#(I read Teagan's dream so I am all caught up)

[mycrappyrpsideblog]

Shuhei stares at his phone and rolls his eyes. The text from Teagan seemed urgent but it didn't make booking a last minute flight any more fun. Or having to pack up the things you'd been doing at your own shrine any easier. You sent a quick text to your priestess you'd finally managed to hire asking her to come over once she has a moment. A short while later she reacts with a thumbs up and you start taking care of what needs done on your end before waiting on the porch for her to arrive. She seemed flustered at having to take over the shrine so soon but you reassured her that you'd be back once things were handled with your kismesis and would finish helping her get trained the rest of the way. Hopefully it'd only take a week or so at most so there shouldn't be much for her to do while you were away. And once things were settled you let Teagan know you were on the way.

[Txt: Foxie: 'Pick me up from the airport in 3 hrs. And I want boba.']

@stuckstucktrolls

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 69 - Denerim

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Fereldans, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3

--

Twenty-third day of Wintermarch, 9:33 Dragon

Spring flowers bloomed along the western road to Denerim, but the column of riders and infantry that approached was no proud company in parade shine. They were bedraggled and muddy from weeks of fighting along the coast, tired from the day’s march, and while Rosslyn and Alistair straightened in their saddles as they waited at the gate to be let in, they had to roll their shoulders beneath their armour and hide yawns behind their hands. The decapitated heads of traitors watched them sightlessly from hooks set into the walls above them, many of them fresh enough to still be recognisable despite the depredations of the crows. Mother Berit wasn’t among the number, perhaps saved by her Chantry connections, but Bann Loren was, and next to him a younger man with blond hair and a crude green sunburst painted onto his forehead.

“That was Vaughan Kendells,” Rosslyn said, noticing the direction of Alistair’s gaze. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her, remembering what she had told him, and the lift of Tabris’ chin as she spoke of her escape from the city. “Me neither.”

Before she could do more than smile at the reply, the gate opened and an officer waved them through. The market-day traffic was thinner than it had been the last time Alistair had visited capital, and he saw more beggars on the streets, but those who stopped to watch them pass did so with open, curious gazes instead of the harried suspicion that had met them in Amaranthine. On impulse, he nudged his horse closer to Rosslyn and held out his hand. Gaze soft, she took it and linked their fingers together as she had in Uldred’s dream, only this time they bumped knees, and there was a smudge of dirt under her eye, and all of his bones ached from days on the road to tell him it was real. People cheered, and it made her blush.

Her smile still lingered when they reached the palace gates and dismounted to hand off care of the army to the officers, and their horses to the grooms that had appeared from a side arch as if by magic. In the momentary confusion, he stepped close to her so he could distract himself from their formal welcome by brushing away the smear on her cheek.

The last time he had been brought to the palace, as part of Teagan’s entourage, he had been all but smuggled in under a helmet to hide his resemblance to the various portraits of Theirin ancestors hung in almost every room; there hadn’t been two flanking rows of guards waiting at attention as they walked up the steps, nor an announcement by a herald. Rosslyn’s titles outnumbered his, and it gave them a moment to pause before they were ushered through.

“Relax,” she told him. “You’re not heading to an execution.”

He only pouted. “This is just as bad as Summerday.”

“Is it really?” she asked, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Well. Maybe some things are better.”

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the wry look she tilted at him, but before he could say anything else, the doors to the great hall swung open to reveal not just Cailan and Anora sitting on their thrones on the dais, but also Rosslyn’s grandparents, straight-backed and magnificent in their finery.

“So here ye are,” the Storm Giant boomed. “At last! We were starting to worry ye’d upped and run off with her.”

Anora shot him a peeved glance. “Your Highness, my Lady Cousland, be welcome in our hall.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn replied as she sank into a graceful bow.

“I trust your journey was not too eventful?”

“Given your track record, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a slew of rescued damsels left in your wake,” Cailan interrupted. He was frowning, and a bitter, sullen note coloured his voice. “Perhaps you stopped by Soldier’s Peak to rid it of all its ghosts?”

“Not quite,” Alistair supplied, with a careful glance to the woman beside him.

The king seemed to shake himself out of his bad humour. “A jest, of course. It’s good to see you both unharmed.”

Rosslyn adjusted her stance, folding her arms behind her back as if she were delivering a report from the field. “Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine proved difficult to convince of her allegiances, Your Majesty. We are sorry for the delay.”

“We are glad of your safe arrival, of course – especially given the happy tidings you bring with you,” Anora said easily, without looking at her husband. “My congratulations to you both.”

