Calliope's Wake

[ibiou 2397]

Spoiler

The contents in this post should not be metagamed, for it is not public roleplay knowledge.

https://youtu.be/D7FwNXxgl10?si=WjkgiPEWaabEamdA 

 

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Ulrichsburg’s crypts found themselves occupied once more with the company of the living, as opposed to its usual residents of the dead. Incense fogged the confinements of the stone walls, in the shadows casting ghosts of those laid to rest. Alas, there was only one figure that held permanence amidst the smoke appearing in all-black. Eyes closed; pursed lips. Only the light of her fingers, engulfed by her veil, were visible. Knuckles bled white with some great grip upon the Lorraine cross around her neck. Since the death of King John of Aaun, Hedwig of Warsovia’s mourning time was spent in deep prayer. Her devotion had sailed long before then, though in a time of such turbulence did the Lord bring great comforts.

However, it was not her royal father-in-law she prayed for tonight. Rather, for a blessing. Infertility had plagued her marriage, sprouting internal chaos within her; doubts of her duties and obligations, of not only as a wife but the continuation of the royal bloodline. Have faith, her husband constantly told her. Yet his father never met his grandchildren. Their conversation in the Chapel of Our Lady Paradisius remained a constant loop in her mind, starting with her pilgrimage of Saint Julia. Engrossed in the Aldtree of Petra and Julia’s maternal love for nature, as well as being the patron saint for wives and mothers, Hedwig made use of her time to take a few months away. Her role as Lady of Alba was to be Charles’ support, but the pressure of an heir as John fell sick could not be shaken off. The pilgrimage did not help much in the end. She had felt more restless than when she began.

Saint Calliope had been canonised as her struggles worsened with a mix of low self-esteem. Given she was laid to rest in the crypts by her homelands, the then-Crown Princess-consort ventured there often. Flowers, incense, candles with prayers murmured in a low hum. The more she stayed, the more she yearned. The envy that tried to fester from her sister Alice’s first child was swallowed down by days of fasting and sleepless nights. An obsessive need for relatability, for comfort, came from the cold tomb. She could not explain it to anyone. This night was no different, for Hedwig had drifted asleep in the mist following another one of her prayers. 

 

Off she went, before the crack of dawn, on a venture out. Her nose was red as the dewdrops barely melted into the grass when skidding down the hillside. The bottom of her nightgown was caked in mud. A dream. Recalling the times of bird-men and nymphs had now turned into aimless walks in the country air. Growing up; she reasoned for the change. Making her way down, Hedwig reached the foot of the hill. Mountainsides spurted from all corners of her view, with trees asunder. The landscape was a fragment from the paintings she grew up with at Nowa Warsovia, of the old Heartlandic home of her ancestors; Arentania, Almaris.

Barefoot did she walk to gather her bearings, with no source of light in the darkness. Only the pale moon illuminated Hedwig’s feet distinctively from the pathway she found herself on, dodging awry the thistles. Her pathway was steep, and her legs could no longer keep up at the rate they were going. In truth, there was no way she could know where she was going. The urge to explore the world she inhabited in her slumber was inviting, and so Hedwig accepted it each time. That, knowingly, meant that she ended up lost and tonight would be the same. Onwards did she go, until a gurgle broke the silence of the night.

Low and guttural, almost like a rattle. Hedwig of Warsovia peeked around fearfully, for her moment of peace had been crushed. Careful, she was trying not to make a sound. The leaves crunched in quiet unison as if they had heard her pleads, treading lightly. What if it were some wild beast? Was her initial thought, her face resembling the colour of the moon. And if it were something else, Hedwig was doomed. The sound became louder and louder as she came towards the edge of the treeline. Then, it stopped. Bewildered, Hedwig stalked around the shrubbery.

