In the days predeceasing the Christmastide celebrations, one would expect the people of the land to be working throughout the night in preparation of the banishment of any and all thinks labor in celebration of the birth of Christ. The sounds of industry and employment would deafen a poor man's ear, and given the world that began to emerge in the eight years since the death of the second King Henry of the house of Valois, there would be some sort of unity and traction as the men who would once rip each other's eyes out began to guzzle down ale and be chummy in the public houses. Each and every year, that was the scene that had been played for the sun and the moon as they watch half of the European continent change before their eyes. However, not this time. Not this time.
This time, the people whisper and they takes to their knees in prayer while the chimes ring and the little children sing. Men of the cloth take to the streets, humming their gentle song and swinging pendulums of sage, lovage and echinacea in their metal chains. A hushed darkness overtakes the empire of France, Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland as their mother and daughter continues to struggle in her childbed.
Up in the mountains of the isles of Scottish blood, in the royal chambers of Dalmunzie Castle, the hallways and surrounding chambers echo with the sounds of pain. Cries, screams, sobs and sighs continue to leave the royal chambers as the Queen of Scots continues to fight to bring the children from her womb. They carry their mothers' blood, neither one willing to slip from the tight confines of the large bump her abdomen had swollen to. Midwives bark out orders, they bicker with the physicians, who frantically order and stutter when the King catches sight of large blades being unwound from velvet coverlets. Nothing helps, no position changes, no amount of walking or squatting or kneeling, the birthing chair does little but make the Queen sick from the pain and exhaustion over three days of labouring has caused her.
The candles flicker and choke, the flaming fire continuously wafted and restocked as the Queen continues to struggle and fall back in hopeless tears. Baronesses and ladies and Duchesses continue to try and provide some sort of comfort in the way of words of their homeland's tounge, her beautiful blonde husband kisses her and wipes her tears, but little seem to do any good at all. Not even the King's mother's potions can coax the unborn royalty from their mothers' womb.
All seems lost at the call of the bells, signifying the anniversary of the birth of Christ so many years ago. The Queen whispers and resigns herself to her fate, signing over joint custody of her beloved homeland to her husband and her bastard half brother, for her heir is far too young to take the crown and juggle the responsibilities of Kingship. Her ladies and her husband cry as she gives her consent for the blades to bade her presence in this world. She closes her eyes as her gown is risen, vials coming closer in an effort to dull the pain of the blade as the physician prepares to make the first incision.
However, that's when the Lord grants the Queen mercy everlasting, for suddenly, she begins to cry and scream anew, midwives yelling at the presence of a head beginning to bulge from the Queen's modesty. She hisses and she screams and she begs for not even ten minutes more, as before long, two fully grown sons with dark curls slide from her womb and scream at the chill of the room.
Court and the countries celebrate. Ambassadors scuttle back towards their countries to report their masters to the birth of two healthy male heirs with the eyes of their father and the hair of their mother, who already had begun her healing process after such a horrifying birth.
The people drink and dance and sing, celebrating the mercy of God for keeping their mistress and blood-written ruler in this world for longer, and for the birth of two healthy Princes, born on the anniversary of the birth of Christ, the first day of twelve days of joyful Christmastide celebration.
It's joyful, nonetheless, but the joy of their people is incomparable to the joy the royal family of France and Scotland (England, Ireland and Wales, too) as when the babies are cleaned and rested, and the mother has bathed and dressed, five young Princes and four young Princesses slowly make their way into the birthing chambers of Dalmunzie, smiling and cooing over the presence of two more baby brothers. And the Queen Mother of France, she cries years of elation as her son holds his wife and his children in his arms, the only things in the world he had ever really wanted.
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You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
