She has been drifting through passages of time without mark, unaware of how many hours and days have passed and uncaring. Is it time yet? No, not time yet; the life in her belly grows and grows, and she has been made helpless by it, enslaved to its incessant demands. In and out of sleep she moves as in and out of shadow; small hands folded upon the roundness of her belly, the little queen eats when food is brought to her, sleeps when exhaustion claims her, reads or speaks or writes when the form within her allows. There have been good days and there have been bad days, and the bad days have been swallowing the good ones whole before they can happen.
Today is a better day; at least, she hopes it will be. Missives were managed, reports examined, husbands kissed and hands held before the call was then made. Having done it once, doing it again was simplicity itself. Her phones can always reach across the divide of worlds, as Davydd's horn. "I appreciate it," she tells the attendant who has flitted across that border to Powis (existing as it does, in both places, and thus easily accessed), "but no; don't go through with those arrangements until you have heard from me. I'll find out what I may in due course, but you're just going to have to be patient. Once my time has come, I'll be around more."
Her hand touches fleetingly to her belly. She has taken to referring to him only rarely, almost superstitious; as if naming the baby as a baby, as a life might somehow damn him out of existence, steal what chance he has at life. That it is a boy she is convinced, without seeing the ultrasounds. In this, her final month, she is confined to be off of her feet, and oh, how the weary hours drag on, pulling the roundness of her belly with the rest of her as a comet's tail. But today is going to be a good day; she is determined. And so it is that she's called her eldest son, reports or no reports. Now she needs to know that he is, at least, alive.
"Prop me up with pillows," Fiona orders, the call having been made. He'll get the message, one way or another. "Bring in some tea - and some of those little cakes. Yes, I know the doctor thinks I need to watch my sugar intake, but I haven't had any for days, now; and besides, my son is bound to be here soon. Which? Iowerth, of course; just bring things in and then the rest of you, get out. And thank you all the same, I can talk to my son without an audience."
Rhodri has been your constant companion. He has read to you on the good days and laughed with you then. On the bad days, he has been unshakable as your own shadow, holding your hand, holding you, placing his hand upon your belly and his son. He has eased pain and discomfort where such has been possible, his healing powers restorative in nature.
He has ventured out to the Otherworld in your stead when needed, a visible face for the Family you and he and Davydd represent. Your sons, your first flowers, have been busy. His own son now once again out of touch, communicating only when his father insists. The other? There have been reports of stormy seas over the past several days, striking at dusk primarily when the seas might be otherwise calm. There are reports, in fact, that three pirate ships were crushed, not by the Draigamor's typical relentless approach but by the gaping and crushing maw of the sea itself. Whirlpools larger than those that haunted Ulysses.
"Even me?" Rhodri wonders gently, grinning already -- he can imagine your response. He waves off the servants and tends to the pillows himself. He knows how you like them best. "I'll be right outside. Do you need me to do anything for you today?" He is such a wretchedly good man. His hand rests gently on your hair, brushing it back with a tender touch.
There are several entry points into Powis from the Otherworld. Depending on who you are, one might have up to twelve distinct points of entry. Being the crown prince, he knows at least twelve. Rather than coming in through the garden where he might scare tourists (the gardens are open to the public all year, while Powis itself has been closed off to tours due to your confinement), or up through the bowels of the old dungeons, Iowerth Rhudd Draig enters, the air shimmering around him for a moment, in the upstairs library. No one ever goes in here but him (perhaps only his father ever visits it besides), and inconspicuously he moves downstairs to the main hall.
His thick, fiery hair is mussed here and there, perhaps by those same stormy winds and weather (apparently) that claimed those other ships. Most likely it is from a careless hand, not giving a fiddler's fuck which way the hairs land or stand. He's out of his leathers and in a suit of all things... wool crepe trousers of black are paired with a white button down (top three buttons undone). No tie, but the jacket's an exquisite tailored thing. The shoes are formidable Docs, heavy treaded but of brushed suede. He looks London fashionable. He dresses like a prince should these days.
Rhodri is straightening from kissing you, giving you a wink and a smile as Iowerth enters. He knocks as he opens the door. "Brother," he nods to Rhodri. His face. Oh that face. He is so trying to be upbeat, or at the very least congenial and polite. But beneath that the intensity rolls from him. Were you to hear waves crashing against the castle you wouldn't be surprised. Periwinkle eyes are darkened by the green of tidal seas. He approaches his mother to kiss her dutifully upon the cheek. "Mother... I hope I have not kept you waiting..."
