Chapter 64- I Am Here
Time had become impossible to measure.
The clocks still worked. I knew that because one remained mounted above the fireplace, its hands moving steadily around its face with the confidence of something unaffected by human suffering.
The servants continued tending the lamps.
Wood was added to the fire whenever the flames sank too low.
Food appeared on trays and disappeared again untouched.
Physicians entered, examined my wife, spoke in careful voices, then stepped into the corridor to rest while someone else took their place.
sunlight had once spilled across the floor when the first physician arrived.
It had touched the edge of the bed, warmed the carved wood, and caught against the loose strands of Ophelia's hair while Veronica explained that labor could take time.
The words had sounded terrifying yet reasonable then.
Temporary. Almost reassuring. A few hours, perhaps.
Enough time for preparation. Enough time for the child to arrive without panic.
Then the sun crossed the windows.
The light changed.
Day became night without asking permission. Servants lit lamps one by one, and the windows stopped showing the garden. They began reflecting the room instead.
Now night stood beyond the glass.
My wife was still in pain.
That was the only measure of time I trusted anymore. How long since she last cried out. How long until the next contraction. How many breaths she managed before her jaw tightened.
How many steps she took before stopping.
How many times someone said the same sentence before I began considering whether execution would improve the room.
"Just a little longer."
I hated those words.
At first, I accepted them because I believed people with medical training should understand what they were saying. A little longer implied limit. It suggested an ending close enough to imagine. It meant patience would be rewarded if we endured the next few minutes properly.
Then an hour passed.
Then another.
The same words returned each time Ophelia looked toward the physicians with exhaustion settling deeper into her face.
Just a little longer.
No one could define little.
I asked.
Repeatedly.
The first physician told me labor progressed differently for every woman.
The second explained that the body could advance slowly for hours before changing quickly.
The older midwife said we had to allow nature to take its course, which almost became the last sentence she ever spoke because nature had never impressed me enough to deserve unquestioned authority.
Veronica intervened before I decided to challenge nature personally.
She informed me that threatening midwives would not encourage the child to arrive faster.
I asked whether she knew that with certainty.
She told me to sit down.
I did not.
Sitting made the helplessness worse.
Every person in the room had something to do.
The physicians checked Ophelia. The midwife gave instructions.
The maids changed cloths, carried water, adjusted curtains, replenished lamps, and removed food no one had eaten.
Veronica watched everything with the calm focus of someone who had seen this before and trusted the body to remember what to do.
Even Elias had been useful for several minutes.
He carried messages, brought supplies, and asked increasingly unreasonable questions until Veronica removed him after he suggested that gravity might speed matters along if we tilted the bed.
He claimed it had been a medical theory.
She threatened to test gravity on him from the roof.
He left.
I remained.
That was all I did.
Remain.
Stand.
Watch.
Fail to help.
Ophelia moved slowly around the room because the physicians said movement might encourage progress.
She walked beside the bed, one hand sliding along the carved frame while the other supported the underside of her stomach.
Sometimes she leaned against the wall. Sometimes she stopped near the window, closed her eyes, and pressed both hands into her lower back.
I followed several feet behind her.
Not because I wanted the distance.
Because she had asked for it.
The room felt too warm to her despite the fire being reduced until I could barely feel it.
Her skin had become sensitive. The weight of fabric bothered her.
The presence of too many people made breathing harder.
Earlier, when I rested a hand against her back, she flinched and whispered that she needed space.
She apologized immediately afterward.
Of course she did.
Even in pain, my wife believed she had to apologize for not wanting to be touched.
I told her not to.
Then I stepped away.
I discovered quickly that there were punishments worse than being struck. Standing close enough to see the woman you loved hurting and far enough that reaching for her would make it worse was one of them.
Every instinct inside me demanded action.
Close the distance.
Lift her.
Hold her.
Carry her away from the pain as though pain were a room she had accidentally entered.
But there was nowhere to carry her.
