“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you, child?”
Loraelle gazed lovingly down at her newly born daughter, rocking the infant gently in her arms as she nursed from her mother. She laid reclined on a sofa beside the great window of her chambers, observing the downpour of rain over the forests surrounding Emberfell. Raindrops pelted against the glass, the wind eerily whistling lowly through the walls of the citadel. The grandfather clock standing tall across the room ticked away monotonously. Each passing second, each echoing tick, instilled grief into Loraelle’s heart. Her gaze returned to her daughter, who had now slipped into a comfortable slumber, her belly full of warm milk. She’s quite peaceful, Loraelle thought as she studied the newborn’s face. Her cheeks were soft and round with the slightest hint of a blush, eyelids closed, dreaming away. Despite the tempest storming on just on the other side of the glass beside them, the half-elf baby snoozed peacefully, not a single sound escaping her lips.
A deep tick could be heard from the clock, to which Loraelle shifted her attention towards. The midnight hour had arrived at once. Her long, elven ears tilted ever so slightly downward, a slow, shaky breath taken in. No more than a moment later came the dreadful sound of a knock on her chamber doors. She rose slowly to her feet, cradling her swaddled child to her chest, eyeing the door with anticipation.
“You may enter,” she called, attempting to hide the tremble in her voice. The heavy wooden door quietly creaked open and in stepped her closest handmaiden, who looked on toward her with somber eyes.
“They’ve arrived, Embassador.”
Loraelle inhaled deeply, struggling to withhold the tears stinging at her icy blue eyes. She began rocking her child as she spoke, “They are ready now, yes?”
The handmaiden took a few steps further into the Embassador’s chambers with a solemn nod. “However, there is someone else here to see the child,” she added, allowing the door to open further. Loraelle looked on as a man’s figure became visible to her from the doorframe, his tall, bulky stature illuminated against the flickering candlelight. Her expression softened, shoulders relaxing from their previously stiff position.
“Atticus,” she breathed, gracefully stepping forward. Her full, pink lips curled gently into a smile as she met the man’s eyes through the dimly-lit room. Atticus strode hastily toward her, standing next to the mother and her child with a soft expression. He reached his hand to Loraelle’s face, gently grazing her cheek with his thumb. He beamed down at the blonde elven woman, “Are you well?”
She would nod, a small sound of affirmation escaping her lips. The infant cooed softly, eyes flickering open to observe the new world around her. She gestured toward her with another nod of her head.
“She bears your eye color,” she breathed, a wavy lock of her hair falling over her shoulder as she admired her newborn.
Atticus smiled with content, chuckling lightly, eyes flicking from his newborn daughter to her mother. “It’s a girl?”
Loraelle nodded, her heart fluttering with joy inside her chest. “Yes.”
He breathed, brows upturned as if he were on the verge of tears, and brought the hand that once grazed Loraelle’s cheek now to his daughter’s face. He watched her lovingly, fixating on her every feature. The baby blinked sleepily, gazing back at her father.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked, looking up at the tall man before her.
“She is perfect, Lora.”
“Would you like to hold her, Atticus?”
Atticus nodded at once, and Loraelle delicately handed the newborn over to her father. He sighed, heart swelling with affection, and cradled her gently in his arms. He studied every part of her being– the soft, regal orange linen she was swaddled in, the rosy blush upon her pale cheeks, her big, warm brown eyes. He studied her as if it were the last time he would ever lay eyes on her.
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Atticus blinked back his tears as he turned his attention to Loraelle. He lowered the baby back into her arms, the Embassador scooping her daughter back up from his hold. He took in a slow breath, mouth slightly agape as if he were to say something. Loraelle dreamily watched their daughter, gently swaying back and forth, too focused on the infant to notice the King attempting to find the right words to say.
“Lora,” he breathed quietly. She looked up at the sound of her name, brows raised ever so slightly in anticipation.
Atticus’ heart raced within the confines of his chest. His eyes flicked between hers as he struggled to put thoughts into words.
“I have not been of aid to you for the past nine months,” he said at once. “I wanted dearly to be at your side, to support you through your pregnancy, to witness her being birthed… but this predicament we have found ourselves in made those things impossible,” he said lowly.
Loraelle, the smile now gone from her lips, found herself fighting back tears once again as she listened to the King. His chest rose and fell with a heavy, saddened sigh, “And for that, I am sorry.”
She held back a whimper and averted her gaze, brows upturned in despair. Her breath trembled, her quiet cries beginning to rouse the infant in her arms. She whined quietly, not quite in tears, but obviously distressed.
“Does it have to be this way?” she asked, her shaky voice barely louder than a whisper.
Atticus watched her with sorrowful eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Just as the King spoke did the chamber doors open, the Embassador’s handmaiden and two figures donning dark garb standing a short distance away.
“There is no more time to waste, Embassador,” spoke the handmaiden. Loraelle simply stood still, giving a hesitant and diminutive nod. The handmaiden stepped aside, the darkly-garbed individuals making their way to the side as well. “King Atticus, your Majesty,” she followed with a downward tilt of her head.
Atticus silently turned and looked back at Loraelle and their unnamed daughter, whose whines had become more audible at this point in time. Loraelle did not meet his gaze. He looked down at the child and brought his hand to her cheek one last time. He brushed his thumb over her face, trying to memorize the feeling of her skin on his before withdrawing his hand and turning his back to them. The three standing on either side of the doorway bowed their heads as the tall man walked past. He did not look back.
As the sounds of his steps disappeared down the corridor, the handmaiden lifted her head to look toward Loraelle once more. The garbed individuals took an anticipatory step toward her.
“Embassador,” she repeated.
Loraelle held her daughter close, standing firmly in her position as they slowly approached her. She unconsciously shielded the infant from them, for she knew what was to come.
The handmaiden slowly stepped up to her and silently held out her arms.
Loraelle, sight blurred by the tears that stung at her eyes, could not withhold a quiet gasp of despair as she allowed the woman to take the child from her embrace. The child’s face twisted into a strong cry as she felt the warmth of her mother disappear. She began writhing in the arms of her new holder, her cries now painfully loud and sharp. The rain seemed to have begun falling heavier than before and thunder crashed so strongly outside that the windows of the citadel shook. Loraelle could barely breathe, face red and stained with tears, as she watched her attendant solemnly turn and exit her chambers. The other two watched the Embassador for a moment before following suit, heavy wooden doors closing behind them.
She stood still, staring catatonically at the closed doors with a heavy heart. She listened breathlessly as her daughter wailed, her cries becoming fainter and fainter with each passing second until there was nothing left but the pittering of the rain on her windows and the familiar ticking of the clock. It was then that her strength finally gave out and she collapsed to her knees. She sobbed, weeping a river into the palms of her hands, all alone in a crumpled heap on her wooden floors. And for the first time in nearly a year, she was truly alone.