You Don't Want the Crown

The Story of Slaine - 7

My last few months of pregnancy my condition worsens. I get ill, and by the end of summer I'm nearly completely bedridden on doctor's orders to move little. I bleed. The baby kicks. I throw up what I eat. And I barely leave my room.
Apparently the king's condition worsens as his grandchild waits to come into the world. And while his passing was expected, it's no less gutting. The Queen weeps. Conri stares around with a heavy resignation.
He is king now. His unborn child is his only heir. And his heavily pregnant wife is now queen. Any small luxuries either of us once held are gone.
I insist on attending the funeral. Tailors rush for mourning clothes for both of us, I end up in more of a tent than a dress. The people have not seen me in weeks. And now I'm pallid, weak, and leaning on Conri's arm the entire time, struggling not to be ill, wincing as the baby kicks inside me. It grows angrier, I think. Ita says that's how babies are and that it's getting cramped. I think it's angry.
The coronation ceremony is worse if possible than the funeral. While the funeral is a blur of fan fare, and me trying to stay upright and not vomit, the coronation ceremony must be grand. We both wear some black to signify the recent death, but my dress must be exquisite. One was prepared over a year ago, because it's custom embroidered with maps of Ulster across sheer white fabric. I'm marrying the country. Sadly, no one expected me to be nine months pregnant with my little hound, and the dress must be rapidly altered to fit my now huge frame. I'm bigger than I ever was, and I miss the early days when my belly was just swollen, retrospectively. I can now barely roll over in bed on my own or stand up without aid.
After months of wearing primarily bed clothes which are basically sacks to accommodate my bulk, I'm being swept into the finest dress I'll ever wear.
"I know you're not receptive to this, just now, but you look do look beautiful," Ita tells me.
"You are correct I am not receptive to it right now," I say. I refuse to look at myself. Every part of me swollen and bloated. I was supposed to feel beautiful, instead I feel disgusting. At least when the dogs or mares are pregnant we leave them alone to their misery of child bearing. My little hound must accompany me to state functions, huge and kicking in my gut. I'm due in a week.
"This is awful," my only consolation, Conri, red eyed from mourning his father, hasn't spoken to Bran or Lonan in days, is as miserable as I am. We meet in the palace foyer, our people having spent hours getting us ready. We've hardly spoken since his father died. He comes to my room to see I'm well, that's all.
"Your little hound agrees," I say, dryly, wincing.
"Don't vex your mother now," he says, softly, laying a hand tentatively on my belly to feel his angry child kicking.
"Your other child misses you," I say, gently, "We all do, as much as you miss us."
"It's been a bad few weeks," he sighs, "Wait—you've seen Lonan?"
"He brings me fresh flowers for my room everyday," I say, smiling a little, "I assumed you'd told him to—?"
"No, I have barely seen him since my father passed," he shakes his head, "I hate this."
"I know, so do I," I sigh, looking down at my huge belly.
"We'll make it through," he says, holding my arm, "Do you feel all right?"
"No, I hurt all over, and I feel sick and huge, thank you for asking."
"Not much longer now."
The day lasts a lifetime. I want to enjoy some part of the ceremony but I'm just waiting for it to end so I can lay down and cry into Ita's shoulder. It does not end and I'm dizzy and barely being held up by Conri at the end. I'm so tired and passing out, that when we get back to the palace just picks me up and carries me back to my room.
"Not much longer," he reiterates, looking as ill as I feel.
I am due in a week so he should be right. The baby does not come for another month. It seems either the baby is very late, or our original estimate was right, I was only six weeks when we first discovered the pregnancy. Autumn is coming but no cool breeze enters my lonely room. I can barely move well at all, I waddle to breakfast or dinner but more often than not I remain in my room. When I didn't even think it was possible my belly swells even more and I can't even see my knees if I sit down.
I'm completely miserable and ready to bribe Bran to cut the baby out of me like I am a tiny hunting dog impregnated by a huge hound. Unfortunately, Conri hears this and forbids Bran from coming to see me because apparently he fully believes his friend would agree to do that.
I'm sure this misery will never end. This child had better live. I am never doing this again. Ita and Lonan loyally keep me company. Ita reads to me, rubs oil into my swollen mass, and sings old songs to the baby to quiet it. Lonan skips in every day with a fresh set of flowers and bowing and is often eager to tell us of the palace news. To distract ourselves and desperate for the company, Ita and I read to him, or have him read aloud to us. We find he has a lovely singing voice and Ita teaches him the old songs. Soon we're sending him to the library to bring us books, or even a lyre, and she teaches him to play it and helps him practice reading.
The Queen visits as well, but briefly to give me news. She's mourning her husband, and insists that I need my rest so the baby will be healthy and that I ought not be disturbed too much. She has no idea the above described situations are going on basically constantly.
At one point Bran does show up, and that's how we find out Lonan calls the gruff knight 'other father' and Conri 'father'. Bran is looking for the scrap of a boy but is content to stand in the doorway when he finds him being good for us.
"How are you doing, mi'lady?" Bran asks.
"Horrible, I hate this, will you cut the baby out like one of your hound dogs?" I sigh.
"Absolutely," checking which knives he has, "I need a different knife though—,"
That's how we find out Conri can and will materialize to actually pick up his smaller friend by the balled up back of his shirt and just throw him bodily down the hall.
"My other father is fine, my father won't hurt him really," Lonan does not even react to the obvious scuffle. He's really the human version of a hound dog.
Eight months and two weeks, to the day that Ita and I guessed I could be pregnant, I wake Ita with pains in my stomach. I've had pains for weeks now. But this is different. I know it is.
I go into labor in the small hours of the morning. They fetch midwives and a doctor to stand by. In our culture it's expected the father be there, so Conri is fetched. I'm not in favor of this at first, but he's very tall and quite strong, so I wind up giving up and having him help me to stand as I sob in pain. Ita holds my arms and tells me to breath.
Conri is very calm, though I catch some tenseness in his voice that he smothers. He murmurs words of encouragement and comfort as kindly as if I were his favorite mare. As in I've seen him comfort his favorite mare, they were the same words. Exactly. I decide I'll take it.
I sob and slump against him. I can't do it. I'm in more pain than I think I can stand. I beg the midwives to get it out. They do not.
Eighteen hours later, the day passes and night dawns again. None of us have properly eaten, they tried to offer Conri something and he asked if they really wanted more people throwing up as Slaine has that covered? That was actually funny in retrospect, not at the time.
And at midnight, my Cuan enters the world.