In a bed of grass was a babe, bound tightly in a blanket. Its cries had stopped only for a few moments before continuing. Instinctively she lowered her arms to scoop the swaddled cloth and held it to her chest, before looking down. The boy, from what she could tell, did not bear a scratch or bruise. Instead, he was sound asleep now after his belts. It was as if the sense of her being gave him great comfort, though only she speculated such. A hand went to cradle his head softly. The rustling of the bushes made Hedwig pull the baby closer, and her head snapped in the direction it came from. A figure had been lurking, and upon being spotted began to bolt towards the mountain.

“Wait! Don’t run away!” Hedwig of Warsovia called out, picking up her pace in the direction the figure ran off in. “ Is this child yours? Did you leave him?” She could barely keep up in her nightdress, let alone with the baby in her arms. Ducking and dodging, leaping and jogging. Up the bind and around the ledge. The Queen-consort could barely keep up, until she came to an abrupt stop.

Looking up was the figure, now looming over her above the cliff. With a fiery mane of red for hair and eyes of grey, the woman did not speak. She did not smile. Rather, a dip of her head; acknowledgement. Within their brief encounter was there a sense of… familiarity? Hedwig’s heart thumped. It was the colour of her hair, the way it reminded her of her youth by the Langkette mountains. The blossoms on the trees, the stark red of her uncle Waclaw, which upon realising, was an Alstreim trait by blood. Slowly, but surely, the realisation crept upon her.

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The Queen-consort gasped harshly when she awoke, only to find herself in the royal chambers of the Hand. The blankets swallowed her body like the same fog in hallucinations. Behind the doorway — Charles’ low hum as he spoke, the muffled response of what appeared to be someone she did not recognise. Whether a dream or reality, she could only grasp the aching feeling at the pit of her stomach. She held her hand there to ease the pain, gripping the cloth of her dress tightly. It was a deep, real pain that gnawed on the core of her soul. A desperate seeking of fulfilment, longing for something more. 
 

The door creaked open, and in came the King of Aaun; her husband, draped still in his mourning attire. He found himself a companion with the eye bags that sunk deeper with each passing day after his father’s death. The proceedings of the month that followed were rough for the new monarch, but he managed to slip between the cracks every now-and-then for time away. Charles made his way towards the edge of the bed and sat himself down. “How do you fare, dear wife?”
 

Her reply was only faint.. “I am unsure, to be honest. I feel dazed.”

His eyes appeared a striking colour of mercury in the candlelight as he edged closer carefully. It was only now did the Aaunic king find himself stirring, and Hedwig could only tilt her head with furrowed brows. “Is something the matter?” She asked him, sitting up. “What happened?” 

“You do not remember?” Her husband replied. “You had given us all an awful fright! I found you unconscious in Ulrichsburg, and called upon the Royal Physician immediately.” Charles fully embraced her now, holding her hands tightly. “He says you are with child, Hedwig. It’s— it’s a miracle.”

“With child? A miracle?”

“You have been praying to Saint Calliope, have you not? Devoting yourself to prayer and fast? I have witnessed it myself, dear wife.” The Alstion monarch gripped her hands even tighter. “The Lord has granted us an heir. Years and years of faith, and we have been shown worthy.”

Hedwig of Warsovia was in disbelief, for what was anything else compared to a child? There was a certainty to it, a lifelong wish, of having a family of her own that she lacked in her childhood. The moment that she realised it might not be feasible after her wedding night, she was shattered. Things had changed then, appearing fixed, but now the state of her situation had completely flipped. What was impossible before became real. There was to be an heir for Charles, a continuation of his prestigious line. For her? A blessing and proof of her successes. Tetherable to her, growing. Deep within her worship was their miracle. 

Her eyes pricked with tears as she wiped them away with her sleeves, before kissing the back of Charles’ hands. “It must be, it must. For I dreamt of finding a child in Saint Calliope’s company, and now do we suffer with our strive no longer. She, and God, has bestowed this upon us. It is the only way.”

In the tender night did their Majesties speak on Hedwig’s dream, in the hopes that they could wrap their heads around the intricacies of this mystery, and the hope it sprouted.