“Indeed.” Lady Lileas, who until that point had merely watched proceedings unfold before her like an augur scrying bones, swept forward and pulled her granddaughter into a hug. “It’s good to see you, mo chridhe. And as for you,” she added, turning to Alistair with a stare that made him shrink away like a mouse, “You bested An Sgòrnan Aigeinn. I am satisfied.”

“Uh…”

“Can we be away now?” the Storm Giant interrupted with impatience. “My oald joints are starting to creak like a mizzen in a hoolie.”

“You’re not staying in the palace?” Alistair asked.

Lady Lileas smiled. “My grandson has kindly granted us use of his estate while we see to the preparations for your wedding, and we are still Rosslyn’s guardians.” Her expression darkened. “That swine left it in a terrible state. His death was well deserved. Come, granddaughter, you must wish to change out of armour, and there is much to discuss.”

A frown creased Rosslyn’s forehead. “It’s almost dark already and we’ve been travelling since dawn. I’m sure Their Majesties would not begrudge their hospitality – any discussion can wait until tomorrow.”

“You are not staying here,” her grandmother replied, as if the suggestion were absurd.

“I’m Commander-in-Chief of the army,” she pointed out. “I’m needed to plan the spring advance – the war isn’t over yet.”

“You are also not married yet.”

“This is because…?” Her eyes flew wide. “What do you think will happen? It’s not like we haven’t –” Faltering, her gaze flashed to Alistair and skittered away again as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. “We’ve been together on the road for weeks, what difference does it make now?”

“This is how things are done in the joining of two houses.” Lady Lileas drew herself up. “You know this.”

Behind his wife, the Storm Giant cleared his throat and said something in Clayne that Alistair failed to catch, but instead of lifting Rosslyn’s expression it only served to set her mouth in a line of petulant defeat. It was adorable.

“My things will need to be forwarded,” she said. “And I’ll require a schedule for meetings with the army’s officers and outfitters.”

“It will be done,” Cailan told her, having watched the whole exchange from behind steepled fingers. “And the sooner you get married, the sooner we can move your things back, eh?”

With nothing left to say, and a last helpless glance back at Alistair, Rosslyn was chivvied from the hall less like a war hero and more like a child caught shirking lessons, taking their plans for a quiet, shared evening with her and leaving him to wonder at just how quickly their fortunes had been turned around. Anora and Cailan’s gazes itched on the back of his neck, and he only barely remembered to turn to ask their leave before running after her. The clanking of his armour echoed ahead of him, and he found them already waiting just inside the entrance hall at the top of the steps. The looks being levelled at him were not favourable.

“Uh – can I have a moment to speak to my betrothed?” The word still sparked on his tongue. He doubted he would get used to it before he was calling her his wife instead, but thinking about that too closely made him dizzy. “In private?” he added, as he slipped his hand into Rosslyn’s.

The Storm Giant nudged his wife with his elbow. “Ach, go on.”

The clan leader of the Mac Eanraig pursed her lips at him, but it didn’t quite hide the twitch of her amusement. “We will wait in the carriage.”

He didn’t dare breathe until Rosslyn’s grandparents had reached the bottom of the steps, and then, spying an unobtrusive side door leading off the hall, he tugged on their joined fingers and pulled her after him with only the thinnest veneer of patience. The door swung open easily onto a small room lit by a single arrow slit, and the latch clicked back into place behind them an instant before he dropped her hand so he could take her face instead. She giggled as her forehead pressed against his.

“What is this place?”

“A storeroom – something – I don’t care,” he answered. “How long do you think it will be before they come looking for us?”

Gently, she shook her head and nudged a kiss against his lips. “Nowhere near long enough for all these layers of armour, my love.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he purred.

“I’m sure.”

One gloved finger traced the line of her jaw. “I told you we should have stayed in bed this morning.”

“Soon, we’ll be able to stay in bed every morning,” she reminded him.

“In our bed.” His breath stuttered.

“No sneaking away back to separate rooms.”

“Then…” He steadied himself and found her hand again. “This is just another reason why Guardian can’t come fast enough. How am I going to last without you for so long?”

She laughed, lightly pushing him away so she could get to the door again. “I’m not disappearing off the face of Thedas, and it’s only a few weeks. We’ll see each other every day – we’ve been through worse.”

“I’ll dream of you,” he promised.

“My grandmother would be scandalised.” She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth as she turned to leave. “Everything will be fine.”

--

It was not fine.

