07-07-2019, 12:48 AM
We're caught in the crossfire
of the war inside our soul
The evening stretches bruised fingers across the sky, drawing with it a blanket of velvet stars framed by the red and gold of the setting sun. Such a lovely setting for such an auspicious night, though he hardly knows it yet. When the pangs of labor begin, he awaits with the same eagerness as she, the beauty of each previous birth having long ago led him to forget the horrors nature could condemn them with.Though each new son or daughter filled him with such nervous wonder, he couldn’t not help but feel the anticipatory joy of birth, of new life. Of someone so perfect and blessed to love, just as much as he loves all their children.
He’d almost forgotten even his most ancient of troubles, the darkness that still lingers in his bones, in the furthest reaches of his soul. That their children, so innocent and sweet, inherited pieces of those shadows had nearly ceased to bother him. But fate, it seems, has a wicked sense of humor, and later he would wonder if this had occurred to remind him he is not truly free from the darkness of his past.
Would wonder if his son’s life had been punishment for his hubris.
For a moment, it’s almost surreal. That a moment of joy and beauty could so quickly turn to horror is nearly unfathomable.
It takes several long moments for the sickness of reality to settle. For understanding to dawn as Ilka raises panic-stricken eyes to him. His heart pressing against his throat, he eases forward, his lips tracing almost desperately over her damp shoulder, as though her touch might erase the nightmare of the scene before him. As though something so simple might spark life in those empty brown eyes.
“Ilka,” he whispers, shaking his head, as though that might erase the evening. He presses closer, still almost disbelieving. But he could not dispel the truth that lay so still before him. Her broken pleas stir something fierce inside him, but there is nothing he can protect her from. Nothing he can do to defeat this kind of evil. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” He squeezes his eyes shut then, pressing his cheek against her, his breath harsh against her skin. “You did nothing wrong. Nothing.” He shakes his head again, cheek rubbing against her. “You could never be at fault.”
If anything, it is mine, he thinks, though he dares not say it aloud.
As she holds their son, desperately wishing life into him with her touch alone, Shah can only press closer to her, his lips trailing grief-stricken kisses along her crest, tangling in the dark strands of her mane. He can feel the way pain seems to ripple through her body, but when she turns her heartbroken gaze to him, he can only stare back with a matching pain.
Closing his eyes, he eases forward. After a moment, he opens them to peer down at the empty shell of his son’s perfect little body. Tears spill then, dampening his cheeks as he leans down to press a trembling kiss to that still, cool forehead.
With a raw gasp, he steps back, unable to mask the pain of the moment. With shaky movements, he lowers himself slowly to the ground, pulling his wife’s trembling body against him as she cries out in grief and denial.It is all he can do to hold his own in check, his nose pressed against her.
“You can do this,” he whispers against her, his voice raspy. “If not for yourself, then for me.” He clutches her tightly against him then, unwilling to face the thought of losing her too. “Please.”
An aching hollow burrows into his chest as she labors with a second child. This is nothing like the first time. Nothing like the miracle their first two children had been. And he knows fear. A fear nothing like any he had felt before.
Because she is everything to him. He doesn’t know that he could survive the world without her.
When his name sounds from her lips on a question, the soft whisper shattering the air, he breathes out a harsh, uneven gasp. His gaze instantly jumps to find hers, such hollow fragility shining from those beautiful eyes that his heart splits apart as he is forced to swallow his grief. Slowly, he turns, dreading what he might find nearly as much as her.
But as his eyes land on the wet, struggling bundle, the incredible weight of the moment seems to fall and burst around him. With a sharp inhale, tears overwhelm him once more as he gently kisses Ilka’s shoulder. “He’s alive,” he breathes into her skin, almost a prayer in the early morning air.
Gently extricating himself, he moves to the colt, tenderly clearing his nostrils as his tears fall freely onto damp blue skin.
Shahrizai
I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING