Edge of Lust: Myrna, Ophelia, Fred

Myrna

Myrna guided her lady back to her chambers. Genevieve did not speak to Myrna, and she wondered if the gushing would happen once they reached the room, or if tonight Genevieve would grieve in silence. She couldn't blame her friend for being so distressed, but neither could she fully empathize. Myrna was used to the man she fancied showing attention to other women. He was, after all, the husband of her best friend. But even had her circumstances been different, Myrna doubted she'd be as upset as Genevieve. To Genevieve, such little things meant so much to her. Tiny pleasures spurred bounteous joy and slight offenses crushed contentment. Myrna, to whom so little mattered at all, found it hard to appreciate being broken up about something as simple as a pretty face turning your husband's head.

But she remained steadfastly by her, patting her hand and squeezing it to show she understood, that she cared. Sweet Genevieve derived comfort from her simple gestures, and Myrna chuckled a sigh. Perhaps tonight would not be so difficult to salvage.

They were surprised by the midwife greeting them at her chamber doors.

"I heard you were unwell," the hag told them, her wandering eye distracting from her words. She swallowed a lump of phlegm. "Best to check ye out before bed, just to be sure." The midwife licked her lips, tongue slithering along the stout hairs sprouting above and below her lips.

Genevieve wanted anything but visitors, but she allowed the woman into her rooms, whether out of caution for the unborn, or perhaps because poor Genevieve could never refuse a fuss being made over her.

The woman looked in Genevieve's eyes with her one good eye, held Genevieve's wrist to feel her pulse, and gave a grunt that could have indicated anything.

"Drink some of this tea," she barked, handing a thermos to Genevieve. "It will calm your nerves. Drink it all."

Genevieve, who looked like she was regretting welcoming the fuss and attention, took the draught hesitantly, but sipped obediently. The midwife's eye wandered till Genevieve had consumed a satisfactory amount. Then she grunted again, and told the queen she'd be back shortly.

Genevieve took another sip of the tea, grimacing. "Here," she handed it to Myrna. "You drink the rest. She's going to want to see it gone when she comes back, and I can't stand another mouthful."

Myrna, chuckled, taking the tea and taking a swallow. It was a bit bitter, but if she was to deal with a complaining Genevieve for the rest of the night, she could use something to calm her nerves as well.

The midwife shuffled back in, and her wandering eye swept over the empty cup. She nodded in approval and focused her gaze back on Genevieve. "You send for me if that tea doesn't calm you."

Genevieve nodded and the woman made her departure. Sighing, Genevieve leaned her head against the pillow. For a moment she said nothing. Then, she turned to Myrna with unusually resigned eyes.

"I suppose it's all I can expect," Genevieve said, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation. Myrna cocked her head. "Frederick," Genevieve clarified. "Or 'Freddy', I suppose. I suppose I'm not surprised to see him flirting. She is, after all, rather breathtaking. Nothing like me." Genevieve grimaced. "Pregnancy or no."

"Gen," Myrna scolded calmly. "You know that you're a beauty." And it was true. Everyone had admired the placid good looks of the Gwennel princess, and Myrna had never begrudged it.

"Not like that," Genevieve mused, not meeting Myrna's eyes. "I needn't be surprised," she repeated. "I know he wanders."

Myrna's cheeks suddenly burned, and she forced her breathing steady.

"I can just tell," Genevieve said, still lost in her own musings. "One night, he came to me . . . I swear, Myrna, I don't think he even knew me from anyone. He stumbled in, reeking of drink, and I . . ." Genevieve gave a wry sigh, and turned to look at the crimson Myrna. "I don't think it mattered who I was, honestly. I could have been a whore from the street, long as I was a willing body." She sighed again. "He passed out before . . ." Genevieve cleared her throat. "Before he could finish anything anyway. But when he touched me . . . it wasn't really me he was touching."

There were tears burning behind Myrna's eyes, and she rarely cried. Was this an opening to confess? Was this proof that it didn't matter anyway, or did it confirm that Genevieve felt Myrna's betrayal acutely? Or was this Genevieve's subtle way of telling her best friend that she forgave her?