Aside from the wedding plans – fabrics and food and guest invitations and the small feud that erupted between Anora and Rosslyn’s grandmother because of it – they were kept ridiculously busy organising for the march south, and assisting in the city’s rebuilding efforts. They saw each other only in snatches for daily meetings, and barely exchanged two words that were not about policy or supplies. In addition to the schedule, Rosslyn had to drag herself across the city every morning to oversee the army’s drills, which meant most moments she had to herself during the day were spent trying to catch up on sleep.

To keep himself from missing her too much, Alistair took on oversight of the alienage. Nobody else seemed to care about the damage done to the elves, and while Cailan indulged him, or perhaps lacked interest, many of the other nobles already in attendance for Wintersend muttered that he was wasting both time and money on a worthless cause. They quieted after he pointed out that having to contend with an uprising would only add to the strain being faced by all of them, but having to appeal to their self-interest left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anora, at least, offered support for his efforts. As the time went by and Cailan’s preoccupation with finding Loghain took up more and more of his thoughts, the day-to-day politics of the palace fell to her. For this reason, relations with her continued to be fraught, especially in regards to military matters. She didn’t like people stepping on her toes. She didn’t stand for breaks with decorum, either, but she was fair and even-handed in her judgements, and for the sake of peace, Alistair tried his best to follow her lead and stay out of her way.

The only bright spots in all the blandness of days passing too slowly came in the notes he and Rosslyn managed to smuggle to each other during meetings and meals, the only times they got to touch, or even stand next to each other. She had passed the first to him in a chance encounter in one of the corridors, a brief press into his hand and she left with just the flash of her smirk tossed over her shoulder, and a glance down to where a neatly folded square of paper sat in his palm. Before anyone could call him away, he had slipped into a nearby empty room and pored over the lines, just a few sentences written in her elegant hand, but more than she had been able to say to him since they had arrived in Denerim.

I’ll not trust any messengers this time save our own hands, my love, and the time cannot come soon enough when I get to hold yours. When I get to be alone with you. When I can fall asleep beside you once more and never again worry about how long it will be until we must part. I love you.

He passed her his reply with the salt cellar at dinner.

I love you too. I wake up thinking of you. I miss curling around your body and waking you with kisses, even if your hair so often gets caught in the middle. I miss the sound of your voice and the brightness of your eyes. I’d write poetry about them, but you haven’t married me yet and I don’t want to risk it.

It became a game between them, this sly exchange of notes, each one a tiny rebellion at the strictures of propriety, a private conversation when no privacy was allowed.  

My hair would not get so wild if a certain someone didn’t take such delight in tangling it the night before. In case you start to worry, that was not a complaint. I miss your voice as well, and your hands, and what both can do to me, although one benefit of distance is that I get to admire my future husband from afar without him noticing. Your footwork showed great improvement when you were sparring today, though you still drop your elbow too far when you block.

~

You enjoy making me blush, don’t you? Perhaps I can return the favour, Wife-To-Be. There was a moment in the gardens yesterday where you were wandering among the shrubbery with no idea that I was stuck only a floor above you, listening to Brantis drone on about the advantages of a trade deal Cailan has already agreed to. My attention may have wandered, and my hand was nothing but a thrall to the vision before me. I’m sure you can guess the subject.

~

I will treasure this likeness, my love, if I am allowed to keep it? I ought to admonish you for not paying more attention to Brantis, given how hard he tries, but I find I do not have the heart. The expression you captured here, is this truly how I look? Rest assured that I am blushing profusely, though I made the mistake of opening your offering for the first time while in the same room as my brother. Fergus seems to have taken it upon himself to stuff a year’s worth of insufferable brotherly affection into a few short weeks, though in hindsight I should not have told him your note included a sketch. He also says if we want to keep these messages secret, you ought to do better containing your grin in the exchanges. I told him to boil his head.

~

I am glad you like the sketch. It’s yours. I might never do you justice, but maybe in the future we’re to have together, I might practice? You looked tired when I saw you today (yesterday, by the time you read this), and you cannot tell me Wintersend isn’t preying on your mind. I know you too well. I cannot tell you how to feel, but please remember that I love you. So much.

As the holiday approached, Rosslyn’s sombre mood grew more pronounced, and she withdrew into herself. In the palace, the time was marked for celebration, and the festival spirit was upheld by an army of harried servants made busy decorating and preparing guest rooms for the visiting nobles – but it had also been a year since the sack of Highever, since Fergus and Rosslyn had marched away to war and returned to find a ruin. Alistair did what he could to bolster her spirits, but short of slipping his night guard and breaking into the Cousland estate like a common thief, there was little remedy for the nightmares she refused to admit were plaguing her again.

