Moon Drunk: Origins

Peace

"Come, Felicite," Anjolique says, taking her by the hand. "You must walk, now. You must not lie in bed, not until the last possible moment. This will help your pain, and it will help our dear prince make his entrance into the world."

Felicite labors through the night, sweat soaking her clothing and the bedsheets, the pain threatening to tear her apart. But she will not scream or cry out. Her son will not be born to the sound of his mother in agony. She steels her resolve, and her mother squeezes her hand, as though she has heard Felicite's silent vow to herself and approves.

At dawn, the urge to push takes control of her body.

"Mother, I think...I think the child...the child is coming."

"Now, you must be very brave," Anjolique says, her cool hands stroking Felicite's fevered brow. "Breathe deeply. I think he is coming, too."

The midwife nods in agreement, and someone sends for Saoirse, who enters the room then, coming to stand beside Felicite, while Anjolique stands on the other side.

"You must help him, now, dear girl," Saoirse says kindly. "He is ready, and he will come now. Do not fight against it. Bringing children into the world, it is not a battle to be fought. You are helping the future king of the Three Kingdoms to enter the world."

Anjolique nods and squeezes Felicite's hand. "She speaks the truth. Do not struggle against it. Embrace the pain."

Felicite forces herself to take a deep breath and to concentrate on opening her body. The pain grows and grows, and then there is a horrible feeling of stretching, a rush of movement, and then...

The wailing, high-pitched screams of a child.

Anjolique and Saoirse share a look between them, both of their eyes filling with joyful tears, both for different reasons, and then they each bend to kiss Felicite's forehead.

"You've a son, Felicite, a beautiful son. Your father would be so proud of you," her mother says.

"Well done, sweet girl," Saoirse says. "You labored with such quiet strength and courage, and now, you have given us the most beautiful little prince. Oh, you have saved the Three Kingdoms, Felicite."

Felicite feels utterly and completely exhausted, and she leans back against the pillows, watching the midwives bathe and swaddle the baby. Her strength begins to return, though, and her arms are unacceptably empty.

"Give me my baby," she demands impatiently; rudely, even, but she does not care. She only wants to have her boy in her arms.

Her boy. Her own, dear boy.

Once he is secure, she spends a few moments gazing in wonder at this perfect, tiny being who has come from her own body. A patch of golden peach fuzz atop his head, a tiny pair of rosy lips and a flushed face - the midwives assure her his color will settle to normal after a while - her little prince is everything she has hoped. She begins to pull back the linen wrapping that covers his tiny, wriggling body, inspecting him, counting his fingers and his toes, but he is perfect. Completely perfect. And there is no mistaking that her child is a boy. 

As she gazes down at him, his tiny eyelids open, revealing a pair of perfect blue eyes, the color of jagged ice, the eyes of his father staring up at her. They are beautiful, and she feels sad for Julien that he is unable to experience this moment with her. Her son returns her gaze, as if he is as surprised to meet her as she is to meet him, and for a moment, Felicite feels fear fill her heart. It is as if this little baby boy knows his destiny.

"You have done it, Felicite," Anjolique says. "You have given the Flemings their boy."

"He does not belong to the Flemings," Felicite says firmly without meeting the eyes of her mother. "He belongs to me. We shall call him Fionn."