⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟖 - 𝐆𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐒𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬

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𝗦𝗰𝗼𝘁𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝟭𝟭𝘁𝗵 𝗰𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝘆

It was around midday, pale golden glow watering down the scene and lending it a hazy, sublime tinge. The lush courtyard was abundant with greenery; grand willow trees whose tresses swayed in the gentle summer breeze, fragrant basil and fresh sage bushes, purple alliums dotted around artfully - the juxtaposing, heavy Romanesque architecture surrounding it, only further served to highlight the flora's beauty.

Two women were pacing the cobblestone path that traversed this garden, conversing affectionately - obviously enamored with each other. One had ink black hip-length braids bound by crisscrossing copper ribbons, her face sharp and angular but her blue eyes shining with excitement as she babbled on about something that clearly meant a great deal to her.

The other had waist-length flaming auburn hair that appeared bloody under the sun, the unbound curls framed her round face and her shrewd green eyes thirstily drank in her beloved's joy.

They had some similar characteristics - both were dressed in fitted woolen dresses befit of the high Middle Ages, with bell sleeves, high necks and flowing skirts. They were also drenched in all manners of finery; from the various bangles and signet rings weighing down their hands to the bejeweled circlets that adorned their heads. The sashes wrapped around their waists were too embedded with numerous precious stones and shone with distinct shine of interwoven metal threads.

The Lady - because, obviously, they had to be nobles to wear such jewels - with braids wore a rich blue dress while the redhead wore a royal purple that spoke of inconceivable wealth for the time.

Their unintelligible banter was cut off by a younger girl running towards them, bunching up her skirts to hasten her steps. She was clearly the daughter of the braided lady, their features too similar to write off, though the maiden's were twisted in panic - seemingly bleaching the mellow atmosphere of its warm tone.

The mother was quick to dote over her charge, the stubbornness of both women meant that neither could get their grievances heard. The Lady in purple took in her companions' disarray and apparently realized that she had to intervene, her green eyes glowed and a complimentary burst of viridian magic sprung forth from her body - sinking into their skins and causing their eyes to slightly glaze over.

Hysteria inhibited, the daughter started gesturing wildly at her stomach to the confused women - noticing that she was getting nowhere, she paused before simply laying her palm over the silvery fabric covering her abdomen.

Within a few seconds, the entirety of her stomach became awash with golden light.

A baby.

The Ladies were utterly flummoxed, incapable of obscuring their emotions in accordance with whatever royal upbringing they had - and then the mother was moving forward, eyes blazing with purpose as she conjured an obsidian dagger and slashed it along her own palm.

The redheaded Lady relieved her lover of the dagger in a practiced movement, watching solemnly as the mother placed her palm over the daughter's glowing stomach - indigo sparkles spiraled from her nape down her arm, braids levitating around her like sentries as the magic seeped in to protect her grandchild.

Once the half-baked ritual was done, the mother hugged her daughter fiercely - uncaring of the bloodstain that would now transfer to her own dress. After a sharp glance thrown her way, the Lady in purple awkwardly joined the embrace.

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𝗔𝗹𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗮, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝟭𝟭𝘁𝗵 𝗰𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝘆