In Bloom
The flower is the poetry
of reproduction.
It is an example of the
eternal seductiveness of life.
~Jean Giraudoux
Chronology: Tristan is 34. Raja is 24.
Tristan could hear birds twittering in the early morning of spring which was still smarting from the end of winter. There was no snow on the grounds, but light rain fell whenever the sky’s fickle heart desired. Raja stirred in his arms, unconsciously pushing back against him, her buttocks more secure against his hips. He smiled against her neck, breathing warm air on her soft skin.
His hand rested on the flat expanse of her abdomen, feeling for any sign of growth. Not in expectation, but in a sense of apprehension. Last month she had missed her courses. Certainly, her courses were, at times, irregular due to her health, but her physical being had been good over the winter’s harsh air. And now, his Raja’s cheeks were flushed with a healthy glow. Which, he normally would have rejoiced in, but he could not help but fret over the fact that she might be with child. With every birth around the fort, he often saw her with a hand over her own stomach, and to anyone else it would have been a meaningless gesture, not even cause for consideration, but to him, it meant something.
Eight years ago, Raja had been four months with child with nary a symptom, and she had lost it. The day still haunted him, it could not be helped. It often brushed his thoughts whenever he saw Raja with Lancelot’s twin girls who had been born three months ago.
His worries were even getting to the point where he was reluctant to make love to her, wary of his treacherous seed bonding with her womb. Did she notice the few times he had pulled out just as he was about come, spilling his seed onto her stomach? He silently berated himself for his dramatic concerns.
His thoughts were cut short when Raja’s own hand fell against his. She turned and gave him a sleepy smile, and he felt the soft brush of her breasts against his chest.
“Morning,” he said, bussing her lips with a kiss.
Raja drowned in his kiss, reveling in the warmth and solidity of his body. She shifted her body and winced.
“What is it?” Tristan asked.
“Nothing, my legs are just sore,” she replied, waving the discomfort off.
He made a sound of acknowledgement, knowing that the muscles in her legs often ached in either cold weather or whenever she spent too much time on them. The Saxons had kicked and beat her legs mercilessly so she couldn’t escape. Tristan often massaged them with warm oils that seeped its healing properties into her skin to ease her pain.
The two lay together in silence, sharing the heat of their skins before getting out of bed and starting their day. Raja walked tenderly on her legs to the washbowl and splashed cool water on her face. From his own washbowl, Tristan took a peek at her nude body, lingering for a longer moment at her stomach. Raja caught him looking and smirked at him, turning her back which only gave him a pleasant view of her firm backside.
When they were ready, they headed towards the Great Hall for breakfast, sharing light conversation with their friends. They went their separate ways after, Tristan to the training grounds, Raja to the stables.
----
Guinevere watched Tristan and Raja walk out of the Great Hall, Tristan’s arm wrapped around Raja’s waist. Sometimes she wished Arthur would escort her so, kiss her lightly on the neck as they walked or dined, stolen kisses whenever the heart desired. But her husband was a private man, not given to spontaneous or public displays of affection. It also came along with being king, not being overly demonstrative when greeting his wife, the queen. The other knights were openly affectionate with their wives, too.
But almost two years married to Arthur, she had come to terms with the fact that her husband was modest. They were trying to conceive an heir, and Guinevere was despairing that she may never get with child. After a time, she had consulted her own peoples’ healers, taking herbal concoctions to induce fertility. Well, she and Arthur would just have to wait and see.
Arthur offered Guinevere his hand when breakfast was finished and she took his proffered arm as they walked out of the double doors and into the sunshine.
“Forgive me, love, but I must get back to work now,” Arthur said with an apologetic smile.
Guinevere’s lips went into an automatic curve of understanding. “Of course, Arthur.”
He bent down and brushed her cheek with a kiss, and she stood there watching his back until he was well out of sight.
“Why so gloomy, Guinevere?”
The queen jumped, startled at hearing Raja’s voice.
“You walk like a ghost,” Guinevere teased.
Raja smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “So I’ve been told.”
Guinevere walked next to Raja in silence for several moments.
“Are you all right?” the Egyptian woman asked.
Her eyebrows rose. “Of course!”
“Hmm...” was Raja’s reply. She could tell something was amiss, but she didn’t press the matter. Besides, she had a feeling she knew what it was. Guinevere and Arthur were trying to conceive, and Guinevere probably still thought about her inability to do so. Raja understood the loss of a child before getting to know it all too well. “I was going to see Sophia and the twins,” she spoke, “would you like to come?”
They walked to Sophia’s and Lancelot’s home, and outside the door they could hear the babble of children. Raja knocked and heard Sophia telling her to come in. Lancelot’s wife smiled up at her, the elder twin cradled in her arms. Dagonet’s wife, Anna had the other one. Guinevere and Raja took seats in the living room, Anna handed Raja the younger twin.
“Hello, Miribelle,” Raja crooned. Her heart filled with love staring down at the small being in her arms. The child’s hair was wavy and thick, dark brown like her father’s. She had big, brown eyes and a gumless wide grin painted on her face.
“Oh, I cannot wait until mine is born,” Anna exclaimed, rubbing her big belly.
“Another month?” Guinevere asked.
“And it can’t come soon enough!” Anna joked.
“Would you like to hold Samara?” Sophia asked Guinevere. “You’ll need practice for when you have a child.”
The queen couldn’t help but blush, but she gently took Samara from Sophia’s arms. She was in awe of such a small creature, so innocent and unmarred by the world.
The four women enjoyed each other’s company until Lancelot barged into the place. He beamed at his wife, bent over the back of her chair to give her a kiss on the nape of her neck that sent shivers down her spine. He kissed Raja on the cheek and greeted Guinevere and Anna, who said she had to depart. Guinevere said her farewells and helped Anna from the house after giving Lancelot Samara.
Samara cooed and gurgled spittle in her father’s arms. Miribelle giggled at her sister’s play, and instantly made nonsensical demands to be held by her father as well. Lancelot held both girls easily as their chubby arms swat at his face, and fingers clung to his curls.
Raja watched her cousin hold his daughters, and without even knowing it her hand stole to her flat abdomen, a dull sorrow in her heart, wondering what Tristan would look like holding a child.
“Your finger doesn’t go there, Miri,” Lancelot chastised playfully, turning his head away so his nostrils could not longer be harassed.
He caught his cousin’s eye and grinned. She had been with him every step whenever he became dubious as to his fatherly skills. But Raja had steadfastly insisted that he was doing a good job taking care of Sophia and would be a great father. He remembered the day Sophia had given birth, his wife had cursed him to hell and back for the pain that was his fault she was enduring, until the point when he was near forcibly pushed from the room to take a break from Sophia’s screaming. When he was told that he had two daughters, he had fainted like a damsel in distress, but coming to a moment later to look at the beautiful faces of his daughter’s and his wife that had never appeared so beautiful as she did then.
“I think one of them wants to be fed,” Sophia said, taking Samara from his arms.
That was Raja’s cue to leave. “I’ll be going now,” she said.
When she left, Lancelot sat next to his wife and watched her breastfeed Samara, he could never seem to take his eyes off of her when she did so. Miribelle was getting fussy, wanting to feed as well. He helped situate the second child at Sophia’s unoccupied breast, then he leaned back restfully in the padded armchair.
“My family,” Lancelot said under his breath reverently, not meaning to speak aloud, but the words had come forth with all his heart. “Sometimes I still think it can’t be real, because I don’t know what I did to deserve you three.”
“It is, Lancelot,” Sophia told him lovingly. “It is.”
----
The first thing Tristan heard coming around the corner to his and Raja’s apartments was a quacking noise, then a cluck. The door was halfway open, and walking in, he saw an animal farm. His Raja was sitting in front of the fire, sharpening her dagger. Simian the Mouse was on her shoulder; Horus was perched on the windowsill, the open window letting in a cool breeze. There was a duck relaxing in a wash basin on the floor, a chicken was lounging in a basket of hay, and one small puppy was snoozing on the other armchair.
Tristan cleared this throat. Raja turned and smiled at him. “Trissy!” She scanned him up and down, sweaty and dirty from the training grounds.
