Nightingale

Chapter XV || Part Two

Part Two

The Rise of Empress Nightingale

The pain of labor consumed all of (Y/N)'s body, contorting her body as she clutched the bed sheets. The only comfort in the room was Valentina as the old woman held her hand firmly. From outside, she could hear the steps of armor thudding with each step.

"Sir," she overheard the butler warn the man, "You can't enter-"

He is interrupted by the door slamming open.

All in the room jolt from the sound. A familiar face enters the bedroom and (Y/N) can't help but muster a smile even as Beowulf has blood staining his armor with flecks of red on his cheek. His red cape swished with each step as he stormed towards the pregnant woman.

"Sir," the doctor began, "You can't be in here. Men are not allowed-"

"Leave him be," (Y/N) orders, "The father of my child is not here. But he is." A guttural scream cuts (Y/N) midway.

Beowulf seizes her other hand and squeezes as he orders her, "Breathe."

(Y/N) closes her eyes and takes a long breath, but a screech falls from her lips. Beowulf turns to the doctor, "What is happening?" He notices the doctor remove towels stained heavily with crimson, "Doctor, do something!"

"Sir," the old man began, "The baby is breached, coming feet first. We must await the natural evolution."

"Wait for the child to just fall out of her!?" Beowulf snarls.

"She's losing a lot of blood," Valetina chimes in.

"This is perfectly normal," the doctor excuses.

"It is quite not," Valentina shakes her head.

"If you won't do anything, then I will," Beowulf glares at the doctor. The general glances towards the pregnant woman and warns her, "I'm going to move you, alright?" (Y/N) grits her teeth and Beowulf takes her in his arms and moves her towards the edges of the bed. "I had a horse, her mare was also breached," Beowulf began, "There's a way to turn the baby, but..." He hesitates, "I'm going to have to turn the baby."

(Y/N)'s eyes widen, "WHAT!?"

"Is that possible?" Valentina gasps.

"Y-Yes, it actually is," the doctor answers.

"I know it's terrifying, but it is the only way to make sure you and the child are alright," Beowulf assures her with a whisper.

(Y/N)'s eyes water as another pain shoots from her lower half. She nods hastily, "Do it..."

Beowulf rushes towards the end of the bed alongside the doctor. Another screech falls from her lips as her child demands to be released from her womb. The young woman gasped as she felt her child turn.

"Push," Beowulf orders.

With a guttural grunt, she did so before Beowulf said "Stop." Thankfully, one was enough. She felt the baby crowning, the hot stretching of flesh, and held her breath. Without any further effort, the baby slid into Beowulf's hands.

Relief and elation filled the room. Sweat drenched her brow as (Y/N) looked from Beowulf and down to the crying bundle in his arms. Quickly, the umbilical cord is removed, and a maid retrieves a towel.

As the placenta and blood are wiped away from the child, Beowulf announces, "It's a girl."

A tired chuckle escapes (Y/N)'s lips as tears fill her eyes. Beowulf steps towards (Y/N) and settles the little newborn right on her mother's chest, into her waiting arms.

"Hello, there," (Y/N) greeted her daughter tearfully, "Welcome to the world, Selina." Tears trickled down (Y/N)'s face, a mixture of emotions flowing through her after such a traumatic event. A sob escaped her lips, yet she was grateful to feel Beowulf wrap his arms around her frame.

"Thank you," she sobbed into his chest.

Beowulf combs his fingers through her soft hair, "Anything for you."

- - - - - -

The gravestone was sunk into the soft grass, its marble stone etched with the familiar name of a dead friend. An imposing figure standing above a coffin that was six feet underground. The flowers beside the grave were still good, evidence that someone had come to grieve.

But Beowulf wasn't there to grieve over Atticus. Not anymore. Atticus was a beloved friend, a trusted comrade, and brother in arms, but he was also the bane of Beowulf's entire existence.

As the birds overhead flew with the motion of time, it seemed like Beowulf and (Y/N) were always stuck in the past. Beowulf clung to the hope of love while (Y/N) grieved over hers.

Beowulf gazes down at the smooth headstone, though not with sorrowful or forlorn gold eyes. Instead, those piercing gems looked down upon the dead man numbly. They were cold, just like the man beneath him.

"Atticus," Beowulf greeted him, his voice monotone. There was no reply, that was obvious, only the sound of the gentle breeze and its cool bellows caressing his white strands. A sigh escapes his lips, one of sheer exhaustion and frustration.

"Goddess above, why did she have to love you?" Beowulf ran his fingers through his hair. "I was fine with the men who would come into her life now and again," the white-haired man admits. His brows slope downward and his eyes narrow, "They never mattered until you." Beowulf sneers, "What made you so special? After all these years, I never thought I would lose her, and yet I did..."

Beowulf swallows thickly, "I should be fine with that, but I'm not. She chose you and even now she still does."

The man glares down at the headstone as he finally admits, "I hate you." His voice cracks, "I hate you... And yet I still care about you." Beowulf frustratingly wipes away any sign of his tears, leaving only the redness burning in his eyes. "You were my friend. I shouldn't be in love with your wife, yet I am. Now that you're gone, I should be protecting your wife and daughter. I thought I would be fine with simply being there for them both, caring for them like you would have. I failed, I abandoned them for a time before miraculously reconnecting with her after the war. I hoped that my love for (Y/N) had faded, but I was a fool."

"And I was a fool to not make her mine first," Beowulf confesses. Beowulf bitterly declares, "I'm sorry, Atticus. But she's mine now. And I will love her a thousand more times than you ever could, and I would love her daughter just as much."

From the inner pockets of his tailored coat, Beowulf retrieved a single flower. Two rows of petals encircled the center of the plant. It was a deep shade of crimson, nearly black had it not been for the light of the sun gleaming down upon the earth. He places the black dahlia on the ground, resting the foliage against the headstone.

"A part of me is sorry," Beowulf admits, "But I am too much of a selfish man."