He never is sure of the Time...
"Even you," Fiona retorts, but she smiles lovingly. It is going to be a Good Day, dammit, or she will grab that day by the throat and throttle it. "I'm his mother. I was there when he was born, and I'll talk to him. I don't think I need anything except to know that you love me - and I know you do." She blows a kiss to the younger of her husbands, her hand light on his until he pulls away.
And with pillows propping her up, she sits there in the thinnest of silks. She can't stand her body right now; how round she is, how immobile. She is never a comfortable temperature. Her hair had been chopped short for much of her pregnancy, but now she's allowed it to grow again, the lustrous cornsilk waves spread out against the pillow in its almost whiteness. When it is a good day, she combs it and plays with it. When it is a bad day, she sometimes weeps at the sheer weight of it.
"Waiting? No - the only one keeping me waiting is this." Fiona smiles at you, cheek angled to you, her hand on her belly again. Her own energy is at a low ebb, for all that it is a good day. There are reasons why you have not seen her of late. "Rhodri, darling, close the door behind you, please? I love you, too," she adds, almost a whisper, the smile suddenly wistful. It is not a smile you have seen on her before, though he has (as has your own father). Then she turns to you, looking you up and down for a moment before she speaks.
"Well," she says finally, "you look alive and in one piece. So I'll take the rumors to be just that - rumors." Placid, at least on the surface. You are not being scolded for risking your life. She turns quiet grey eyes upon you, and she waits a moment; "Won't you sit and make yourself comfortable? I'm afraid I've been having to put up with quite a bit of looming as it is lately, so I'd prefer it if you would."
"Of course," Rhodri grins. He winks to the kiss you blow to him and he heads out. But not before giving his brother a grasp on the upper arm and shoulder. A quiet: come talk to me, brawd. With a pat of his younger brother's shoulder, the Oak King takes his leave for now, closing the door softly behind him.
Iowerth pulls up a chair, settling heavily into it. You've seen the look before on his father's face. There is so much behind the otherwise bland look, he can't possibly even express it. "I am alive. It was a storm, they say. But the seas are treacherous," his own voice purrs in the drawling out of the words. "The Draigamore was docked safely in port. The crown prince does not have time for explorations anymore. His scholarly pursuits and curious discovery now must turn to things more political. How are you feeling? You are confined to bed now, I hear." His tone softens. There is no doubt but that he loves his mother. "You look like you are having an okay day so far..."
And truly he is doing his best to preserve it...
Folding his arms against his chest, Iowerth looks to the floor. In reality, he is staring at the face of nothing, seeing neither the floor, nor any space between. His gaze is directed inward. "Do you want me just to tell you what I think so far or do you want to ask me questions and have me answer?" His voice is so quiet and so even. When he looks to you at last, you see him soften his energy. Deliberately, quite deliberately. He is concerned for your health and will do nothing to upset it.
"I want you to tell me things," Fiona says simply. "Asking you questions will be like trying to adjust the valves on a pressure cooker, Iowerth. I can tell you're upset. It does not take a mother's eye to see it." She smiles, holding a hand to you; the smile is the face of Love. You are her son; her first-born. She cannot look at you without seeing you as that. "Give me your hand."
She is patient. She will coax it out of you if she must. "I'm pregnant, not dying," she says softly. "And I am still and always will be your mother. Tell me what is in your heart and what is on your mind. I will do my best for you, Iowerth, no matter what. But let it out, hm? Noone is here to see it but we two."
He gives you his hand. He always will. No matter how covered in sea or mud or blood he might be, when you ask, he will always give you his hand. He looks at the joined hands. "Tiernan and I... are on hiatus." He snorts suddenly. "Rather makes the whole point of the other discussion moot, but... now that we have begun wedding proceedings there is no point in stopping it. I ...wish to proceed despite the rest."
