MotherLay 973 Share Posted 12 hours ago COMPLICATIONS Anastasya vas Ruthern and Stefan var Ruthern “We will not be having any more children until you can prove that you can be a good father to our existing ones, Justinyn.” “I will Anastasya, I will.” It was no secret that Lady Anastasya Ruthern’s marriage was imperfect. She made sure that everyone in her vicinity; any one who would listen, heard of her woes. She was blunt, honest, mean at times, all things in between. She saw it as a rite of passage to complain. Once again, she found herself with child. Her fourth pregnancy in five years. Even the strongest of women would be beaten down by the constant state of being pregnant. Her husband had made good on her promise; to be more present, to be there for her while she juggled the children he helped create. Her situation was much different than her own upbringing. Her brothers and her had a faculty of servants and mistresses overseeing their upbringing and education. Her parents, like most noble title-holders, were able to focus on their work without the distraction of a hoard of children at their feet. This was not the case for Anastasya. Her children shared one nanny, for that is what they could afford. That singular nanny was responsible for the care of toddlers while also tutoring the elder children. It was a heavy burden on the nanny. It was a heavy burden on Anastasya. She found herself much more hands-on in the raising of her children; not by want, but necessity. This is not to say that she was unhappy with her attention set upon her children. She loved them, truly. She could not say the same for any other few. Not her husband, her brothers, her parents, friends, no one. It was only Belisar, Stefan, Boris, and Vaclav who had her truest love. She wanted this; to have a family, to be close. Closeness with her own brothers and parents had been lost for years. By the time she was budding into adulthood, her brothers had run off to find their own place in the world. The Galahar tower was cold those years. She would not have that. Her children would know their mother, and she would know them. What she didn’t expect, in marrying out of nobility and into a house that settled in a camp, was how much of herself that she would have to give. “Would our lives have not been better; would we not have been more prepared if our parents had guided us along? If we had some net to catch us? To tell us when we were wrong and to correct our path?” “We turned out fine, Anastasya. Our children will too.” “Did we, though? You have not spared your opinion before that my upbringing fostered my unlikability.” “I did not say that,” “Not exactly, correct. You had much prettier words for it.” During her pregnancies, Anastasya prayed for nothing but the child’s safety and good health. Though fatiguing, she had never once had complications during them. They were smooth, albeit painful as was typical. She had never truly feared for her life or the unborn child’s. This time was different. Violent illness overtook her in the middle months, barely able to tend to her children, barely able to write for her column, and wholly unable to leave her camp. She loved her children, all of them, but she did not want this. The pregnancy was an unwelcome surprise. After her twins, she wanted out. She wanted to be done. She felt as if she would die if she had to go through it again. She did not pray only for her unborn child’s health and safety this time; she prayed for her husband’s sterilization. At this point, another child seemed like another burden. If she hadn’t already felt pity for herself and the tremendous amount of work that was in store for her with another child, she might have felt pity for the poor nanny that the Rutherns had stretched so thin. Her final trimester was, as she would describe, hell on Azuras. She had been moved up into the Galahar tower for her own protection. She was assigned a wet nurse to remain at her side, watching over her condition with care and caution. Illnesses like this could take the lives of the greatest of women. It was unforgiving and cruel. Anastasya thought of the child growing within her as a parasite; zapping her of her energy, her health, and her freedom. Her children needed her. The ones here, alive, some talking, some crawling. This leech was sucking the life out of her. It was keeping her from her children, from her writing, from the success she sought. Her article was taken over, in her absence and inability. Her work was pushed to the side, all for something she didn’t want. She thought she hated it. She didn’t feel ashamed to feel that way. “It’s too late for that type of treatment, my Lady. The babe is kicking- it is alive, ma’am.” “It’s killing me. I cannot go through with it.” “What would your husband think?” The labor was violent, it was messy, and it was torturous. Anastasya burned with a fever during the procession. At some points, delirious, sometimes too lucid. It was the closest she had ever been to death. When conscious and capable of thought, she was racked with fear. What if this was it? What if she died here and now, unaccomplished, unhappy, unfulfilled? Somewhere between the hours of torture, she heard the medic speaking to her husband in the doorway. The light from the opposite room was almost blinding, it cast a halo-like frame around the men. Their low voices were muffled, but there was a moment of clarity in their speech. Enough for her, in her hellish state to decipher. “We must begin to prepare for the worst, Sir.” “Save my wife, above all else.” Something about her husband’s resolve made peace within her. Above all else, he had said. Years, she had spent, caring for, but never too close to her husband. Never truly knowing how he felt. His ways of showing his care were much too foreign for her. In those moments though, after his decree, it all made sense. They were not like other pairs. They didn’t have to be. A warmth burned within her that was not present before. Respect. Love, even. That was a scary thought. Loving her children was easy, they were young enough to have to love her. There was no doubt that such would be returned. With Justinyn, it was insecure; not because he made it that way, but because he did not contain the unconditional love her children did. She could lose it. She could put herself out there, and it could very well not be reciprocated. His words though, in that moment, calmed her. She released the tension from her body and allowed herself to relax, to let the sickness take over, just for a little while. She let it lull her to sleep. She succumbed to it entirely. Of course, her slumber did not help her situation. The course of her labor happened, and there was a fight to keep her steady; to keep her blood pumping and her heart beating. She did not have to suffer this part, she had suffered enough. It was not until the next morning that she awoke, still recovering, but her fever had broken. Before the nurses could even announce the successful birth of her daughter, she cut them off with her only request. “Bring me Justinyn.” 19 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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