The pain belonged inside her.
I could not place myself between them.
That realization returned every few minutes with fresh cruelty.
I had spent my entire life learning how to stand between danger and whatever I intended to protect. That was the simplest part of violence. Identify the threat. Place yourself between it and the vulnerable. Remove the threat permanently.
Men had tried to kill me more times than I could count. Some approached with blades. Some used poison. Some sent armies. Some smiled across negotiation tables while assassins waited in adjacent rooms. Every threat possessed a shape eventually. A body. A hand. A name written somewhere.
Even the poison had become something I could understand after Veronica identified it.
Conium maculatum.
A plant.
A storage room.
A list of suspects.
A route.
Evidence.
The poison frightened me, but fear became useful once given direction. I could investigate. Interrogate. Restrict access. Burn every bouquet entering the palace if necessary. I could turn terror into movement.
Labor gave me nothing.
No face.
No throat.
No bones.
Pain had no body I could break until it released her.
I could not arrest the contraction gathering beneath her skin. I could not order her body to move faster. I could not threaten the child into arriving safely.
The crown meant nothing here.
My authority ended at the edge of her pain.
I was emperor everywhere except inside this room. Inside this room, I was a husband watching his wife suffer because he had wanted a child.
That thought came quietly.
Once it arrived, it refused to leave.
I had wanted this.
Gods, I had been excited.
I rarely admitted that to anyone, least of all myself.
Excitement felt too unguarded. Too close to hope.
But I had imagined our child before Ophelia's stomach began showing.
I imagined small hands wrapped around my finger.
A child asleep against her chest. A little voice calling for her from across the nursery.
A daughter with Ophelia's eyes and enough of my temper to make the court regret surviving me.
A child who inherited her gentleness and none of my talent for grief.
I imagined teaching them to ride.
Teaching them strategy.
Showing them maps.
Standing behind them while they learned to hold a training sword.
I imagined Ophelia laughing when I became too serious about toys.
I imagined the nursery.
The cradle.
Blankets.
Painted walls.
The ridiculous stuffed rabbit.
I had imagined everything that came after. I had barely considered the cost of getting there.
I knew childbirth hurt.
That knowledge had existed inside me as fact, not understanding. Like knowing war killed soldiers before hearing the first man scream beneath a horse. Like knowing burns scarred skin before smelling flesh on fire.
Pain in theory required nothing from the person hearing about it. Pain in front of you demanded witness.
I watched another contraction begin. I recognized it before Ophelia spoke. Her breathing always changed first.
A hesitation.
The smallest interruption, as though her body had forgotten which task mattered most. Then her shoulders tightened.
Her fingers curled around whatever stood nearest. Her face became still in a way that frightened me more than screaming would have.
Ophelia had spent her entire life learning how to make pain quiet. Silence meant severity with her.
She stopped beside the bed.
Her fingers closed around the carved post.
I moved one step closer before remembering.
Space.
She had asked for space.
I stopped.
Her eyes remained closed.
The muscles across her stomach tightened visibly beneath the thin fabric of her gown. Her other hand pressed against her lower back. A sound escaped her, too small to call a cry, too raw to mistake for anything else.
"Breathe," I said.
My voice sounded steady.
That surprised me.
Inside, I had already begun unraveling.
She drew in a shallow breath.
"In," I repeated, demonstrating because Veronica had said it sometimes helped. "Slowly."
I inhaled.
Too deeply.
My chest tightened.
I released the breath in a measured stream.
Ophelia did not follow.
I breathed again.
Then again.
Only after the contraction eased did I realize I had not been guiding her at all. I had been stopping myself from panicking.
She opened her eyes.
For a moment, she looked at me.
I wondered what she saw.
I had spent years teaching my face not to betray thought. Courts watched weakness. Enemies studied hesitation. Soldiers required certainty even when commanders possessed none. Emotion had become something I stored behind scar tissue and silence.
Now every thought moved through my face before I could stop it.
