"Really?" Astir asked, grasping at that hope.

"I'm certain," Addison said. He certainly sounded certain. Astir decided to believe him and let the older man lead him back to his seat.

Minutes continued to stretch past. Then an hour. Ysabel's cries came more frequently. And then they grew long and loud and Astir was on his feet again.

Addison had him by the arm before he could move away. "She is probably delivering," Addison explained. "Those pains are always the hardest."

Astir found himself wondering why he and Ysabel had ever wanted a baby in the first place. He was certain if he had ever kept watch at another woman's delivery, and had to listen to her scream as Ysabel was screaming, he would have told her he was happy to have no children at all. He couldn't bear the thought of her enduring such pain.

And then the door was thrown open and a flush-faced maid—her hair damp and disheveled—came rushing out. "A boy!' she yelled at the top of her lungs. "A prince."

There was a shout all around them as the staff nearby—who had been keeping their own watch—cheered. People started running in all directions, eager to be the first to tell their friends the good news.

"The queen?" Astir asked, having to almost shout to be heard.

The maid took him by the hand, all protocol ignored at such a momentous time. "She's well, Your Majesty," she said, pulling him into the anteroom. "She did very well, the midwife said."

"And the baby? He's . . . healthy?" he dared to ask.

"Oh, yes. He's a great big baby—healthy as anything."

"Not deformed?" Astir asked bluntly.

"No, Your Majesty."

The maid led him into the bedroom. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace making the room unbearably hot. The women who were tidying up all looked like the maid—red-faced, sweaty, and exhausted. But they were all smiling and chatting happily; all their hard work had been rewarded.

Ysabel was in bed, covered up. At her side lay the baby, his face just barely peeking out from under the covers.

Astir felt as if he was floating across the floor to them. Ysabel looked up at him, smiling, but with tears in her eyes. "Look," she whispered.

Astir looked, his eyes drinking in the sight of his beautiful wife, safe and sound, and the little miracle they had waited so many years for.

"He's beautiful," Astir said, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed beside them. He didn't say anymore as the first canon went off, its boom rattling the glass in the windows and startling some of the women.

"The announcement," he explained to a frightened Ysabel. Another canon boomed.

He leaned down and kissed his wife, then his new son as the canon continued to boom out. When at last they fell silent, the cheers of the citizens could be heard beyond the castle walls, then they were almost drowned out by the ringing of all the bells in town. Then the fireworks went off, peppering the blue summer sky with bursts of sparkling blue.

"Today, our joy is everyone's joy," Astir said, once the sound of the fireworks died away.

Addison came up beside him and put his hand on Astir's shoulder. Addison had always been proper—he had, after all, originally been hired to be the Master of Protocol—but now he looked not at all like a royal advisor and every bit like a proud grandpa. "Have you picked out a name?" he asked.

Astir laughed. It felt like the first time he had laughed in a long time. "Oh, yes. We had that picked out years and years ago. It's to be Lucien."

"I will have it announced."

"Thank you." Astir turned back to look at his sleeping son, oblivious to all the ruckus his coming had caused. "Lucien the Longed-For."

"Lucien the Lucky," the midwife interjected. "You'll see, Your Majesty. He's been born under a great star. Something big will happen in his lifetime. And I'm sure he will be lucky."