"He...never recovered after his mother was killed. His body remained unharmed but the Tiernan that was Tiernan... the one I loved...? He may as well have been slain that day. He is ... tired, listless, no matter what I offer, titles and the rest, it cannot fill the ... hole in him that exists now." Iowerth takes in a breath, his hand gripping yours then letting it go to put his head in his hands. He does not sob, but he does need to catch his breath. He looks up, elbows on knees, hands clasped before his mouth. His eyes spark not with fire but with moisture. "There is nothing I can do for him. I have done all I can. He has... gone to ... find something of value in himself. For ... as he said he will only be useless to me without that. So," Iowerth inhales, sitting up and sitting back. His eyes go to the ceiling. "So we ... parted ways. I do not know if I will see him again. I told him to write me." He chuckles and shakes his head. "Like he's going away on holiday but I know what it means. It means I've fallen in love and now my heart is broken. My lover is gone. He was gone... never returned... after the Witch's death."
Iowerth leans his arm on the back of his chair, his body pivoting as he turns his head to hide the momentary sob. The sound is swallowed, though the water runs from his eyes. "I was angry. I swam out to sea. I became ...the dragon I am and opened my mouth for a great roar. I swallowed the pirates whole and coughed up treasure for about four hours. My throat is still sore. But.... it is what it is. The cynic in me wants to say: Well, what the fuck use was falling in love? But the philosopher in me," he looks to you again, understanding in his eyes, "... knows that I learned more about who I was and could be when I loved him and he loved me. I learned how great my heart could be, so the pain is not in vain."
She listens to you, her eyes intent upon your face. Throughout your speech, her gaze never leaves you, her expression one of mute sympathy as she holds your hand between both her smaller ones. When you sob, then her hands lift, an instinct to soothe; but she cannot go to you, in her present state. Her hands return to yours, taking it and giving it a squeeze.
"Listen to me," Fiona says quietly, looking at you. "We live, we fall in love, we grow, we change. Your Tiernan is still in there; if he were gone forever, he would not have taken such care with your need, with your heart, in this. Do you think that he no longer loves you? He is altered, yes... and for my part in it, I am sorry, but I believe that there was no other way."
She lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a kiss there and then lowering it gently; she is so gentle, like this. As if she herself were made fragile. "I believe that you will see him again. But he needs time to grow into what he is now, Iowerth. You are a powerful young man. He is skilled and talented; I have seen that in him; but he is not so powerful as you. When one is lost and does not know oneself, one can either cling to others or free oneself from others until the true shape of the soul becomes apparent. I know this." Fiona smiles, again a trifle wistful. "I never could cling to anyone. Instead, I threw myself heedlessly into things, into the noise and the blood and the fire. I jumped off bridges of the non-metaphorical sense. And I ran; I ran from your father, and your brother, and I ran from love. In the end, though, I knew who I was, and I knew what I wanted, and what my limitations were - what I could accept, where I could compromise, and where my lines were drawn. Tiernan has had no identity for a very long time, save what others have given him. He has come to learn that all he thought he knew about his life was based on falseness. Your gifts and your generosity and your love cannot undo that. Only he may."
Your hand is stroked, and she takes your confession gravely and without judgment. Your hand is released, and then Fiona lifts her head, seeking your gaze with her own. "Iowerth, look at me." Her eyes are that shade just between the blue and the grey, where the clouds mix with the air. "You must learn a lesson which took your father a long time to master. He struggles with it still, but you need to learn it now, if you're to be happy."
"Duw, I hope you're not going to tell me I'm doomed to feel this way should I live to be eight-hundred. Which, to be honest, I'm not particularly keen on. I'm not sure what the point of living so long is, to be honest." He looks at you, his hand back at yours. Your other words were heard, absorbed, but he does not respond to them. There is your question to be asked and a lesson to be learned.
"I'm not going to shut down," he says in quiet assurance. "I may not have parties on the boat any time soon," a wry crack escapes, like his father he jokes when he's in pain, "...but I know to ... cut myself off from emotion would make me into a terrible thing. And ... I wage a battle with that enough as it is..."
Those sailors didn't drown and die on a whim of nature. They drowned because he drowned them.
Iowerth looks at you. He holds your gaze directly, unflinching. The periwinkle sparkles there beneath the green seas, his eyes as mottled in his emotions as yours are. You are sky. He is ocean.
"That's a part of it, but it isn't all of it." Fiona smiles, but her gaze does not drop. "As for doomed? There are worse things than to live a long time and still be able to feel emotion, darling. Especially the more positive end of the spectrum." Her eyes are mercurial. In them, the storm lives; in them, there are the traces of metal, the flash of sword meeting sword. "We aren't as other people, I suppose you could say. It's something I've had to come to terms with, myself. To you, I am your mother, and the queen of the so long unnamed kingdom in which you were born. To you, I am the age I was when you were born, plus nearly twenty-one years."