Fear.
Hope.
Anger.
Guilt.
Calculation.
Terror.
Relief when her breathing steadied. Terror again because another contraction would come. Ophelia looked away first. Perhaps my fear frightened her. The thought made shame join everything else.
I should have been calm for her.
I should have been something solid enough to hold.
Instead, I was barely containing the urge to overturn furniture simply because furniture could be broken and this could not.
The physician approached after the contraction passed. She asked Ophelia questions in a soft voice, then checked the progress again.
I watched the woman's face.
I had become very good at reading physicians.
They tried to hide uncertainty beneath neutrality. They softened concern around the mouth. They avoided looking directly at family members when the answer was disappointing.
Ophelia resumed walking after several minutes.
I followed.
The night deepened outside.
The room reflected itself in the windows now. I saw her moving through glass instead of directly, a pale figure in a loose gown, one hand against the bed. Behind her stood physicians, maids, Veronica, and me.
I did look like a ghost.
She had been right earlier.
Dark clothes. Pale skin. One damaged eye made worse by exhaustion. Shoulders locked. Hands flexing at my sides as though searching for a weapon.
Every few minutes, I tried to help.
I offered water.
She refused.
I suggested sitting.
She said sitting hurt.
I suggested lying down.
She looked at me with enough hatred that Veronica laughed.
I offered my arm.
She took it for three steps before pulling away because my body heat made her uncomfortable.
I asked what she needed.
She said she did not know.
That answer nearly destroyed what remained of my composure.
I wanted instructions.
Give me a task.
Tell me where to stand.
Tell me what to hold.
Tell me who to threaten.
Tell me what would make it easier.
No one could.
The physician told me comfort differed between women.
Veronica told me to listen to Ophelia.
Ophelia did not know what she needed because each position that helped became unbearable moments later.
I could not console her.
I had thought presence would be enough after everything we endured. She had asked me not to disappear when fear became difficult. I promised to stay. I believed staying meant holding her hand, speaking gently, reminding her she was safe.
But every attempt at comfort seemed inadequate.
When I told her she was doing well, she looked as though the words belonged to someone who did not understand.
When I said she was okay, fear remained in her eyes. When I promised I was there, the pain continued. My voice could not reach the place where she suffered. Love did not make pain less painful. That seemed unfair enough to qualify as cruelty.
Another hour passed.
The midwife took a break.
A maid ate a small meal in the corridor.
One physician rested near the fire while another worked.
Veronica accepted tea.
I watched steam rise from the cup while Ophelia stood near the window with tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Everyone received breaks because everyone could.
Ophelia could not step outside her body for ten minutes.
She could not hand the pain to someone else and eat.
She could not sleep.
She could not become absent from this process without risking everything.
I had asked her body to create life and then left her alone inside the cost.
I had never felt guilt like that before.
Not because I believed pregnancy was punishment I had deliberately inflicted. Ophelia wanted this child. She chose this future as much as I did. But choice did not erase consequence, and love did not absolve me from seeing what my happiness demanded from her.
I had celebrated every sign.
The first movement beneath my hand.
The change in her body.
The nursery.
The clothes.
The names we pretended not to discuss seriously.
All of it had been joy for me.
For her, it had also been nausea. Weakness. Fear. Poison. Sleeplessness. An aching body. The knowledge that birth might ask for her life.
I wanted to be a father so badly that I allowed myself to think mostly about receiving a child.
I had not thought enough about what she would have to give.
The realization made me feel monstrous in a way executions never had.
Ophelia took another step.
Stopped.
Her hand moved to her back.
I approached before I could think.
She did not tell me to stop this time.
I stood beside her, close enough that our sleeves touched.
"Can I?" I asked.
The question felt unnatural.
I was not accustomed to asking permission to help.
She nodded.
I placed my hand against her lower back.
Carefully.
She leaned into the pressure for several seconds.
Relief moved through me so strongly it was almost dizzying.
I was helping.
