Kings, Queens, Princes and Omens

Note* I just wrote this prologue. I would love to have some reviewers tell me whether or not I should develop it further into a book or something.


Prologue: Kings, Queens, Princes and Omens

Screams echoed down the corridor, as servants scurried to and fro with bloody towels. Though the hall was crowded and the mood frantic, all those passing prudently detoured around the hulking form that sat across from the door. His knuckles turned white as he twisted the golden band that often sat so heavy upon his brow. His thick shoulders, normally the model of regal posture, slackened and hunched. All the servants knew the infamous temperament of their Warrior-King, and they could smell the sour wine’s stank; a sure warning sign that one should be wary.

The king shook his head, as if to shake the alcohol from his system. He covered his eyes with one hand before passing his fingers through graying hair. Here sat the most powerful man in Thaine, a Warrior-King, hero of the Northern Front, and he was helpless to save the one he loved. Though his lady queen was slight of build and had a delicate disposition, no one expected that the second childbirth would be so perilous. The king once again replayed the image of earlier that morning, waking to a bed full of blood and a wife as pale as death itself. Another loud moan came from his bedchamber, and the king gnashed his teeth, furious about his worthlessness.

A young physician’s apprentice stumbled out of the room, obviously on some task set by his master. Unfortunately for the boy, his sudden exit from the chambers caused the king’s gaze to fall squarely on him. He didn’t realize his bad luck until the massive shadow eclipsed the light from the chandelier. Looking up, he instantly cowered at the grim faced visage of his king and the bloodshot eyes that stared down at him. A thick meaty hand plopped onto the boys shoulder as the king bent forward, his face mere inches from the terrified youth’s.
         
“Boy,” his throaty whisper carried with it a nauseating smell, “how is she?”

The boy struggled to stammer a reply, “th-the bleedin’ has stopped mm-milord, but my master and the other physicians are worried she lost too much blood”.

The king dropped his head and released his grip on the apprentice’s shoulder. Mistakenly thinking that this was a sign that he was given leave, the boy started to quietly turn away to fulfill his duties. Before he took two steps, a lightning fast hand darted out and snatched his collar, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather. The king pulled him close once more, showing no signs of exertion as he kept the boy suspended six inches from the ground.

“And the child?” he said in a strangely dispassionate voice.

The apprentice was now white with terror, and without thinking blurted out, “the physicians fear it’s being choked by the umbilical cord! We’re trying to birth it now, but it won’t come out!”

Irrepressible rage boiled on the king’s features, as his muscles bunched up and his breathing became heavy. The apprentice instantly knew his short life was now about to come to an end.

“Luther!” A commanding voice resonated down the hallway, its tone demanding respect. “Put the poor servant down.” Wild-eyed, the king spun towards the man dressed in full military regalia; his scarred armor polished and shining with all the methodical perfection bourn from a lifetime of soldiering.

"Ethan?" Anger melted from the king's features as he regarded his oldest friend. "You're back."

"Yes, I'm back, and we can talk all about it as soon as you release your choke hold on that boy".

A gurgling sound caused the king to turn back to the purple-faced physician's apprentice, whose collar had slid up to press against his windpipe. Gingerly, the king set him down. As the apprentice inhaled lungfuls of precious air, the king attempted to smooth out the now warped collar, all the while averting his gaze sheepishly. When it was obvious that the shirt was damaged beyond repair, the king gave the boy a dismissive gesture. The paled youth made his way to the staircase, shaking and as stiff as an arthritic old man, pausing only to share a thankful glance with his savior.

Ethan managed to keep his growing alarm from his expression as he saw the bravest man he knew confused and in utter disarray. "Milord, I came as soon as I heard. I was out on a scouting mission two hours hard ride from here." He stepped forward to extend his hand and the king clasped it in military fashion, with each gripping the others forearm.

In a sobered yet still exhausted tone the king replied, "It's good to see you my friend". 

Like any good soldier, Ethan was blunt and to the point. "How's Lucile?"

"Things… things are bad… I think. They say she's stopped bleeding, but… but there was so much blood." The king's eyes grew distant as he regarded the bottom of the door, as if he expected the blood to start pooling out into the hallway. His eyes still affixed on the door, he spoke in a pleading voice, "What should I do Ethan?"