Your hand is still held, her eyes calming to the clear, brilliant blue of a cloudless day, deepening by degrees, then fading to Russian blue, that odd, almost creamy shade so rarely seen. As she speaks, the wheel of the year turns in her eyes, and she shows you such things. "And yet, from my perspective, you're rapidly getting to be older than I am, Io. In this world, I've been married less than a year, and I'm about to have my first child. I'm barely old enough, by the standards of the day, of this world, this society, to be married; almost too young to be starting a family. This dichotomy... these roles ... they are in all of us. Your father; your brothers; myself; yourself. You need to listen very closely. Even though you live in one world only, that does not change the fact that you have multiple aspects. The man; the king that you are becoming; and that essence which you have gained from us, that which taps into the divine."
Your hand is released, though she does not withdraw from you. Your space, though, is given back to you, and Fiona's gaze remains steady, one hand now resting on her stomach again, feeling the hardened swell of it. "It is difficult enough for us, loving one another, and we all /are/ of that energy. My two husbands and I - it took us a long time to reach anything approaching even a truce, Iowerth. And you have fallen in love with someone who cannot give that energy back to you; he can only accept it. That he does, and does so without confusion, without complaint, that he loves you all the same for it, earns him my respect and a liking for him even aside from your own esteem being placed there. You are currently embarked on the most difficult, most arduous, most painful journey that anyone in this family can experience, but one which all of us, sooner or later, will. Love does not come easily to us; it is a battle to be fought, with whatever tools are at our disposal. And it always changes us, Io. It always will."
Fiona exhales, closing her eyes for a moment. "Darling, would you mind bringing me a cup of tea? Not too heavy on the cream; one of the unfortunate side effects I'm having this time around is lactose intolerance."
Like his father, he can tap into the Bounty that is Life as easily as he can the Depths of Death. Death has as many layers (if not more) than Life. You ask for a cup of tea, light on the cream. He holds out his hand and there rests a cup and saucer on his extended palm. "I know that Love is difficult. It is the commingling of Life and Death. It is all that is right, and all that is painful. I understand that. I love Tiernan. I will always want what is best for him, even if that is to be away from me."
"But I understand what you are trying to say," he softly intones, surrendering the tea to you. "And for Love to exist it must be the joining of two hearts, two energies. I could not continue to give double of myself to make up for what he was unable to give. We both saw that. He simply said it before I did." He looks to his hand, and in his grasp appears a snifter of brandy. He sips at it, looks into it as if he could divine in its burning liquid the outcome. "I think he wants to love me," to get back to your previous question. "But how can he when he is a vessel simply waiting to be filled? I love him, but that does not mean that it, one, was meant to be, or, two, will work out. Just because you love someone does not mean that you will be with them. That you will be able to have a life with them. Maybe once his wandering is done, however long it takes, we can start over. But it will be starting over. The Tiernan that I met and seduced," he cuts a look to you, "..then loved... doesn't exist anymore. I will... maybe I will get to see what he becomes. But for the purposes of my heart, the relationship is over."
Iowerth takes a swallow of the brandy. "Can we talk about the princesses now? I really... am ready to talk about something else." The other is a tender topic. Most tender indeed. And really, it is unanswerable. All depends on the unknowable future. That which cannot be predicted. His love affair is ended. He may start another one someday, should Tiernan return.
The tea is taken. Blue eyes cut a slant to yours, and she smiles; there is a sadness there. She cannot help but hurt where you hurt, when you hurt, as with her husbands. "Of course, darling," Fiona says softly. She lifts the cup from the saucer, taking a sip and settling a little more against the pillows. "Let's talk about the princesses. How is it going?"
"The first one...whose name I've already forgotten... was," he shudders, "...vapid, prim, pretty but dull. The meeting lasted all of fifteen minutes. Please instruct your court handlers that her father should receive the standard Thank You But NO letter." He gives his glass a turn, the brandy a swirl and he smirks. "I'm not sure she had two thoughts in her wickle head."
If she displeased, you can only imagine what the other girl shall warrant. The first was a vision, quite lovely, from a high ranking family.
"I found Princess Anna of River's End to be quite charming. She hasn't the figure of the other, but that hardly matters. Figures change with time, and I tend toward the fuller figures than I do the waifs. I need a woman who can withstand me as well as stand me." Iowerth looks to you, smirking through a flush in his moment of oversharing. But knowing his father in that kind, he figures you can fill in the blanks yourself.
