Elowen
The candlelight wavered across the king's features as I dabbed at the cut along his temple. It was not deep, but the bleeding had been steady, and the dark smear of it along his jaw struck me far more than it ought to.
"Hold still," I murmured, though my own hands trembled slightly against the cloth. His gaze never left me — unflinching, unreadable, heavy enough that I felt heat rise in my chest no matter how firmly I told myself to ignore it.
When at last the blood slowed, I drew back, the cloth now crimson-stained, my fingers tingling with the memory of his skin. Our eyes locked. His were darker than I had ever noticed before, like storm-tossed seas — dangerous, searching, yet oddly vulnerable in that fleeting instant.
Neither of us moved. The space between us thinned until the faint brush of his breath mingled with mine. My pulse stumbled. His hand lifted as though of its own accord, pausing just short of my cheek. If I had leaned forward, only the smallest distance, I might have—
"Your Majesty! Lady Elowen!"
The door burst open. Fiona, cheeks flushed, skirts gathered in both hands, stood framed by urgency. "A woman is in labour at the clinic — the physicians are overwhelmed, they say the babe may be lost if no one helps. Please, come quickly."
The moment shattered. I stepped back, breath caught in my throat, the weight of what almost happened crashing back into sense. I did not meet his eyes again — I could not. Instead, I turned, already knowing what must be done.
"I will go," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt. "Take me to her."
The clinic was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. Candles burned low, throwing shadows across the cramped room where a woman lay writhing upon the bed, her hair plastered to her brow with sweat. Two children clung to one another in the corner, their frightened sobs rising with every pained cry their mother gave.
The midwife looked up, desperation plain in her eyes. "My lady, we are short of hands — she labours hard, but the child… it does not come."
I moved quickly, discarding hesitation as if it were an unneeded cloak. "Boil more water. Bring clean cloths. And clear the children from here."
The woman clutched at my arm as I came to her side. "Please — my baby… don't let my baby die."
Her fear struck a place in me already raw. I had studied the numbers, the records of how many babes were lost in their first hours, how often mothers never rose again. I would not let this woman become another tally in a ledger.
"You will not lose her," I told her, gripping her hand firmly. "Not tonight."
Hours seemed to stretch, but I held my ground, guiding her breathing, urging her through each contraction. I pressed cool cloths to her brow, steadied her when her strength faltered, and whispered every word of encouragement I could summon.
At last, with one final cry — both hers and mine — the babe slipped into my hands, slick and warm, squalling with indignant life. A girl. Perfect, whole, and loud enough to shake the walls with her protest.
Relief crashed over me. I lifted the newborn, wrapping her quickly, and placed her against her mother's chest. Tears coursed down the woman's cheeks as she gathered the tiny bundle close.
"She lives," I said softly, my own voice unsteady now, breaking with the weight of it. "She is strong."
The children crept closer, wide-eyed, their fear melting into wonder as they beheld their sister. Their small hands reached out, one clutching at my sleeve, the other at their mother's arm.
I stepped back, letting them gather, my own hands still trembling with the echo of life I had just ushered into the world. And in that moment — amid the weeping and the laughter, the miracle of breath drawn and sustained — I felt Darian's presence at the threshold.
I did not look at him directly, but I felt him watching. Not the king, not the sovereign encased in armour of command — but the man, silent, seeing me not as court ornament or pawn, but as something altogether other.
And I knew with a certainty that unsettled me more than his nearness ever had: he would remember this night, as would I.
I scrubbed my hands in the basin until my skin stung. Blood had dried in thin crescents beneath my nails, and no matter how many times I rinsed, it seemed to cling. I leaned over the water, my breath still uneven, the echoes of the woman's cries ringing faintly in my ears.
The room behind me had grown quieter — the newborn nestled against her mother, the children at last asleep in a corner, their small bodies curled protectively together. For the first time since I had arrived, peace held sway.
I pressed a damp cloth to my face, drawing in a deep breath. That was when I felt it: a presence, steady and undeniable. I turned.
Darian stood in the doorway. His coat was still dusted with the remnants of his earlier fight, his jaw shadowed and rough. Yet in that moment he looked nothing like the savage king spoken of in court whispers. He simply looked at me — and smiled.
The sight of it unraveled me. I let out a laugh, short and breathless, and before I could stop myself words came tumbling free.
"I delivered a child," I said, shaking my head as though I could hardly believe it. My voice wavered. "With my own hands… she took her first breath, and she's alive, she's—"
The dam broke. My laughter folded into something dangerously close to tears, the weight of it all pressing at once against my chest. I covered my mouth with my hand, but it did nothing to contain the flood of relief that escaped me.
Darian crossed the space between us in a few strides. He did not touch me, not at first, only stood close enough that I could feel the heat of him, his presence anchoring me. His eyes softened in a way I had not seen before.
"You saved them," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of truth rather than flattery. "Her… the child. That family will remember this night all their lives."
I swallowed hard, unable to look away from him. "I've read so many accounts, numbers scrawled in ledgers, stories of women who never rose from their birthing beds… children who never drew a first breath. But this—" My hand pressed lightly against my chest. "This was different. This was real. I can't explain it, but it feels as though… as though I was meant to be here."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with the faintest inclination of his head, he murmured, "I am proud of you, Elowen."
The words landed like a balm I hadn't known I needed. My throat tightened, and I lowered my gaze, fighting against the rush of warmth that threatened to unmoor me entirely.
When I dared glance back, his eyes were still on me, steady and unwavering. He did not remind me of the agreement we had made at the beginning, the promise that I could attend the clinic whenever I wished. He didn't need to. His expression said enough.
He saw me. Truly saw me — not as a pawn, not as a bride forced into a crown, but as a woman with a purpose that reached beyond palace walls. And for the first time since I had been brought here, I believed he might understand me.