A battle was
fought in the castle that day. It was
not a battle of swords, fought between soldiers. Nor was it a battle of words, fought between
the orators of the country. No, it was
a battle between birth and death, fought between the queen of Lerata and unseen
forces.
She was alone as the battle raged. Her husband and stepson were far away, settling
some dispute that threatened the peace of the kingdom. She alone was left to face the doctors and
attendents and the hand of death that sought to claim both her and her son. And it seemed to her that they were all
against her.
The sun had
set on Lerata, filling the castle with a darkness held weakly at bay by a show
of candles, when the battle ended. Mara
sank deep into her pillows and breathed a sigh of relief, scarcely believing the
battle was over.
"It is a
son," announced the doctor. He
carried the newborn, upside down, by his ankles across the room and handed him
to a woman who was waiting by a basin of water.
Mara took a
deep breath, trying to calm the postpartum trembling in her body, and stared up
at the rich burgundy canopy over her bed. A faint smile spread over her face. "A
prince," she murmured. Even in her weary state, she felt a sense of pride.
"Prince of Lerata. My son."
The wail of
the newborn suddenly cut through the silence like a knife aimed at her heart.
"What are
you doing to him?" she demanded, raising her head to search for her son. Suspicion clouded her vision. She did not like this doctor.
The doctor
raised an eyebrow. "A newborn must
be cleansed, my queen," he stated.
He spoke with the pompous tone of voice common to his position, and it
filled Mara with anger.
"Leave
him alone! All of you! He doesn't like it!" Mara hissed. She shoved her arms against the bed,
struggling to sit up.
"You must
not sit up yet," said one of the attendees, rushing to her side. "You
are too weak. You will faint. See how you are shaking!"
"Bring me
my son," Mara insisted. Her eyes
were wide and wild, showing the ferocity of a mother bear in spite of her
weakness.
The doctor
raised his eyebrow again; and the woman, suspending the newborn over the basin
of water, pursed her lips and shook her head over this breach of tradition.
"But my
queen," the woman began, wavering between her fear of the queen and her
fear of what might happen to a baby who was not properly bathed.
"I care
not for your superstitions," Mara snapped. "Bring him to me at
once."
Reluctantly,
the woman carried the babe to new mother.
With her son
safely in her arms, Mara breathed a sigh of relief. As he nestled against her, she
somehow felt happier and more contented than she had ever felt in her life. Her baby was beautiful.
"Newel,"
she whispered. "His name shall be Newel."
The doctor
looked at her sharply. "It is customary, I believe," he said stiffly,
"to let the king name his own son. Perhaps we should await his
return?"
Mara's eyes
flashed angrily. "He is MY son, is he not?" she demanded. "If my
husband wished to name him, he should have been here." Her eyes settled
once again on the babe in her arms and took on a softer hue. Then, in a tone
that was half lullaby and half triumph, she repeated, "Newel...son of
Mara...prince of Lerata!"
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Love, love, love it! I want to read this in a book so I have more of this story. :)
ReplyDeleteOh, thank you, Alyianna! You make my day. :) And I hope your day is just as lovely as mine is right now, thanks to you. :)
ReplyDeleteI don't know yet whether this story will turn into a full book. That's one of the things about plot bunnies -- some of them are dead ends and some turn out to be awesome books Maybe this will be one of the latter. :D I am so glad you like it.