"I had a lovely chat with her and invited her to dinner in the library. She is the custodian of her kingdom's library and has even stolen a small ship to explore new horizons. She asked pointed questions about sea travel. I gave her a copy of the book I wrote when I was sixteen, on navigating for novices. All in all, a perfectly charming, intelligent young woman, if a bit too self-effacing. I ... would like her to remain on the list. If I do not choose her in the end, I would like to see her well-married to an intelligent man who could appreciate her. I do like her exotic qualities. I think if she were just to ... focus on the beauty she owns instead of what she is not, then she would feel better about herself, more confident and would then, of course, become beautiful in the eyes of the world."
She listens with all the attentiveness of any prospective mother of the groom. One hand comes up to absently wipe at one eye, and Fiona says simply, "I did not expect Princess Mirvayna to be your cup of tea, no. But she had to go on the list so as not to offend anyone." She smiles at you as you continue on; wonder of wonders, your overshare does not so much as raise a blush.
"Princess Anna is unaccustomed to the sort of court that most princesses might expect. From what I understand, she leaves such duties often to her sister. I'm glad you liked her; I had to argue for her inclusion on the list quite hard," Fiona tells you demurely. 'Quite hard' meaning, likely, a statement of 'She's on the list and I don't want to hear any more about it' and that was the end of it. Lesson 35 in making pregnancy work for her.
She finishes off her tea, offering you cup and saucer. "I'll make a note of it. She's younger than you by a year or two, so it's not surprising she's a bit self-effacing; it's likely a bit much, meeting you in the flesh, as it were. We women do get accustomed to being defensive and apologizing for what we are and what we are not. Sometimes, we move past that. Sometimes, we don't. So, have you met any others, yet? I'm afraid there's quite a few on the list, though I admit that to an extent, that was on purpose."
"No... it was after my dinner with Anna that... Tiernan and I had our talk and... I haven't much been in the mood for seeing anyone else. I will... let Hwyll know that I am ready to see the next girl as soon as she is able to be presented." He does not ask for a 'stay' in the process. He has nothing to lose at this point, has he. There is no one now to protect, apart from the interests of the kingdom.
"I do not know that Anna is ... ready or perhaps able to be a queen of so many kingdoms. My concern with her is that her kingdom may not be the best choice for such an alliance. Although, it is a coastal barony and so there may be something to gain from having a treaty. I am just not yet sure whether River's End should join with the crown in this manner. But... she has certainly set the bar high for the others who follow."
Your son is not shallow. That he has proven it to you, few women get to have such proof of their child's worthiness so soon. "I think with Anna it is an experience and a political issue. Other than that, the aesthetics mean little. So, we will see. I would like your staff to convey to her father how charming I found her to be, and what a credit she is to his kingdom. I do not think she hears that often. Nor perhaps he."
Iowerth sips at the brandy. "So...who is next? Can you tell me? I will do my best to be ...charming and affable." Particularly now when he does not necessarily feel like it. "And there are...however many there are. There is no reason to rush." Not now anyway. There is no relationship to hide. "We can take our time. I ...do not mind the process as much as I thought I might. I was dreading it. But I suppose in comparison to the other, this is easy."
In comparison to breaking up with Tiernan, he means.
You receive a warm smile for your words, and she shakes her head. "I don't know," Fiona admits readily, "who's next, I mean. There are so many - hundreds, though we've winnowed it down to a fraction of the original number, I grant. In all probability it will be some spoiled little girl who won't know how to appreciate a man like you because she lacks the life experience, Io. But I am, of course, very protective of you. No matter how old you get, you will still be my son, and my little boy. Whether or not it embarrasses you or you like to hear it."
She exhales slowly, a faint tightening at the corners of her eyes for a moment; then she rearranges herself slowly. "I will have my people send a glowing letter to his majesty, the King of River's End. One calculated to let him know that she is in the running but not to raise hopes unduly. In the meantime, though, try not to lose your temper, alright? Take a couple of days - do me this much - I believe your older brother is having some sort of fete in his kingdom. Take the time to go to that with your other brother, wherever he is, maybe, and make a showing in my name. It needs to be done, or I wouldn't ask it, and I ... well, I really can't go."