“By the gods, woman,” Tristan said, looking around the room.
Raja rolled her silver eyes, acting as if nothing were amiss. “Go wash, then come sit with me. Unless you have a meeting to go to.”
He shook his head, choosing not to say anything about the animals until he could collect his mind, maybe they’d be gone by the time he came back from the bath house. But they weren’t. The puppy was still sitting on his chair.
The black and brown puppy raised its head, looking at the man with big brown eyes.
“Floppy,” Raja said.
“Well, he can ‘Floppy’ his ass off of my chair.”
Raja chuckled. “He’s very playful. Come here.” Floppy jumped off Tristan’s chair and onto Raja’s lap, preening under her attention.
Tristan poured himself some spiced wine and put his feet on the padded footstool. “Are you going to explain what all these animals are doing in here, Raja?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Just company.” Before he could make another comment, she spoke, “I’m worried about Arthur.”
He took a sip of his drink. “Why?”
“Don’t you think he’s working too hard?”
Tristan smirked. “He’s a king, Raja.”
“Yes, I’ve divined that by now, thank you. But, well, he and Guinevere seem to be” – she thought for an appropriate word – “drifting again.”
He never quite knew what to say when Raja worried over the happiness of Arthur. She wanted her loved ones to have as deep a relationship as she and him, but that could not always be. “When things calm down, perhaps they’ll reconcile.”
Raja gazed at him dubiously. “But being busy shouldn’t keep them from being affectionate. You’ve been gone quite a lot and your affection for me hasn’t waned.”
Tristan knew that was not a complaint, but simply a fact. He was away more than he would have liked, but he tried to get back to her every evening to sleep next to her. “Arthur has always been conservative, and even more so now that he’s king.”
Raja scoffed derisively. “It’s ridiculous that a king must withhold endearments in public. If anything, it would be a sign of good faith for people to see a husband so devoted and loving to his wife.”
“But to people they are king and queen first.”
“Not to me.”
“I know. You will never be part of the ‘people’.”
“I would hate to have to hold back my love just to set an example.” She nuzzled Floppy’s head.
“I agree. Which makes me glad I’m not king, because I wouldn’t be able stop myself from kissing you whenever I pleased.” He gave her a devilish smile, his golden eyes glinting.
“And I would never want you to, Trissy.” But a worried emotion still furrowed her brow.
“Raja, you can’t keep giving talks to Arthur whenever he gets caught up in his work. They’ll work it out themselves.”
She muttered something in Arabic under her breath. “I suppose you’re right. I just...want him to be happy, and her too.”
“Not everyone can have what we have,” he said wisely, believing it was true. It might be presumptuous, but no two people have endured what they have and come out of it with even more devotion and love to give. A man and woman could love each other, but not every man and woman could fill and complete the other like he and Raja did.
A few years ago, he remembered a drunk old man in the street with a flagon of beer in his gnarled hand. Raja often helped him out whenever she could, but she had been sick in bed then. Tristan had been weary with heartache, as always seeing his love struggle for breath on their bed. It must have been that that had compelled him to help the old man back to his small room.
“Lucky man, you are,” the old man had sputtered. His jaundiced eyes were surprisingly clear as he spoke to Tristan. He had poked a skeletal finger at the scout’s chest. “You are blessed. It is rare what you two have. Blessed.” Then the clarity had left the man and his next words were incoherent and slurred.
Floppy yawned among the quacking and clucking. “They’re getting restless,” Raja said.
“Good, will they leave now?”
“You are so inhospitable,” she chastised. “I’ll take Goose and Beauty back to the stables.”
“And the dog?”
Raja shook her head solemnly. “Floppy’s mother died giving birth.”
Tristan saw the lines of sadness on her face, knowing that she mourned when a dear animal friend died. Even after all these years, her steadfast compassion for animals had not dissipated in the least. It was that remaining innocence in her he cherished, lit his heart on fire knowing that parts of her from childhood had not been blackened by her present demons.
“I couldn’t save her,” she said quietly.