On the morning of the feast he spent an extra hour in the lists, trying to beat out his nerves on practice dummies. The usual meetings had been put on hold for the day, which meant he wouldn’t see her until she arrived with the rest of the guests just before sundown. It would be their first public appearance as a couple, the only one before the wedding, and that meant extra fuss in his attire lest the assembled nobility find him lacking either as a prince or as a prospective husband. Besides, he wanted his betrothed to be impressed.

While he bathed, Marten lay out the same rust-red doublet he had worn for Summerday, with the addition of the mantle made for the voyage to the Storm Islands, and the bracers Rosslyn herself had given him to meet her grandfather. He traced his fingers over the embossed leather as his valet fussed with his collar, remembering. He had almost kissed her after she helped him put them on the first time. Looking back, at what came later, he was glad he hadn’t but he wondered if she knew. Even during the darkest part of his time in Orzammar, he had worn the gift, too stubborn and too hopeful to give them up, and now he couldn’t stop smiling, and the day when he would become her husband rose barely a week away on the horizon, a lighthouse guiding all his thoughts to safe harbour.

“You’re all set, Your Highness,” Marten pronounced, bushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Alistair fiddled with a sleeve.

“You know her better than me, milord,” the valet pointed out. “I wouldn’t dare presume her taste in outfits.”  

“Right.”

Marten licked his lips. “No one’s in doubt that she loves you, but if you stand up here all night worrying – well, that’ll hardly do you any good, now will it? I’ve done the best I can for you.”

“And you have my eternal gratitude for it,” he replied.

With one last glance in the long mirror, and a deep breath to steady himself, Alistair nodded and left the room. When he reached the door to the king’s chambers further along the corridor, it was a maid who answered his knock, and she told him both Cailan and Anora were still indisposed. Then she shut the door again with a decisive click, before he could say anything else. He shifted on the balls of his feet. The light outside the window was fading from the brightness of late afternoon, which meant a good number of the guests should have arrived. He didn’t want to lurk in the hallway, awkward and bumbling and gossip-fodder for any servants who happened to catch a glance of him in all his worried finery, but he also didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself in the hall – Isolde had always sneered that he got under people’s feet, and however much he tried to block it out, the contemptuous echo of her in his mind remained persistent.

But Rosslyn would arrive soon, if she wasn’t already waiting for him. He could make small talk pretending to oversee the final preparations for the feast until she arrived, and then, he reasoned to himself as he walked, he could talk to her. He could spend the whole night talking to her, and nobody would be able to stop him. Maybe he could sneak her away, to some shady corner where he could hold her hand, and run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her. His thoughts wandered far enough in imagining it that his foot slipped on the first step of the landing and he only saved himself from tumbling all the way to the bottom of the stairs by snatching his hand out for the banister.

“Ow,” he grumbled, massaging his shoulder. “I really hope nobody saw that.”

Allers, the royal guard stationed in an alcove a little way away, made no response to his suspicious glare.

“Alistair?”

His face heated. It was Rosslyn. She stood at the base of the stairs with one hand on the banister and the other lifting the hem of her gown to keep it out of the way of her feet, frozen in the act of rushing up to meet him.

“Huh?”

She was in deep blue damask, the folds of the sleeves and the low, broad dip of the neckline richly embroidered, the fabric outlining the curve of her waist. Her hair fell in a thick black curtain down her back, braided and pinned with the aurum laurel wreath she had worn in the Storm Islands – and around her neck, bare on her pale skin for all to see, his amulet hanging at the end of a delicate silverite chain.

“You fell,” she said.

“I –” He swallowed. “Only for you, dear lady.”

She rolled her eyes, but waited as he skipped down the stairs to meet her, and smiled when he caught her hand to press his lips to the knuckles. Close to, the elegance of her dress didn’t quite hide the slump of her shoulders, nor the brittle fatigue that tightened the corners of her mouth.

“You’re early,” he murmured, still holding her fingers.

She shrugged. “There wasn’t much left to do at the estate, and I wanted to see you.”

“I’ve wanted to see you, too.” He leaned forward. “And I’ve wanted…”

Before he could finish the thought, she reached up and pressed a halting finger against his lips. “I had to drag Fergus with me.”

Fergus. Of course. He followed the tilt of Rosslyn’s head to where her brother stood not even that far away, with one eyebrow raised and his arms folded across his chest, the very picture of a concerned guardian who had just caught someone nefarious swooping down on his charge. Alistair, preoccupied with other things, had completely failed to notice him.

“Ah – um. Your Lordship! You’re looking well.”

“Your Highness,” Fergus answered mildly. “Please, do carry on with my sister. It’s not like our grandmother is in the next room, wondering where we’ve snuck off to.”

“You could go and stall her if you like,” Rosslyn suggested, and when her brother only returned her a flat look, she frowned. “Please, Ferg? I did it for you – for weeks.”

“Only because I bribed you,” he retorted, but his face softened. “Fine, I’m going. But don’t do anything too outrageous.”

“I think that means you’re not allowed to spirit me away to somewhere nobody can find us,” she huffed as he ducked through the door, already looping her arms around Alistair’s neck.

His hands found her waist. “Damn, that’s my plan foiled, then. Please tell me I can kiss you, at least?”

“You may,” she giggled.

“Good.”

His heart thundered more than it should for such a simple brush of lips, but before he could sink too far into the feeling, he pulled away so he could see her expression. Her eyes were still closed, her head turned into his palm like a flower angling its petals towards the sun.

“How are you?” he asked.

A sigh, and her eyes fluttered open to focus on his chin. “It… hasn’t been a good day. I’ve tried to keep myself busy, but it hasn’t really worked. It’s been a whole year, and yet all I’ve been able to think is that they should be here. That it’s –”

“Not your fault,” he interrupted firmly. “I wish I could have been with you – I mean, not that I don’t every day, but today especially, I wish I could’ve been there to make it easier.”

“I had your notes,” she reminded him with a weak smile. “That kept the worst of it at bay.”

He grinned. “Did it now? In that case, I’ll feel a little better giving you this.” With the flourish of a showman, he reached into the end of his sleeve and pulled out a folded square of paper. “For later,” he explained. “When you don’t have an audience. There’s words in it that I hope are reassuring, but also – since you liked the last sketch so much, I thought as a distraction…”

Their fingers brushed as she took the note from him. The blush rising in her cheeks chased away the wan tone of her skin, and for a moment Alistair allowed his mind to linger over all the other scandalous ways he might prompt such a reaction.

She smirked at him. “If it needs to be so private, I had best keep it safe.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, she folded it once more and with nimble fingers slipped it down the front of her dress. Alistair stared. She smoothed her hands over the silk to make sure nothing poked out where it shouldn’t, unconcerned. It was a perfunctory gesture, businesslike, and yet far too thorough to be innocent.

“Are you alright?” she asked sweetly, once she was finally satisfied that everything lay in its proper place.

He managed a strangled sort of noise. “Nothing a long soak in Lake Calenhad wouldn’t cure.” When he caught her expression, falling from a smirk into true concern, he shook his head and pulled her closer, until they were standing hip to hip. “I’ll manage. And don’t think I won’t get you back for that little performance.”

“You started it.”

“You like tormenting me.”

She laughed at that, and darted a quick kiss against his mouth that he was too slow to return. “Shouldn’t you be going to greet your guests?” she asked. “Where is the king?”

“Applying the finishing touches, I think.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on Cailan or his moods, not with Rosslyn in his arms. “We should be safe from disgrace, in any case. One is only late if one arrives after royalty, after all.”

“You are royalty, my love,” she murmured, smiling wider as he waggled his eyebrows.

“And soon you will be, too.” The reminder stole his breath. “Uh… shall we?”

The eyes of every guest turned to look at them as he appeared in the doorway with Rosslyn on his arm, but for once, he didn’t mind the attention, or the wave of movement that swept through the room as people bowed to him in greeting. Her grandparents stood in one corner with Fergus, given their own deference as foreign dignitaries, and while the back of his neck heated under their knowing gaze, there were enough distractions elsewhere to keep him from too much embarrassment.

He even managed to avoid glancing lower than Rosslyn’s collarbones. Mostly.

“Aye, and don’t they make a handsome couple?” Bann Ferrenly preened once he caught them into his orbit. “I predicted this, you know. I said to my dear Raina, ‘We can’t have these two in such close quarters without them falling for each other. Mark my words,’ I said, ‘There’s much to admire in him, and he would be a fool not to see the quality of such a lady!’”

“Of course,” Bann Aldubard agreed stiffly. “Who could have predicted otherwise?”

At the other side of their circle, Arlessa Élodie of South Reach laid a delicate hand on Rosslyn’s arm. “I, for one, am glad that this war has not been all tragedy – we must move forward, must we not?”