She would have liked to, but - no. "And I'm sorry to cut this short, dear," Fiona's voice is steady, but a trifle thin, "but could you go fetch Rhodri? I'm afraid I'm going to need him for a while. Maybe you can drop by later in the week; I'll rest up and try to be ready for you." She sinks back on the pillows a bit more heavily, the strain pinching at the corners of her mouth, whitening them.
He does not like to see you this way. It puts his issues into perspective. As you settle back, he rises. He finishes the brandy with a swallow and sets the glass aside. Bending, Iowerth kisses you gently. "Please take care of yourself," he whispers. "It's not the same without... you chasing after me and scolding me." He tries a smile for your sake and nods.
"I will... go... only because you ask. And if I can find Gwilym," Iowerth smirks a frown (it's a half-smile, half-frown of annoyance), "... I will command that he go with me. Or will make his father do it." Straightening, he looks at you another moment before glancing to the door. The door opens right afterward, with Rhodri coming in quietly. He holds the door open for Iowerth.
Iowerth looks back to his mother, his gaze softening. "I love you, mum. Thanks... for... " He shrugs, leaving the rest unspoken. Passing by Rhodri, he clasps his brother on the shoulder. He's as tall as Rhodri now. Even Rhodri's momentarily taken aback. "Let me know about the fete," he says. Later, his eyes say. He is talked out for now. Rhodri nods, closing the door behind Iowerth's departure.
"You should rest," Rhodri murmurs, approaching the bedside. He sits upon the edge, a large hand curling around one of your own. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses you. "It will be alright, sweet," Rhodri whispers. "Only three, four weeks to go. You are in good hands. Mine, for starters." He smiles gently, leaning in to kiss you. "Is... everything alright?"
"I love you, darling. Our family is a strong one. It will be alright." Fiona smiles at you, though her eyes do not open. The baby is moving, and this time, feeling it is painful. It has not been the same as last time, to her regret. "I've done nothing; just take care, hm?"
And you go, replaced by her husband, your brother. She manages another smile, though this one is less reassuring, less happy. "I am just tired," she sighs. "And it hurts. It'll be over soon, I know, but ... I hate to keep relying on you, leaning on you like this. Being so dependent." She squeezes her hand in your own, opening her eyes. "I miss being myself. Being with you. I miss feeling like myself, but I'm so tired all the time." You receive a frown and a smile at the same time, and a little shake of her head that follows. "I'll be alright. As you said, another three or four weeks and it'll all be over, right?"
She inhales, lets it out slowly. "Tiernan's left," Fiona says simply. "To go find himself, from the sound of it. Io is ... well. He is hurting. He understands, but it hurts. I thought of telling him of when Davydd left me that time - but I decided I'd better not. There's a limit to how much my own experiences will mean anything in his case, yes? And besides, as much as it hurt, it did lead to you coming into my life. As you are now. As we are now." Her smile is fond, openly affectionate, openly loving. What once had to be hidden, being hidden no more. "I can't say what will happen for him, in his own life. That I see a parallel is no prediction of the future. But I hope his pain eases."
"He is young, and he is strong. He will be alright," Rhodri assures. "He is a smart young man. And huge, good lord, did you see that? He's as tall as I am now. That's depressing," grinning, your husband leans in for a kiss, and soon he is joining you on the bed, as he usually does. "He will be fine," he whispers again. "In all that could have happened to him with Tiernan that he just escapes with a broken heart is a kind of blessing. I will check in on him, though. As a brother ought to."
A hand to your belly, Rhodri's warm energy begins to pour over you. It is like the suffuse glow of a cool summer morning, comforting rather than out and out warm. He has a touch to ease the pain. "And, yes, you are right. He has to find his own lessons and parallels," he murmurs. "And it is true, maybe he will find something that opens his horizons in ways he has yet to see, even though he has seen the horizon's own end. Even as I did when I was able to come into your life. He is smart. I think he will handle it."
But now he is concerned for and thinking of you, of your needs. Humming softly in your ear, Rhodri weaves a gentle song. A lullaby for the unborn, perhaps, or for you to ease your fears. Our family is strong. And you are strong. All is well, it is just... different, this mortal birth. But look at it this way, it will be your last on this plane. Smiling a little, he hums his song still.
Rest now, sweetheart, and give your love to the one in your belly. He seems to crave it most of all...
Posted by rowan at August 12, 2006 05:50 PM
