Chapter 2 #2
He is an innocent soul who never asked to be born. Yet here he was, thrust into this world by some invisible sources despite his mother’s wishes.
Though unwanted, he deeply wants to live.
He whines and cries, seeking for some comfort from his mother, but finding none. Even the maid that takes him in her arms holds him in distaste, a distance away from her chest, as if he were the devil itself.
And maybe he was. But weren’t all Sons of Tenebreis devils in their own right? Did they not live off corruption and debauchery?
But there was something different with this babe. His fate is to bring about destruction to the corrupted. Because even the worst of the worst had a hierarchy of their own. Some were bad. He was about to be worse.
When the cries of the baby become undeniable, the Lady finally reacts.
She turns toward her maid and looks her dead in the eye.
“Kill him,” she orders. “Wrap the cord around his neck and suffocate him. Tell my husband this is how he was born. He will believe it. It has happened before.”
And it had happened.
Sons of Tenebreis might be considered the true descendants from the Seven, but they were not born immortal, nor impervious. They were born with the potential to be so.
Sons of Tenebreis might be about the pedigree, but to be a true member of the brethren, one had open all nine energy gates. Only after passing those trials was a male allowed within the exclusive and secretive circle of powerful immortals.
As for imperviousness… No one was truly impervious, no matter their strength. There was always a weakness, though some hid it better than others.
Except for the Seven, everyone could die.
And many did die before.
“But… My Lady… That’s…”
“Kill. Him,” the Lady commands once more, her voice decisive. “He needs to die.”
The maid cradles the baby closer to her, but still not quite touching her chest. He flails his little arms in an attempt to get closer, to feel some warmth on that very cold day. The wind brushes against his blood-soaked skin, making him shiver. His cries become louder.
“I cannot,” the maid stammers. Eyes wide, she places the babe next to the Lady and takes a step back. “I cannot,” she repeats before fleeing the room.
Alone with the babe and her lady’s maid, the Lady turns to her.
“You must kill him,” she decrees in her aristocratic tone. “Now. Before my husband comes.”
The lady’s maid, too, takes a step backward.
She stares at the bloody babe before slowly raising her gaze to meet her mistress’. She is horrified by what she is asked to do. She’s been Her Ladyship’s companion for thousands of years, and in all that time she had never seen her thusly.
She is not herself, the maid thinks. She cannot be herself. She would never ask me to harm a mere babe—she would never even think it.
“My Lady, surely you cannot mean that. He is just a babe—”
“Just a babe? Look outside!” The Lady thunders, pointing towards the broken windows. The sky is clear, the light from the overlapping moons stronger than ever. “This is a disaster. He will be the death of us all.”
But just as she finishes talking, Rheus continues his journey in the sky, slowly moving away from Rhea. The eclipse is ending, yet the Lady’s fears only become more intense. “He was born at the apex,” she murmurs frantically, moving around in her bed.
She’s covered in blood, but she does not care. She flings the sheet off her body, swinging her legs over the bed. She tries to get off the bed, but her legs wobble, and she falls to the floor.
The umbilical cord is still attached to the mother-son pair, the only link between the two.
The maid looks at her in horror. But as she tries to reach for her mistress and help her, but the babe’s cries become louder.
“Kill him,” the Lady screeches.
The maid shakes her head.
“He’s just a babe…” she whispers.
“He is not just a babe. He is Urteos himself come to ruin us once more. He will bring only death.”
“But My Lady. Those are just superstitions. You cannot possibly believe that…”
“Everyone believes that. Before Urteos was Lakwon, and before him there was Grigon. All born during the eclipse. All bringing about death to Tartareia. I will not be known the mother of such a creature. I will not,” the mistress cries out.
She drags herself forward, her bloody fingers grasping the dress of her maid. She pulls on the material, helping herself up.
“My Lady,” the maid whimpers.
The Lady can barely stand, the blood loss in itself having wreaked havoc on her body. But her determination is stronger. She manages to get to her feet, her fingers digging in her maid’s arms as she stares at her with a crazed expression.
She grabs the umbilical cord and tears it with her bear arms, severing their connection. The fleshy cord drops to the floor, still attached to the crying infant.
“He must die,” she repeats as her gaze dips to the son she’d just disavowed.