When Cailan and Anora eventually joined the gathering, even Bann Ferrenly was almost out of anecdotes, so it was a relief to follow the line of torches the servants had lit in the darkened gardens, to where a troupe of mummers had set up a stage in front of an open-fronted pavilion furnished with a long table that was already groaning with food. As the nobility were directed to their seats, the troupe master welcomed them and announced a performance of Dane and the Werewolves. At first, Alistair kept his eye on his brother and the carafe of wine placed by his elbow, but though Cailan looked tired, he was dressed in fresh clothes and his hair had been brushed and braided, and he was minding Anora’s voice in his ear.

Rosslyn slipped her hand into his. In the distraction offered by the players she had nudged her chair close enough to his to press against him to the knee. They could do little more under so many watchful eyes, but with every moment counting time down to the wedding, still so many days away, it was enough.

“To us?” she suggested when the servers had filled their goblets and everyone else was preoccupied with the strut of the warpainted hero onto the stage.

He touched his cup to hers and leaned across with a kiss. “To spending our lives together,” he agreed.

--

It was only the following morning that he spotted the note she must have slipped inside his tunic. He picked it off the middle of his bedroom floor with his head still ringing from his hangover, his thoughts whirling about the one he had given her, whether she had opened it yet, what she thought of it, if the ink had smudged against her breasts after spending so many hours pressed to her skin. Perhaps going beyond words into illustrations was a step too far, and even now she was marching through Denerim’s streets to out him as a lecher and declare there wouldn’t be a marriage after all. If it were so, at least he’d have one last message from her to remember her by.

Today I cannot help but think about the past, but the weight sits less heavy on my shoulders knowing my future lies with you. We have fought through so much, together and apart, and it is strange to think how I ever managed without you. What if we had never met, or if our paths had crossed in some other way? Would I still miss waking up without you? Would you miss me?

His worry vanished. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the paper to his lips, wishing it could be her instead, that he could put his arms around her and drive out all her doubt.

He was at his desk and finishing his reply before he had even changed out of his smallclothes.

I would miss you. I do miss you. There is an empty space in the bed and the pillows don’t smell like you. You make me better, and make me want to be better. If someone could knock me out so I can wake up on the morning of our wedding without having to endure the torture of not being able to hold you, I would be very grateful.

~

My love, if you lie unconscious, who will distract me with such delightful correspondence? Who will smile at me as you do? And what if whoever it is hits you too hard on the head and kills you? No, it cannot be risked. You must continue to suffer, as I assure you I do as well, but only for a little while longer.

~

For you, perhaps I might make it three days, and believe me, I am counting every moment until you become my wife. I cannot wait to be your husband. I love you.

~

Two days, my love. I can barely eat for nerves.

~

I haven’t slept – can’t until I have you in my arms again. I’ll see you tomorrow.

[fa-nfiction]

Thunder #22 - part one

March 31st, 2015

Despite all of the preparations, the thoughts, the hopes and the dreams of what this was going to be like, nothing could have prepared me for this. It felt like an explosion of the mind, as I realized exactly what was happening. Panic. Love. Excitement. Bliss. Fear. Joy. Adrenaline.

And just like that, I had no clue what to do. I hurried to the bathroom, got new clothes on, and went into a new rush of panic. What should I do? Who should I call? Where’s the birth bag? Do I really need my hairbrush? Where THE FUCK is that hairbrush? Still, the water kept seeping from within me, reminding me that Teagan was coming. I tried to stop panicking for her sake, but I didn’t know how. Desperately, I found my phone and found the hospital’s number in it. I pressed the call button and waited.

( … )

“What the ACTUAL FUCK do you mean I have to fucking WAIT?!” I yelled at the poor nurse in the receiving end.

She sounded young and insecure, and my suspicions proved to be correct, as she passed the phone on to a midwife.

“Yes, hello? Miss - Mitchell, is it? This is Joanna speaking.” The voice sounded strict and a bit older. Maybe 50-ish. I hoped and prayed that she wasn’t the one that was going to deliver my baby.

“Yes, this is Cas- I mean, Cassandra Mitchell. The other nurse, she said- ow -” A tiny contraction appeared, but I hardly lost my breath.

“- she said that I couldn’t come in now? My water has broken, and I-”

“Well, are there any contractions? Big ones?”

“How the fuck do I know if they’re BIG contractions? Huh?” My patience was wearing thin. There’s a baby coming out of me right now, god damn it -

The midwife laughed a dry, humorless laugh.

