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 thiswas 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.
