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This was a cooperative effort, written by myself and @Wolf_Cobra. Both @IGutTheMidasTuch and @Gearot would have direct knowledge of this incident. Farewell to an absolutely lovely character!
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This was a cooperative effort, written by myself and @Wolf_Cobra. Both @IGutTheMidasTuch and @Gearot would have direct knowledge of this incident. Farewell to an absolutely lovely character!
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Jamie and Amelia sat across from one another, each nursing a wine-filled chalice. There was an odd, mechanical quality to the patriarch's movements, as few as they were. His entire body was stagnant, the only sign of life being the hand that occasionally propelled a goblet to his lips. Jamie's female counterpart, on the other hand, seemed her usual, impatient self; setting her feet atop a neighboring stool, then returning them to the grass below after a mere moment. The pair continued to wait in an eerie silence, awaiting any news of Theodore's arrival.
Inside the estate was a different scene; a new couple already divided, but for a good cause. Bryn sat outside the bedroom door, nervous and excited as he eagerly wrote in his notebook about the event. Armed with the quill in his hands, nothing would stop his imagination now. What he was doing? Writing a short story he would read to his newborn when they came of age. And inside the bedroom, the time for this newborn to come into Aloria came closer.
Every so often, a cry of pain echoed from inside Bryn's bedroom. But that was to be expected. Childbirth wasn't easy, although Bryn was sure the midwife was doing an exemplary job with his wife. Despite Bryn's attempts to ease his worry, he couldn't deny the odd tone of fear that rimmed each reverberation. As that fear grew more and more prominent, another sound swelled with it; fierce rummaging, akin to a thief desperately combing every container in sight for some type of valuable. Bryn's fear grew. And soon enough, it culminated.
"Ser! I-- Arryn-- Inside, please! Quickly"
The Rosendahl scrambled to his feet, his notebook and quill falling to the floor. But as quick as his movements were, he would never had been able to stop what happened. A babe, cradled in the midwife's arms, helplessly open and closed it's mouth. Bryn smiled, but his smile not permanent. Just to the right of this scene, lay his wife. Arryn, the one he married just a few months ago. White. That's all he saw as a tear quickly found its way to his eye.
Time passed. Slowly, it seemed, for the two Rosendahls outside. Oblivious to the tragedy present inside the estate, they exchanged curious looks. Amelia was the first to voice her thoughts.
"Does it usually take this long?"
Jamie's voice was strained, laced with apprehension; a result of his own experience with accouchement. "I don't know."
"Maybe it's twins. Come now, don't be that fearful. Let's check on Bryn, shall we?
"He'll need the company. Pfft, he's probably pissing himself with worry."
The pair rose, ambling towards the main gate. As they swung open the heavy oaken door, any sense of mirth or excitement was suddenly blown away by a thick, cold draft from inside. Jamie knew this atmosphere. Thick, heavy, and sad; the kind that always accompanied a calamity. His twin felt it as well, although her apprehension seemed to dissolve in anticipation of meeting little Theodore. Amelia made her way up the stairs, Jamie slowly following at her heels.
They were met with a heartbreaking sight. There sat Bryn, on the couch, with his son in his hands. Contrary to little Theodore, captivated by his father's game of peek-a-boo, Bryn's face was white with terror. It wasn't hard to see through his poorly-constructed smile; he looked broken, and no amount of acting could hide that.
Jamie's gaze shifted to the bedroom, where the midwife had began wrapping Arryn's body, wiping away the blood and sweat that remained; a courtesy of Arryn's final battle. The twin Rosendahls returned their attention to Bryn and Theodore with faces contorted in grief. The floor around them was littered with pages that once belonged in a young man's notebook; the same notebook that held tales of how he and his wife met, and every happy moment together; even their wedding day. Bryn hadn't failed to write it down. The pages that lay on the floor? The story he would read his son as he came of age.
Bryn summoned everything in him to look up and pull a believable smile, although his efforts remained futile. One life was taken from him, to be replaced with another.
"Theodore. Theodore Antoine Rosendahl."
