Luminous

Epilogue

In Latakia, the saying once went, there are two days in every man's life he dreads the most.

For how could a man not celebrate the day his babe finally opened its eyes, after witnessing a day that could very well be his wife's last?

Before his greatest joy, stood his greatest terror. He crossed off each day with delight as he cursed time for not resting. He consoled himself he'd done everything he could, yet he knew there was nothing he could've done. The battle was between Freda and Fyr alone.

Meya's screams pierced the door like a hail of arrows. She'd been quiet at first, scared to death she'd lose her Song if she strained her throat too far. Then—either her mother's strident scolding slapped some sense into her, or pain and instinct overrode her trauma—her cries of agony burst free, each throe louder than the one before, leaving lesser and lesser rest in between.

Freda didn't exist, he knew. There was only Mirra the Greeneye. Yet, he couldn't help but murmur her name as he kneaded his forehead with the knuckles of his hands joined in prayer.

A hand clapped onto his shoulder, rough and sweaty. Coris surfaced to find the unblinking brown eyes of Mirram Hild, wavering with his same fear, yet tempered with the courage of a man who'd witnessed seven births. He knew his daughter. He knew she was strong.

"MUUUUUM!" Another sudden shriek rattled him senseless. She was sobbing, blubbering, "MUUUUUM! HOW MUCH LONGER?"

"Almost, Aine, almost." Alanna was unflappable as she comforted her daughter. "Deep breaths. Keep pushing. Babe's coming along down—"

"Meya, the head! It's crowning!" squealed Lady Crosset, beside herself with excitement. The curse of silence lifted. Well-wishers in the hall chattered and fidgeted. His heart pummeled his ribs. It was coming. His child. Their child. Mother was crushing his hand numb in hers. Events raced past, one then another, faster than his brain could process, could anticipate. Push, push, push, chanted the women inside, slow and steady. Coris echoed the call in his head.

Meya mustered her strength in one last yell. Arinel squawked, caught off guard. A pause. One breaths. Two breaths. Three. Four.

Fear swelled to fill his lungs. He could breathe no more. He wouldn't. Not until his babe—

The unmistakable bawl of a newborn ripped the air, like a horn heralding the return of a triumphant king, and the corridor erupted in screams and cheers. Hands reached for him. Clapped his shoulders. Mussed his hair. Pulled him into embraces. He wanted to stand, but his legs had transformed to boneless flesh. Raindrops splattered onto his lap from his face. Tears, sweat or both, he couldn't tell.

The door fell back, flooding him with a wave of heat, dripping with the stench of blood. The midwife stood in its midst, a bundle in her arms. The white cloth was smudged with crimson. She shuffled carefully through the retreating crowd to him.

Trembling, Coris strained forth to see. Poking from the gap in the cloth was what he would've mistaken to be a misshapen, wrinkled, dusty potato freshly pulled from the earth, if not for its beet-red sheen, its wee button nose, and its tightly-pursed lips. It twitched, and he reached out on impulse, fearing it would roll free and fall to an early death. The midwife obligingly deposited it on his arms.

Coris let the weight sit on his lap. He didn't dare move. His brain was too drained to devise how to secure such an unwieldy lump between his two twig arms. It didn't feel nor seem heavy. He'd surely underestimate its weight and drop it.

"Your son, my lord," offered the old midwife, and again the crowd exploded. Coris sorely wished Freda would strike them dumb. He couldn't even feel his emotions amid this chaos.