72. Epilogue
Epilogue
Years later
The fluorescent lights of the maternity wing buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. Lule leaned against the cool white wall, her fingers entwined tightly with Rahul’s. The anxiety had only escalated since Crispin called.
They had driven down from Oxford in the middle of the night after Crispin’s panicked call.
“Her water’s broken. Thirty-nine weeks. That’s early, isn’t it?”
Rahul had calmly said it wasn’t. That 39 weeks was considered full-term. His parents were GPs, so he knew things.
But Crispin hadn’t been listening to reason.
He hadn’t listened to the midwife either.
Or the obstetrician. He’d tried to explain cervix dilation with the arrogance of a man who’d once read half a textbook on pregnancy and thought google knew more than everyone in the room.
Lule had heard he’d been almost thrown out of the labour room. Twice.
Now they waited.
A nurse passed by with a gentle smile, but said nothing. Rahul sighed and dropped his head back against the wall, watching the swing doors like they might whisper the next chapter of their lives into being.
Then-finally-they opened.
Crispin stepped through, clad in scrubs and a thin cap, his eyes wide and gleaming. He looked dazed. Transformed. The same man, but not.
He held something wrapped in a white-and-blue blanket. “He’s here,” Crispin said softly, his voice catching. “It’s a boy.”
He pulled the blanket back just a little so they could see the infant’s face. The baby gave a long, lazy yawn, as if unimpressed by the fuss. Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flickered open .
Crispin’s blue eyes stared out of a tiny face, framed by a surprisingly full head of soft brown hair.
“Already brooding like his father,” Lule whispered, unable to keep the grin off her face.
Rahul chuckled under his breath, but there was something in the way he looked at the child and then at Lule. “He’s beautiful.”
“Aria?” Lule asked, the question hanging in the space between them.
Crispin nodded. “She’s okay. Just resting.” He swallowed. “She-she was unbelievable. She also said we are not doing this again.”
They all stood there a moment, silently orbiting the miracle swaddled in Crispin’s arms.
“We’ve decided to call him Alric,” Crispin said. “After my great-grandfather.”
“Alric,” Lule repeated, her voice soft. “A warrior’s name. He is going to keep you on your toes.”
Crispin glanced down at his son, who gave a small hiccup and furrowed his brow like he was already annoyed at being disturbed.
Rahul smiled and reached out to gently touch the baby’s tiny hand, which curled instinctively around his finger. “Welcome to the world, Alric. Sorry about your dad.”
Crispin gave him a look, but his mouth tugged into a smile nonetheless.
Behind them, the corridor remained quiet. A pause in time before the storm.