The Would Be King

Chapter One

The labor was a difficult one, and if he had known the end results, he never would have procreated. He would have argued with his wife until he was red in the face and struggling for breath. She was the loveliest, most caring, brave woman he had known, and now she was dead. She was a warrior, more so than he was on a battlefield, and he thought, just maybe, that she, too, would make it through this horrendous day. But his hopes were destroyed quicker than he could pray for her safety and life. Within moments of the baby passing from her womb, she was gone.

He slumped to the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, and buried his face in his hands. He had never felt such pain before, and he had been through two wars. After some time, he realized he hadn't heard the child make a peep, and once again, horror tore through him. He could feel the color drain from his face, his breaths quickening, but he calmed himself as much as possible, hopeful that the infant was peacefully sleeping in the crook of her mother's lifeless arms. Slowly, he placed his hands on the side of the bed, peering over the mattress. He avoided the love of his life's serene, peaceful face, and only looked to the baby. Painstakingly, he extended his hand out, and gently caressed the cheek of his newborn daughter with the backside of his finger. She startled, her little body jerking, and a small, elated gasp escaped his lips.

Forcing away his sorrows, he scooped the baby up in his arms as his heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of protection and love. The ache and spite, though, were just as fierce. He placed the baby down in the cradle his wife had prepared days earlier, and he turned to his beloved as the wad of grief rose in his throat like bile, his eyes welled with sadness, blurring his vision, and bent down to kiss her forehead, one last time. Slowly, he pulled the sheet over her face, his breaths slow and shuddering. He stared at her for a few moments, closed his eyes, sniffed, and turned his back on her for the first and only time since he had known her. He turned back to the cradle, where the baby slumbered as if nothing was wrong. He took a step forward, his mind telling him he needed to tend to her, but then he stopped dead in his tracks, his heart telling him otherwise. His dread overtook him, and as the baby began to fuss when the floor creaked, he turned, left the bedroom, and settled in his chair by the fire.

He told himself he needed to be strong, that women die during childbirth every day. He needed to toughen up and act like a man. He was told his whole life that men weren't supposed to cry. But he could no longer hold back, and began to weep so severely his body convulsed. He wanted to hate his daughter, to blame her, but when she began to fuss even more, he straightened himself up, forcing himself to slow his breathing down, and willing the tears to stop. He had to do it. He had to go to her, soothe her. He had to take care of her. She lost her mother, as well, and he knew it wasn't the girl's fault. They had been told time and time again that she would never bear children, they just refused to believe it.

He slowly entered the bedroom, making sure he did not so much as glance toward the bed, and as he approached the cradle, he couldn't believe how perfect she was. Her porcelain face made him rebuke himself for even allowing one ounce of hostility towards her. She was so tiny, barely stretching the full length of his forearm. He gently lifted her from her cradle, and settled her against his chest. He smiled as a stifled snicker came from his nose.

"Your mama," he whispered, "she did good." He wanted to turn to the bed, but only allowed his eyes to slightly shift in her direction. "She was told she couldn't have children. But here you are." He gently ran his thumb over his daughter's cheek. "No one could tell her what she couldn't do." He turned and headed out of the room, pausing at the door, grasping the handle tightly. He sighed heavily, and slowly closed the door behind him. "Welcome to the world, Cordelia," he said as he settled down, once again, in front of the fire. "I hope I'm worthy of you, sweet girl."