Tristan reached over and squeezed her hand, all the comfort she needed. Floppy wiggled and she set him down on the floor. She lifted Goose from the basin and took the basket in her hand that held Beauty. Horus flew off, and Tristan shut and locked the windows from the chill that was coming with the evening.
The stables were warm. More stalls had been added on along with a bigger armory. Goose and Beauty quacked and clucked around the piles of hay.
“Hungry?” Tristan asked.
“Oh no,” Raja said. “My stomach has been giving me a pain.”
Tristan’s spine stiffened. Her muscles were sore, her stomach was querulous. As they walked from the stables, he asked, “How long has your stomach been acting up?”
“Not long, I’m sure some herb tea will take care of it.”
“Has anything else been bothering you?”
Raja paused for a moment. “No.” She gave him a knowing smile. “No worries, Tristan. I’m fine.”
Floppy yipped and yapped at Tristan’s feet, staring adoringly up at the reticent knight.
“He likes you.”
Tristan grunted. The pup wasn’t bad looking, in time it might even make a good hunting dog. “He has potential.”
The sound of Raja’s musical laughter filled his ears and as
they walked he leaned and kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s get you some of that
herb tea.” And let’s hope that a stomach
ailment is all it is.
----
Over the next few days Guinevere fretted over she and Arthur. Often she walked in the woods by herself thinking of her days when she was a free woman, hunting and running into battle, a warrior. She often was the leader of a pack of men, gaining their respect. But she was also a passionate woman, in battle and in bed. It was natural. Her people didn’t scorn thigh-friendship. Guinevere had given up a lot for her country.
Of course, when her father first proposed an alliance with Arthur by way of seducing him she was opposed to it. But he convinced her that it was for the greater good, so when she had her chance, she went to him the night before the battle of Badon Hill. He was tentative at first, but as she pursued him he became more passionate in his actions, after, when she lay in bed with him, she knew she could love him.
After the fight, they had time to get to know one another. But she had also been steered to Lancelot’s direction. She chuckled. It had been the dark knight’s passionate and brooding nature that had attracted her. But she was betrothed to Arthur, and nothing could come of it despite the fact that she knew Lancelot was attracted to her as well. But a betrayal of Arthur would never have stood to be forgiven.
She loved Arthur. But the woman in her could not help but want more. Guinevere wasn’t naïve, but she knew love with every fiber of her being. Arthur had her, there was no question, but did she have him? His heart and body was hers, but what of his soul? Sometimes she felt as if she did not know him at all. His own husband.
It was Raja who filled her in when she was confused. And Guinevere had to admit, sometimes she was envious of her friend’s knowledge of Arthur. Truly, he was like a brother to Raja, but she was his wife. She shared his bed, his body, it should be her who knew him best. In time, perhaps better than even Lancelot.
Guinevere sighed as she headed back to the fort. She wrapped her cloak around her, guarding her from the wind. Spring. The cold was waning, and endless days of kisses from the sun was approaching.
As she entered the courtyard, in the distance she saw Arthur walk from the stables. Like he knew she was there, his jade eyes turned in her direction and a smile lit his face, his handsome, yet worn face from years of riding in all sorts of weather, creased with joyous lines, igniting the fire within her.
“Guinevere,” he greeted her, bending down to place a kiss on her mouth. His beautiful wife, his heart filled with adoration. He took her hand, and without words led her to their bedchamber, and they didn’t leave it until late morning the next day.
----
“A new friend, Tristan?” Lancelot jested as they walked back to the fort after a day of hectic training.
Floppy had been following Tristan around, attached to the scout’s ankle like a lifeline. The small dog barked as if he knew he was being talked about.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “It won’t leave me be,” he said, looking down at the dog with derision. But he wasn’t about to admit that he kind of liked the miniature beast. Even Penelo didn’t mind the four legged creature’s company. But Raja would have made sure of that anyway.
“Where’d it come from?”
“Raja took it in after its mother died.”
“Hmm.”
They parted ways, but as he entered their chambers, Tristan saw the last thing he needed to see. That damned book with the recipe to help a woman conceive, sitting open on Raja’s desk. And his face hardened when he looked at the open page, his dread confirmed.