“If they were big contractions, miss Mitchell, you wouldn’t be able to talk. Or curse at me.”

I huffed at her, even though I knew she was right. I did know about contractions. And the ones I had right now were hardly even there. Why are they hardly there?

“Well, I don’t have contractions, then.”

“I thought as much.” Joanna spoke at the other end, her voice now sounding a bit more friendly than before. “Tell you what, miss Mitchell. We’re swamped in here. Everybody’s giving birth, and we’re understaffed. It’s-”

“-Easter, I know.” I bit my lip with frustration. I can’t give birth HERE?!

“So, until something progresses, you just stay put. Try to sleep, if you can. Try to eat as well. You’ll need the strength for later. Let me just look at your file-”

I heard her rummaging in the background and shuffled my feet impatiently until she returned.

“Maybe, get your boyfriend to take care of you? It says here it’s - Michael?”

I froze at the sound of his name. It felt like a kick to the gut, as memories came roaring back.

“Why does HIS name stand there? I’m not - he’s not -” I was surprised with how strained my voice sounded. Even after all this time, he still had an effect on me.

“Oh wait, I’m sorry, I had some old papers in my hand, it’s-” Her voice trailed off, as she rummaged some more. “Wait, here- Richard?”

“Yes.” My voice became calm again. “He’s the father. He’s not here, though, should I call him at work?”

“Does he work far from your home?”

“It’s not our home- uh, nevermind. A bit, yes.”

“Miss Mitchell. Calm down. Do as we agreed to, and we’ll take it as it comes.” Her voice calmed me down completely. I began to change my mind about her delivering my baby.

“Call him when you feel like it’s time. Sleep. Eat a bit. And hopefully we’ll see you when the chaos in here has cooled a bit down, eh?”

“Um, okay. Fine. Thanks?”

“Until later, miss Mitchell. You call us as soon as it begins.”

And like that, we hung up. My hand was resting on top of the belly, caressing it slightly.

Panting, I waddled into my bedroom and laid down. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, as a hundred emotions and thoughts were swimming through my mind.

( … )

“Careful. He’s a kicker.”

“I know he is. Remember that first scan? I said that he was a footballer. Still is. OW, there he goes.”

I laughed long and loud at Teddy’s well-aimed kick from the belly to his father’s chin. Michael was lying with his head resting on my belly, and Teddy was kicking away, as usual. But the contractions were getting worse and apparently, they made him kick more.

Michael laughed as well as he sat up on the bed, his dark blue eyes sparkling with joy.

“I can’t wait to see him.”  He said as our laughter had stilled, and we were waiting for another contraction.

“Me neither. Ooof, here it comes-” The contraction appeared, and it felt like a belt of molten metal, scolding into my skin around the hips. Michael rubbed my knee in an attempt to distract me. It didn’t work. I could hardly concentrate on the breathing the way we’d practiced beforehand. As it subsided, Michael’s face had shifted. He looked genuinely worried now.

“It’s definitely getting worse-” I panted as I felt my body go limp in the absence of pain.

“Should I call the hospital?”

“Please. Please do.” I pleaded, and in the course of a second, he was calling them.

“I’ll get the birth bag. No matter what they say, we’re going now.” I could see the worry on his face and tried to not let it get to me. As the pain from the next contraction came, my resolve crumbled.

“Re … remember the hairbrush-”

( … )

I awoke in complete and utter confusion. Is Teddy alright? Where is Michael-

I had to catch my breath as I remembered where I was, and that it had been a dream. I was even more confused as I saw that the sky outside was beginning to darken. Exactly HOW long did I sleep?

I scrambled through the covers to find my phone, and panicked slightly at the number of notifications staring at me from the screen.

One message from Caitlin. A picture of her, smiling, Chris in the background carrying a large cardboard box. The caption read “Moving day! Yay!”

3 new e-mails, none that mattered.

One SnapChat from Megan, a picture of her drink with a caption reading “3rd date and I’m so nervous”.

5 calls from Richard. 3 texts.

“Hey C. How was your sleep? <3”

“Is everything okay?”

“Cassie, please call me. I’m getting really worried here.”

Somehow, my inner autopilot kicked in, and before I’d even thought about what to tell him, I had pressed his name and was calling him.

“Cassie?” He picked it up after a single ring.

“Honey! Hey … how are things?” I replied in a strangely happy tone.

“How are ... things?” I could actually feel him shaking his head at me through the phone. “Haven’t you gotten my messages?” Again with the controlling, Richard. Don’t.