Finally.
Then the contraction strengthened. Her body tensed beneath my hand.
"Not there," she gasped.
I removed it immediately. The brief relief vanished. I stepped away again.
Useless.
The word repeated inside me until it became rhythm.
She cried quietly through the rest of the contraction. I stood close enough to hear and incapable of stopping it.
My mind began moving through solutions that were not solutions.
More physicians.
Different medicine.
Sedation.
Could she be sedated?
No, Veronica said it could slow things or risk the child depending on what was used.
Remove the child surgically.
The physicians said that carried greater danger unless necessary.
Make it necessary.
No.
That thought terrified me.
Ophelia moved again.
The room had become quieter around her. Even the maids no longer spoke unless necessary. Her pain had increased enough to silence everyone.
She leaned over the edge of the bed.
Another contraction.
This one lasted longer.
I counted each breath.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Too long.
Ophelia remained bent over.
She did not straighten immediately.
I moved closer.
"I am tired," she whispered.
The words cut deeper than any cry.
"I know."
"I do not want to do this anymore."
My throat closed.
I looked toward Veronica.
For help.
For language.
For anything.
Veronica's face remained steady, but grief moved briefly through her eyes.
"You do not have to want it," she told Ophelia. "You only have to survive the moment you are in."
Ophelia began crying.
Quietly.
Only tears she no longer possessed the strength to hide.
I turned her carefully toward me.
She allowed it.
Her forehead rested against my chest.
"I got you"
I wrapped them around her.
Gently.
Too gently, perhaps.
Afraid pressure might worsen the pain. Afraid everything I did could become another burden her body had to carry. She remained against me until the room became too warm again.
Then she pulled away.
I released her immediately.
That had become the pattern.
She came close.
She left.
I followed without trapping.
Another hour passed.
Perhaps two.
Night pressed darker against the windows.
The fire had been fed three times.
Ophelia resumed walking because remaining still had become worse.
She reached the side of the bed.
Stopped.
Then her body changed. Her shoulders dropped suddenly. A long breath left her.
Not pain.
Relief.
For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought it had ended. I thought her body had finally decided enough was enough.
As liquid spread down her legs and across the stone floor.
She stared at it.
So did I.
More than expected.
Far more.
"My love?"
She looked up.
Confusion filled her face.
"It's to mu.." her words were left unsaid as Her entire body folded. The sound that left her was unlike any she had made before.
Raw.
Frightened.
Not only pain.
Terror.
Her knees gave.
I reached her before she fell.
My arms closed around her, one behind her back, the other beneath her weight. She clung to me immediately. Fingers tangled in my shirt. Her face buried against my shoulder.
The relief I had felt seconds earlier became horror.
I had thought the water breaking meant the end.
Veronica's face told me it was a beginning.
Ophelia cried out again.
Her body tightened so violently in my arms that I felt the force of it through every point where we touched.
"Achille."
"I have you."
My voice remained steady.
How?
I did not know.
Inside, something had torn completely loose.
"It hurts."
The words broke against my neck.
I closed my eyes.
"I know."
A lie.
I knew nothing.
I knew her grip. Her shaking. The heat of tears soaking into my collar. I knew I would have accepted every second of her pain into my own body if someone explained how.
But I did not know what she felt.
That separation became unbearable.
She made a sound so small it frightened me more than screaming.
Then she begged.
"Please make it stop."
The room disappeared.
Not blurred.
Gone.
There was only Ophelia in my arms asking me to save her. I had built my entire identity around being the man who could act when others froze.
Now she asked me directly.
"Please make it stop."
And I had nothing.
No answer.
No command.
No weapon.
No promise I could honestly give.
My mouth opened.
Silence came out.
She gripped me harder.
"Please."
The second plea destroyed whatever the first left standing.
I pressed my face into her hair.
My eyes burned.
"I am here," I said.
The words sounded pathetic.
A king offering presence to a woman begging for relief.
"I am here."