“Raja?” He walked into the bedchamber, and she was gone. He opened the bureau to see if the satchel she used for collecting herbs was there. It wasn’t.
She wouldn’t, he thought. They talked about this months ago. She wouldn’t do this behind his back. Floppy was sitting a few paces away from, feeling the man’s unease.
“Dammit, Raja,” he hissed under his breath. Remembering...eight years ago...
He came back to their
bedroom a few hours later after she said she needed to rest. She wasn’t sure if
she wanted to abort the pregnancy. But as much as it pained him, it could be no
other way, he had to convince her of it. Even Ardeth knew the dangers, which
was why the Egyptian had given him the tonic to remedy such a situation. This
would be difficult for Raja, but no baby was worth her life. Despite the fact
that it was conceived with love, it just would not come to pass.
It was nearing sundown
when he walked into the room, quietly, seeing her still asleep, but she was
moaning in discomfort. He approached the bed and saw that her face was clammy
with sweat.
“Raja,” he said,
trying to wake her. Her skin was burning hot.
He saw a stain of red
and pulled back the covers to see her skirts soaked in blood. He yelled for
Vanora, for Dagonet. A chambermaid heard his yells and he ordered her to get
Vanora. A few minutes later, she arrived with Thea.
Vanora gasped and put
her hands over her mouth in horror, but quickly collected herself and she and
Thea went about tending to Raja in a fury.
“Too much blood to be
spotting,” Thea murmured needlessly.
“What’s wrong?”
Lancelot asked, his face flushed, having ran to the room. He walked closer and
saw the blood. “Christ.”
“Out!” Thea commanded.
“Towels,” Vanora
ordered.
Tristan was next to
Raja, patting her face with a cool cloth.
“Baby...” she
muttered. “Baby...”
“Shh, shh,” Tristan
whispered.
Her eyes snapped open.
“The baby!” she screamed, trying to sit up. Her eyes were glazed with feverous
delirium.
Thea lifted Raja’s
garments, and among the sodden sheets, the blood and afterbirth lay a clump of
a stillborn baby. Its body was not fully formed.
“Oh dear...” Vanora’s
eyes filled with tears.
Tristan’s hard eyes flicked
towards the being between Raja’s legs. Slowly, he lifted the child, it fit in
one hand, and he stared, trying to discern the enormity of this. He could not
tell the sex of the child, all he knew was that he had to remove this from the
room before Raja came to again.
“Tristan?” Vanora
asked.
“Not a word of this,”
he ordered the two women in the room. He grabbed a clean towel and placed the
baby in the cloth.
“She’s still
bleeding,” Thea said.
Vanora elevated Raja’s
legs and rubbed her womb firmly.
Tristan was still
standing stoically, staring at what was in his hands.
“Tristan!” Thea
stressed to get his attention.
But it was Raja’s
whimpers that caught his attention.
“The bleeding is not
stopping,” Thea told him as if she were warning him of something.
No, she will not die,
he said to himself. He left the room and came back with the second bottle of
tonic Ardeth had given him to stop bleeding during this time. He told them what
it was for, and neither women questioned why he had it. Bit by bit they got
Raja to swallow it.
“Baby,” she whimpered.
They washed the blood
from her body, put her in a clean shift, but they moved her to Tristan’s old
room until the bed could be cleaned. The bleeding slowed, but she was still
feverous and upset.
They could do nothing
more. Thea, Vanora and Tristan were covered with Raja’s blood. Vanora had
picked up the deceased child. She glared at Tristan with sympathy and
compassion.
“Will you let her see
her baby?” she asked him, knowing that it could be a sense of closure to see
the baby. It was for her the couple of times she had miscarried.
Tristan stared at her
as if she were mad. “She doesn’t need to see it.”
“She has a right,”
Thea rebuked him.
Tristan sneered and
took the bundle from Vanora’s hands. “No good will come from it.” The two women
looked as if they wanted to argue, but the severe expression on Tristan’s face
quieted them. “Will she be...okay for a little while?”
Thea said nothing for
a moment, her eyes settling back and forth to Tristan, then the baby. “Yes.”