Before the maid can react, the Lady wrenches the babe from her arms. Using what little strength she has left, she grabs the cord and twirls it around the infant’s neck. She pulls on it tightly until all screaming stops.
“My Lady, please stop!” The maid exclaims as she tries to grab the babe back. “You are not thinking clearly. This is your son, not some cursed creature.”
“No,” the Lady shakes her head. “He must die.”
As if she was possessed by some fanatic ideal, the Lady cannot see or listen to reason. She believes the babe must die, and she will ensure he is dead.
The babe’s face becomes purple as she continues to apply pressure around his neck.
His lips are half-open as he struggles to breathe, but the dearth of oxygen makes it impossible for him to do so.
He is too young to fight back, or have the instinct of self-preservation.
The only thing he knows is that he is warm now.
He is against his mother’s chest and he is warm.
He does not realize the animosity behind this deadly embrace.
A few whines and some barely audible whimpers and the babe becomes silent.
The Lady finally sighs.
“It is done,” she closes her eyes.
She can feel his warm, unmoving body against her own. And for a single second, regret blooms in her chest. It is fleeting, however, as she focuses on the future. She knows she’s done the right thing.
She should be crowned a heroine.
After all, she has spared Tartareia from a dire fate.
Heavy footsteps resound down the hallway.
The door to the chamber is suddenly flung open, and her husband strides in.
He’s a male in his prime—a duke in his own right.
And he has a heir, so he would not mind this much, would he?
That is what the Lady thinks when his gaze lands on her blood nightgown and the even bloodier unmoving babe in her arms.
Behind him is an army of servants, including the midwife, who are waiting for his order to come inside the room.
“Inaria, what happened?” He asks in a harsh voice.
He covers the distance from the door to the bed in a few strides, and he takes the babe from her arms.
“He is dead,” she says in a low, subdued voice. “He was born dead.”
Her husband pulls on the cord, loosening it from the infant’s neck. A tremor goes down his back as he holds his lifeless son in his arms.
Pressing his lips together, he simply stares at the babe.
“The Supreme Lord decreed that all babes born today must be put on a register. I suppose this is fortuitous, otherwise he would have lived with the stigma of his birthdate his entire life,” he finally say.
“Yes, indeed,” the Lady agrees. “Poor babe. It is a pity that his life was cut so short, but as you said. This is fortuitous indeed. We wouldn’t want our name to be linked with a death bringer.”
“No, we would not,” her husband mentions.
Slowly raising his gaze, he assesses his wife.
There is something strange about her. Should she not feel pain at the loss of the babe?
She’d had miscarriages in the past and she’d mourned them all.
But this was different. She held her son in her arms, felt his dead body against her own. And yet, there is no trace of sadness.
He narrows his eyes at her.
She would not do anything, would she?
He takes another look at the babe.
His face is a mix of red and purple. His eyes are closed, his mouth ajar.
His heart clenched in his chest as he let himself mourn the loss of the babe.
He would have liked another son now that his oldest, Baine, had moved out after he joined the military.
Releasing a long breath, he turned to leave.
“I will dispose of the body,” he adds. “You should rest and recover.”
The Lady swallowed guiltily, but she kept her eyes on her husband instead of the babe.
“I will. Thank you.”
Her husband takes a few steps forward when a sharp cry permeates the air.
He stops in his tracks.
The Lady turns in horror.
No one moves. No one dares breathe.
Another cry follows, this time louder.
“He is alive!” The Lord exclaims, his lips spreading into a smile.
“Oh. Is he...” The Lady murmurs, her face dropping.
“This is a miracle,” he continues. “How can he be a bringer of death when he defied death itself?” He marvels as he looks at his son. His cheeks are now full of color, and as he opens his eyes, the babe stares at him with a lopsided grin.
“He will be named Nykander,” the Lord declares. “For he has shown us he can cheat death.”
The Lady forces a smile but her pallor is pale.
She takes a step forward, attempting to put on an act. But as her eyes lock with that of her babe, she stops. Her smile wobbles, just as she wobbles on her feet.
With a loud thud, she falls to the ground.
Everyone thinks she is too weak from the birth.
But I know better. She is terrified of what the future will bring.
Because that Lady is my mother.
And that babe?
That babe is me.