Under a Dimmed Sun [UNCENSORED]

SII: Chapter LIX: The Passing: Lord Richaud of Mohn [15+]

It's nearing the end of year, the birthing room was dimly lit, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and burning candles. The old midwives moved quietly around Teresa, their voices hushed as they completed their tasks. Teresa lay back on the bed, her body exhausted from the long hours of labor. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow, but a flicker of relief passed through her as she heard the first cries of her newborn baby.

Peter entered the room with measured steps, his face a mask of stoic detachment. His eyes bore the weight of too many sleepless nights. He approached the bedside, his gaze briefly settling on the tiny figure.

As Teresa lay exhausted from the labor, the old midwife carefully swaddled the newborn boy. She had been the one to help with Peter's own birth, decades ago, and had seen countless babies brought into the world since. She glanced over at Peter, then back at the baby in her arms, a frown creasing her weathered face.

"Most firstborns," she began hesitantly, her voice low, "have a mark, something small, like their father's—a birthmark, a mole, something to tie them together."

Peter, who had been staring at the child, snapped his attention to the midwife. His mind flicked to the small mole behind his neck, a mark he knew well. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning his son's tiny form, but there was no such mark to be found.

The midwife's hands shook slightly as she examined the infant again, looking for anything that might bear a resemblance to Peter's mole. But the baby's skin was smooth, unmarked. For a moment, she was silent, her old heart pounding in her chest. But then she chuckled, a raspy, nervous sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

"Of course," she laughed, trying to dismiss her own unease, "it's just superstition, after all. A silly old tale." She handed the baby to Teresa, who held him close, unaware of the midwife's fleeting concern.

"Congratulations, it's a boy, my lord," one of the midwives announced softly, handing the infant to Peter.

Peter took his son into his arms, his expression unreadable. He looked down at the child, his mind wandering as he thought of the name. "Alec," he said finally, his voice void of emotion. "His name is Alec."

For a moment, Peter allowed himself to feel the weight of his new role as a father, but the connection he sought didn't fully materialize. His thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the battles he had fought, the vows he had made, and the woman he had lost. The memory of Alice flickered in his mind, sharp and painful, like a wound that refused to heal. He had imagined this moment with her, not with Teresa. The reality of his life now felt like a shadow of the dreams he had once cherished.

The brief moment of sentiment was cut short by the cold truth of his situation. Peter handed the child back to the midwife and turned to Teresa, who looked up at him with weary eyes.

"His name is Alec," he repeated, more for her benefit than his own. "You did well, thank you."

"My father struggled to produce an heir. It seems the House of Wode won't face the same problem now." his face unreadable.

Teresa's heart tightened at his words. She had hoped for something more—for a glimpse of the man she had married, for warmth, for love. But all she received was a distant acknowledgment, a formality that stung more than silence. "Thank you as well, my lord," she whispered, her voice tinged with the sadness of unmet expectations.

Peter nodded curtly, already turning to leave. "Rest now. You need your strength."

As he walked out of the room, Teresa's eyes followed him, a mix of emotions churning within her—relief at having delivered a healthy child, disappointment in the coldness of her husband, and a deep, aching loneliness that settled in her chest.