He nodded, and when he
exited the room the men were standing there anxiously. He walked passed them
wordlessly. They didn’t need to ask what the small bundle in his hands was.
Tristan stopped and
turned. “Not a word of this to her.”
In the darkness of
night, he headed towards the forest, all the way thinking where he should bury
it. Not in her animal cemetery, that would be a grievous transgression. Not at
their place in the woods, it would be tainted with the secret he would keep from
her. Not long after searching, he found the tiniest of fresh copses, a small
circle that was surrounded by thick bushes, one tree shading the area. This was
the place. He fell to his knees and dug the earth with his bare hands. When it
was deep enough, he took...his child, Raja’s child, and pulled back the towel
to take a last look.
There was no features
of either his or Raja’s in its white-ish, purple body. He gently rewrapped it,
and placed it in the earth, covering the hole so only the smallest of mounds
would indicate that something had been buried. He put a rock at the head of the
grave. Would he tell Raja of this one day? Should he? Was he wrong in not
allowing her to take one look at their child? He simply wanted to protect her
from this pain. Maybe he didn’t want her to know, or even suspect that the last
thought in his mind as he left the grave behind was: Better the baby, than his
Raja.
Thea was sitting with
Raja, both cleansed of blood. The woman looked him up and down in silence,
seeing his dirt covered hands mixed with dried blood that now appeared black.
“She is stable. You
should wash up before she wakes,” she said.
When he came back, all
evidence of his doings gone from his body and clothes, Thea left him with Raja,
but not without a last word: “Will you at least take her to the child’s grave?”
When he didn’t answer,
she sighed. “I know this is hard for you, too.”
Tristan closed the
door behind him.
“Trissy?” came the
weak voice from the bed.
He was by her side,
sitting on the bed next to her. He took her hand.
She swallowed a lump
in her throat, struggling to speak.
“It’s all right,
Raja,” he told her, even though all was far from right.
“The...baby?”
Slowly, he shook his
head.
“Where?”
He didn’t answer.
A tear slipped down her
cheek. “It was here. Our baby was here. It’s not gone, is it?”
He said nothing.
“No,” she denied. “No.
The baby was here. You were going to teach him to hunt, and...”
Tristan stopped her
from rambling. “Raja.”
“No. Tristan, please.”
With all her strength she squeezed his hand.
His heart broke for
her. She brought his hand to her stomach, and placed hers over his.
“You felt it earlier,
remember?”
He nodded. He had come
to her room after Thea had told him Raja was with child. And with his warm hand
over her abdomen, he could feel the life in there. But now...he felt nothing
but the soft flesh beneath Raja’s shift.
“He had your eyes,
Trissy,” she whispered. “And we could tell, after he lost his baby fat, he
would have your cheeks. He had my black hair, it was wavy.”
“It was a dream,
Raja,” he reminded her gently.
She shook her head in
denial, fresh tears slipping down her pale face. “The baby was here. Where is
he?”
He ignored the fervent
glaze of her silver eyes. “Try to sleep, Raja. Please.”
“Stay with me, here.”
He stripped down to
his breeches and undershirt, and moved as close to her as he could under the
covers. He put his arm over her. It was dark nights like this that she would
crawl into his bed for comfort when she was a child. Tristan wiped the tears
from her face, and kissed her goodnight.
----
Tristan couldn’t just sit around and wait for her, not believing she would really go behind his back like this. He left the keep, intent on searching for her. He ended up finding her in the healing room. It smelled of herbs and spices, incense and remedies for health and living.
Raja turned when she heard the door open. Floppy ran to her, pawing at her skirts. “Hello, you!” she bent down and picked the dog up. Her bright smile flashed on Tristan, but he didn’t return her greeting. “What’s wrong?”
He nudged her aside, inspecting the crushed paraphernalia on the table. Something was steeping in a pot over the fire.
“Tristan?” her brow was furrowed with concern.
“I thought we talked about this, Raja,” he said.
“About what?”
“This!” he swept his hand over the items on the table. “No kids!”