Ethan shook his friends shoulder, as much to get him out of his dark reverie as to reassure him. "Don't worry. You and I both know Lucile is tougher than she lets on. Remember that time after the swamp skirmish in Nettlebrough, when you came back, cut up, drunk, and smelling like the bog's excrement and fell straight to sleep on the Auresian rug she had just had imported?"

Luther couldn't help but smile a little at the recollection, "She kicked me out of our chambers until I cleaned it in front of all the laundry servants". The memory of servants suppressing giggles as the senile laundry master issued him orders with her stirring paddle almost made him chuckle.

Another loud moan from the room destroyed any solace he had found in that warm memory. Ethan, sensing that it would be impossible to cheer his friend up in such a circumstance, decided to remain silent. Minutes ticked by and, with the exception of the occasional servant entering and exiting the room, little changed.

More time passed, and the moans grew softer and less frequent. Finally, after what seemed to be a hellish eternity of silence, the lead physician opened the door and bade the king to enter.

"We were able to save the child from strangulation, but they are both very weak." Ethan let out an audible sigh as the king shouldered past the doctor to kneel at the side of his wife's bed. She was as pale as the satin sheets she lay on, with sweat matted hair askew in every direction. She slept quietly, and Luther didn't dare wake her.

"My king," the doctor spoke lightly with a hesitant tone, "the child." Luther slowly rose and walked over to the small form that a midwife was cradling. It's breath was so shallow that he could hardly make out the rising and falling of his newborn son's tiny chest.

"Why does he not cry?"

The doctor hesitated for a moment, "We... are not sure."

"Not sure!?! Are you a physician or a dolt!" Ethan once again placed his hand on his friends shoulder to help ease the king's rising fury.

The doctor cleared his throat nervously, "We are not sure because the boy seems to be perfectly healthy, yet despite this he does not cry nor open his eyes".

Just as the king was about to compare the physician's usefulness to that of nipples on a breastplate, he caught out of the corner of his eye a motion from his wife's bedside. He rushed there and saw that Lucile had weakly lifted her hand, with her index finger extended slightly towards the direction of her child.

"Bring the baby, quick!" The midwife scurried over and gingerly placed the child in Lucile's now outstretched hands. She regarded him with that expression that can only be described as a mother's unconditional love, and as she cradled him she seemed to regain strength. She then began to sing. Her voice was hoarse and raw, but somehow retained a pure and beautiful quality.

"Wake little baby,
My sweet little baby
Your mother is here to bid you good day
Wake little baby
My sweet little baby
I promise to love you and keep dangers at bay

Oh come now my baby,
My sweet little baby
You've much to do on the morrow
Oh come now my baby,
My sweet little baby
Into this world of splendor and sorrow"

The baby's breathing seemed to become healthier as the song progressed. Lucile smiled warmly, before quietly whispering, "hello Elion, I'm your mother." She then looked up at the midwife and, using that silent form of communication that exists between some women, made it known that she was ready to let the midwife carry the child again. Ever so gently, the midwife picked up the child, but, despite her soft touch, as soon as he left his mothers arms Elion began to emit a piercing wail. The sound was healthy and strangely indignant, as if he was upset about being woken from a pleasant dream.

Upon hearing the baby's crying, the doctors began to clap. The king looked at the bundled form the midwife cradled with an expression of unashamed fatherly pride. As he turned back to his wife, however, his expression froze. She laid there, still. Still in that way that he knew without a doubt she was gone. The clapping rapidly dwindled as the realization dawned on the others.

King Luther covered his mouth, in an effort to choke back a sob. He then reached out with his now trembling hand as if to touch her face, but, just as his fingers were about to graze those lips he had so passionately kissed just days ago, he withdrew his hand slowly.

No one spoke, no one dared. The king stood, his face now a mask of indifference. Placing his hand on Ethan's shoulder he muttered, "you are to protect my son". Ethan nodded without hesitation, accepting the duty that he knew would redefine his life.

Luther then turned to regard his wailing son once more. The infant screamed and screamed, red in the face and flailing its limbs. It was then that the king noticed that his son's tiny right hand seemed to be clutching something. Delicately, the king pried open the balled fist, finger by finger. There, in the center of his tiny palm, lay a blood clot. Ethan peered at it over the king's shoulder and his usual soldier's reserve faltered as he muttered in an audible whisper, "that's sure to be an omen."