“Yeah, I did - I, uh, I fell asleep.”

“How’s Teagan? Has something happened yet?”

I paused. How did I sleep so long? Had the contractions stopped? Why aren’t they here? I should call the maternity ward …

“Uh. No.” I felt compelled to lie to him. He doesn’t need to know. Not yet. “Nothing’s happened yet. Still fat.”

“But gorgeous fat.” His voice shifted from controlling Richard to lovely Richard. I began to wonder if I should tell him.

“I had kind of hoped I had started something last night, you know-” He flirted. Memories of the night before put a smile on my face and took me away from the worrying for a second.

“Mm-hmm. You think highly of yourself, mister.” I teased back. “You’ll have to try a bit harder if you- ow!” A small contraction appeared out of nowhere.

“What? What is it?”

“No-nothing.” I had caught my breath again and decided to lie through my teeth. “Stubbed my toe on the dresser. You know how clumsy I am.”

“Are you sure? I can go early from here, it’s no problem-”

“Sure. They need you there, I’m just clumsy. Really.”

“Okay. Well, call me if anything happens. You know it takes an hour to get to your place.”

“I know, honey. Uh, have to go, okay? Hungry.”

“Right. Love you. Catch you later.”

“Love you back.”

I hung up the phone and curled myself into a ball as the next contraction appeared.

( … )

Why. Didn’t. I. Tell. Him. FUUUUCK.

The contractions grew bigger each time they came. I had called the maternity ward, and finally, they had room for me to come in. The problem I was now facing was the fact that I had just lied to my - boyfriend? Baby’s father? Complicated, controlling ex? - and I’d feel like a complete moron if I called him again. Hey, yeah it’s me, I kinda lied to you before, I’m in labor and I just don’t feel like you being here, alright? Yeah, could you come anyway?

And like that, I had decided to call Caitlin as well. There was no response. I called Megan after that. She picked up, I heard the sound of women giggling, and then the phone was hung up. Thanks a lot, so-called friends. The time was nearing 10 PM, and I didn’t feel like it was appropriate to call my mother, even though she’d offered her help plenty of times. Naturally, I couldn’t call Richard’s mother. And like that, I was all alone in the world. Alone, with the worst contractions in fucking history. A strange thought popped into my head in one of the breaks between the pain. Michael. I could call Michael.

( … )

The smell of his cologne. The smell of him. Michael. It never failed to calm me down, even in the midst of all this chaos. My forehead was pressed against his neck, my arms around his shoulders, and although I was scared as hell, I felt safe with him. I could feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, against my skin. It felt like an anchor that kept me from drifting away on a sea of pain.

My cries were probably going through the hospital walls, but none of us cared. His hands were massaging the lower part of my back. In the moments that were clear, I would yell at him to press harder, to make it hurt more. Anything to make me forget about the contractions, although we knew it was impossible.

“Breathe. Easy. Breathe, Cas.” His deep voice was ever so soothing, but the increasing pain was sending me into a state of panic. I couldn’t remember how to breathe. I felt myself go dizzy. If he hadn’t held me, I’d have fallen to my knees. Instead, I collapsed in his arms.

“Nurse! Nurse! We need you in here NOW!” I heard him call before I blacked out.

( … )

23.30.

Teagan was usually asleep in my belly by now, but not this night. The contractions were squeezing her, and she kicked - angrily? - at the inside of my womb, stretching my body in ways I didn’t even know was possible. When I looked down, it looked like something out of a horror movie, and when the contractions came, it also felt like it. I was crying, sobbing, standing up and sitting down, even circling the birth bag that I had put in the hallway. My legs felt like jelly from the intensity of the pain, but I couldn’t lie down. The feeling was too much, too intense, too wild to lie down. Once and again, I put my hands on the dresser and pressed against it while wailing with the agony. The door was open, but I figured the neighbors would just have to live with it. The taxi was on its way, and way too slow for my liking.

If I give birth right here, I’ll have to find someone who can throw out the carpet-

“Miss … Mitchell?” A 30-something female taxi driver - oh thank heavens - knocked on the semi-open door before opening it fully. For a second, she looked completely shocked, as our eyes met and she saw what was happening. Somehow, I had failed to tell her exactly why I needed a taxi. Thankfully, some primal instinct overtook her, and without speaking a word, she stepped right under my left arm so I could support myself on her. With her other hand, she grabbed my birth bag and closed the door behind us. I don’t know how, but she got us both - or well, the three of us - safely down the stairs and into her taxi. I was on my way.