arthur/eithne: "why are you talking like we'll never see each other again?"
Eithne took a deep breath before speaking again.
"That's not what I meant to imply," Eithne answered slowly. "I just..." she paused. She'd had this conversation again and again over the past weeks but she had known with him it would be different-- with him her heart would hurt in a different way than it had when she'd seen the despair on her sisters' faces.
"You will always be welcome, of course, at Malconaire. My husband-to-be and I would be honored to host you and your family as our first guests after our wedding."
"Your husband-to-be?"
"I'm marrying Cassimir."
Arthur was rendered speechless and Eithne was ashamed at her next action: she fled into the garden, unable to stand the silence. He was following her within seconds.
"Why? What does he have over you to convince you to do such a thing?" Arthur demanded, grabbing Eithne's arm to stop her as she made a beeline for the chicken pen. Eithne whipped around to face him.
"Nothing. This is my own decision," Eithne answered sternly. Arthur seemed unconvinced.
"I won't let this happen. He doesn't deserve you."
"There are reasons I just cannot explain. You have to believe me-- I am doing what is best for myself. My family. My home."
"So he does hold something over you!"
"No, you're not listening--"
"I'll challenge him. For your honor," Arthur proclaimed. Eithne wrenched her arm out of his grasp.
"You will do no such thing!"
"You cannot tell me what I will and will not do-- I am your prince!" Arthur snapped suddenly, almost without thought. The words hung in the air between them and you could see the regret on his face as he realized what he had said. Something ended in that moment-- they'd been balancing on a precarious edge for months now and with that one sentence, they'd slipped into the abyss below.
"Eithne..."
"My most sincere apologies, Your Imperial Highness," Eithne answered, taking a few steps backwards from Arthur. She looked up and met his eyes-- he was silently pleading with her but she knew this was how it had to be.
"I am due to be in the village this afternoon," Eithne continued, trying to keep her voice even. "My step mother and step sister should be home by now-- I am sure they will be more than happy to receive you for tea should you wish to have some refreshments before your trip home."
"Eithne, please," Arthur was walking towards her, arm outstretched. She shook her head and he stopped. "Eithne..."
"Good afternoon, Your Imperial Highness," Eithne sank into a deep curtsey before turning and fleeing through the garden gate before he could see the emotion flooding her face.
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I'm thinking about a bigger age gap.
Sam's 10 years old and spoilt rotten when her mother discovers she's pregnant. She doesn't realise for the longest time, never really shows much signs until the end, and by the time she does, it's too late. She doesn't know who the father is, it could be her husband, it could be... well, there were others. The baby's small, comes out early, and who's to say when she was conceived. She has her mother's complexion, her dark hair and dark eyes, and Christina gets to keep on lying.
Sam's not sure about the baby at first, everyone made it sound like things would change so much once it got here. But things don't really change at all. Her mother still always has time for her, and she isn't kept awake all night from screaming. Her parents are a little more tense, but it doesn't seem to change anything for Sam at all.
One night, Sam can't sleep. She's awake thinking of all they learned in class. About pregnancies, and babies, and all their needs and how to look after them. She can't stop thinking about it, there's just this voice in the back of her head nagging her, telling her there was something wrong, but she can't quite figure it out. It feels important.
Her feet find her way to the baby's room.
It's cold, the window's open, the room lit up from a nearby streetlamp. The tiny thing is awake with its hand in her mouth, big brown eyes staring up at her. Sam finds she can't look at them for long, it makes something in her chest ache. She doesn't know why.
She reaches out to touch the baby instead, she's icy cold. Sam thinks of what they learned in class, how much babies cry to tell us what they need, how often they need to eat, how they can't regulate their body temperature. She drags her fingers down its chest and thinks of how quiet it always is, how it never cries. How little her parents seem to feed her compared to how much her teacher said they should.
The thing whimpers when she draws her hand away, and in an instant, her hand is back on its chest, fingers spread against the bare skin, the cold suffocating out her warmth. She doesn't know what possesses her to do it, but she picks the baby up, careful to support her head the way they taught her in class. It's so small and light in her arms, she almost feels like a doll.
She watches the way it suckles on its own fingers and wonders when she was last fed. Mother fed her at breakfast, and again at dinner. She wonders if there was anything in between, there's a heaviness in her stomach as her brain goes no. She doesn't know what mother does when she's at school, but something inside of her is certain she knows what the answer isn't.
So Sam carefully creeps down the stairs, baby in her arms, determined to feed it. She's watched her mother make the formula before, curious, she thinks she can manage it. She puts the baby on the armchair, and takes the blanket from the back of the couch to wrap around her, making a nest so the baby can't fall. It whines again when Sam puts her down, but Sam hushes her softly and tells her she'll be right back. The baby can't understand, but it felt right to say.
She makes up a bottle, and checks the temperature, and returns to the armchair. She picks the baby up and settles herself down and tugs the blanket over her lap. The baby drinks the bottle so fast that Sam's worried it might choke, the way she does when she chugs down her own drinks. But the baby finishes the bottle and it feels like there's a balloon in her chest when it yawns and nuzzles against her chest, tiny hand tangling in her t-shirt.
Maybe the baby isn't so bad, she thinks, curling herself into the seat. She doesn't want to take the baby back upstairs to her cold lonely room. No, she can sleep right here in her arms, safe and warm. It feels right. She'll tell her mother in the morning about what they learned in class, remind her the baby needs to be fed more and that she's too cold. Maybe she just doesn't know. She ignores the voice in her head that says she knows.
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