“Don’t yell at me!” she said indignantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw that damned book on your desk. The one with that recipe for fertility. I told you, you are too weak to have a child. Aren’t I enough for you?!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was so quiet he could hear the bubbling of the pot and the wind outside.
Raja stared at him blankly and set Floppy down. “I’m not making this tonic for me. It’s for Guinevere, she agreed to try it.”
Tristan’s tense muscles relaxed and he instantly felt the enormity of his mistake. Raja turned away and took a pot holder to take the pot away from the fire. She set it on the pot holder and let it cool before she put the contents into a bottle.
“I’m sorry, Raja...I...just jumped to conclusions.”
“You did,” she replied, setting about to clean up the remainder of herbs. She wrapped each in separate parcels and put them in niches along with the rest of the various herbs.
Tristan sighed.
“I know I cannot have children, Tristan,” she finally said, staring him boldly in the eyes. “You have always been enough for me. You are my life.”
He wanted to take her in his arms, but her words stirred the
secret he’d kept from her all these years. Maybe that was why, what he did not
want to admit to himself: That she cared more for the lost child than him. Or
that the baby he had buried would take a piece of her, when for so long, it was
he that had had all of her. It was a wretched and selfish feeling to have, but
one he had felt nonetheless. Everything had been taken from him when he had to
leave
“You think about the baby,” he said.
She was taken aback at the non sequitur. “Of course I do. But that in no way changes my feelings for you.”
“I know.”
Raja knew he wanted to say something more.
“I’ve kept something from you Raja,” he told her. “Forgive me.”
----
She wanted to be alone at the tiny grave. She barely noticed him leave. To think, her baby was beneath this small mound of earth. All these years she thought – how could it just disappear? Where? she had asked Tristan. Where did the baby go?
Raja touched her stomach. She knelt by the grave and placed her hand over it.
“Hello,” she said in a hushed whisper. She desperately searched for words to
say. “I am sorry that my body was not strong enough to bring you into the
world. But know that if you had, your father and I would have loved you so
much. I’ve never forgotten about you, and I never will.” Raja put a garland of
eight flowers around the grave, then one more on top, weighted down with a
small stone. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Perhaps you are with my parents
now, with my Uncle Ardeth. If so, you could not be in better hands.”
She stood slowly and brushed off her skirt. Minutes ago she had said ‘hello’. But now she realized that this was goodbye. For that tiny emptiness of wonder was no longer there, and she felt peace.
----
Tristan was sitting quietly in front of the fire, Floppy dozing at his feet. The dog hadn’t left him all day, so he’d fed him and put a bowl of water in the room. The look of hurt in Raja’s eyes was still clear in his mind. He hadn’t expected her to scream at him, because that was not her way when given bad news. He scoffed. Bad news. He would have felt better if she had yelled at him, he deserved it.
He heard the door open and the click when it closed. Raja stood several paces away from him, bathed in light from the candles and fire. He stood and went to her, wanting her to speak.
“You should have told me,” her voiced quivered.
He nodded silently.
“You should have told me,” she said louder, and she punched him in the chest, her small fists not meant to cause pain, but she wanted him to feel her, and the hurt he had caused.
He caught her wrists and enveloped her in his strong arms. Her tears wet his tunic, and her body shook with sobs that ran beneath his skin. He had already apologized, so he said nothing, his actions speaking louder than words.
“But I can’t be mad at you,” Raja said in his chest, “for wanting to keep me from more hurt. It hurt you, too.” She looked up at him.
“Yes.”
“But you believed it better that I survived.”
“I still do.” He wiped her tears away with his thumb. “I’ll never think otherwise.”
“We’ll make love tonight, Trissy. And keep each other warm, okay?”
Always, he thought. Always.
----
Three weeks later, Guinevere and Arthur announced that they were with child. They celebrated in the thick of spring, a baby conceived out of love.
People often said when Tristan and Raja were not around, that they would have made good parents, and it was a shame that they could not be.
But to the two of them, it was not a disappointment or sadness. The love they had was more than enough for a dozen lifetimes. And so, most people might not understand that, but that did not matter. Because when they held each other, it was indiscernible where one soul began and the other ended. Their love was life, eternal. Always.