Tu Es Ma Lumière

78 - Childbearing - Part 1

From the moment that his mother and his illegitimate nephew in law had nearly broken down the doors to his council room to the moment in which he holds two mewling bundles in his arms, the King of France and Scotland realises that he is thankfully, mercifully and blessedly a father. For real this time, in a way blessed by God himself, and not by the sins of the flesh in a moment of weakness. Of course, he has Jean-Philippe, but as much as he loved the boy, he had never ever felt the kind of love he feels for the two squirming bundles that have just left their mothers' womb. 

It was so different this time. There was no stunning shock and frantic riding over to a plague ridden millhouse. No, this time, there was the ecstatic announcement coming from his wife's lips. Months of watching his wife, his love, his sun, his moon, his stars, his light, his everything, grow larger and larger with child. Or, as fate would have it, children. The day and a half of tense animosity in the air as the Queen of France and Scotland suffered and screamed and wailed and pushed, firmly pressed to her side, attached by the hand. Wiping her brow with a cold cloth, giving her water and food.

He ecstatically smiles down at his two newborn sons, both of them so tiny in each one of his arms. The one in his left, the Dauphin of France and Duke of Rothsay. Dark haired and precious, only minutes older than his brother. The one on his right, the Duke of Callais and Dundee. Light haired and pristine. So tiny and new, only hours old, freshly bathed and dressed. They've fed from their mothers' milk and now take their rest inside the safe confines of their fathers' arms.

Court rejoices at the news of not one son for the King, but two. Not only one heir, but two. Not only one Prince for the succession of half of Europe, but two.

"Her Majesty is young and healthy, sire." the exhausted midwife promises with a smile, when the King asks of his wife's health, noticing that she has fallen into a slumber of her own. "The birth was long, and she has lost a lot of blood. With rest and good food, she will make a miraculous recovery in just weeks time, Majesty." she promises with a curtsy. The King of France sees the bags underneath her eyes, and realises how exhausted not only he, but everybody is in the room.

Kenna had been there for the birth, but she was heavily pregnant with his brothers' child, taking her leave as soon as the boys came into the world. Lola and Greer still fretted over sheets and cloths, whilst servants and midwives worked on cleaning the messes made in childbirth and taking the bloody laundry down to the servants quarters.

The King kisses the Queen's head -assured of her health-, and goes to introduce his twin sons to his Privy Council, and in consequence, France herself.

~/~

Three days after the Queen's labour, she stands looking at herself in the looking glass. Lola's chuckle still remains in her head. As a new mother, looking glasses are not your friends. She finds herself swallowing deeply, ignoring the physical pain she felt and the mental one her friends' echoing words had said. Mary knew she had nothing to worry about. Lola and Francis' didn't talk much anymore. And he had married her -Mary- and held two children with Mary, two children that were far more important to him than Lola's boy. 

She looks awful, the Queen acknowledges. Her hair is dirty and matted, knotted and unkempt. Her skin is a chalky white, instead of the porcelain she'd been famed for. Thinking about it, her cheeks appear too pink for somebody who has done nothing but rise from her bed and walk a mere sixteen steps towards the looking glass. And her skin should not be matted with perspiration simply because of sixteen steps. That had never, ever happened before. Not in the height of French summers, nor in Scottish ones. Her gown clings to her, the remnants of her womb swollen with child still hangs upon her stomach, it is still as swollen as it was five months into the pregnancy.