Genevieve didn't give her time to pursue any line of thought. Her head had sunk further into her pillow, and was drooping slightly as her breathing came more deeply and regularly. And Myrna wondered, with an apprehensive knot in her stomach, if the time was soon coming that everything would change.

Ophelia

The creak of Ophelia's rocking chair was the only sound in the room. She pushed herself backwards, and let herself fall forward. Push backward, fall forward. Backward and forward. Never going anywhere. Always staying in the same place.

She couldn't exactly say she was sad. She had cried when the baby was born not alive, true. It had been an unpleasant, exhausting situation. But to say Ophelia mourned her child would be inaccurate. She simply didn't feel enough to claim that intense of an emotion.

She rocked her chair. Back by pushing, forward by falling. The motions hinged on creating resistance. But it was only through surrender, by letting something happen to you that you went forward. But it wasn't really forward at all. It pretended to be progress. But it was just stasis. Like it always was.

Ophelia reasoned she had probably done nothing but let things happen to her, her whole life. When her mother enlisted her for the servantry of the castle, she'd let herself join their forces. When the slight, curly-haired youth had led her to the hay loft, she went. And went back, as many times as he invited—probably at least six before the cobbler he was apprentice to died of a fever, and he was abruptly transferred to a shop outside the village. And when she discovered she was with child and didn't even remember if he'd ever told her his name, she accepted it. When that child had been born having never lived, she accepted that too.

It wasn't so much that she wanted to do nothing, Ophelia sighed to herself. She'd like to have opinions, to feel things and want things. But since her awkward youth, and her gangly, clumsy entrance to adulthood, she just never knew how to make things happen.

She thought perhaps she was looking forward to helping tend the new baby. She didn't think she was dreading it at least. The event of that birth was disconnected from her own experience, so it didn't actually awaken any pain or discomfort when she thought of it.

Ophelia looked toward the fire, reduced now to mere embers, glowing orange, the same color as her hair.

The door scratched open, and suddenly her rocking was not the only sound. She turned to see one of the scullery maids there excitedly babbling about a commotion and Mistress Myrna demanding Ophelia to report to the Queen's chambers. Ophelia heard some scuttle and shouts emanating from the halls in either direction, and rose to her feet to follow the girl back up to the tower that housed the queen.

Myrna

Myrna mopped her sweating brow with the back of her hand. She stood by the midwife, replacing warm towels, fetching items, and consoling her moaning friend. She hadn't anticipated it would be this stressful for her. Normally, she met Genevieve's struggles with impassioned resolve, not losing her calm, but she had nothing to offer her friend, nothing that seemed to do any good. Myrna's comforting, and soothing were having none of their usual effectiveness and Genevieve was tossing to and fro with a panic that Myrna had never witnessed in her.

Myrna had sent for the midwife just after midnight when she awoke to Genevieve breathing raggedly and wincing in pain. Now, the frantic queen was screaming and thrashing in a way that even Myrna was at a loss as to what to do.

The wizened midwife seemed little concerned about Genevieve's hysteria, and Myrna couldn't decide if that meant it was not concerning, or if the old crow just couldn't hear enough to know what was going on.

But Myrna stayed at hand, eager to help. She was so eager, she neglected to send someone to inform the king that his child was on the way. Later, she would wonder if that was subconsciously deliberate.

Genevieve was progressing quickly, at least it seemed that way to Myrna who had heard of births stretching out for days. It wasn't fast enough for the panicked Genevieve who was nigh incoherent with her cries and babblings.

It was around the time that Myrna had been instructed to lift one of Genevieve's legs, and provide counter-pressure, that Myrna first felt the pain stabbing her side. It surprised her, made her falter and drop the non-sensical Genevieve's foot. She gripped it again, determined to see her lady through. But the pain stretched across her body once more, and even implacable Myrna began to feel panic rising beneath her skin.

Ophelia

She opened the door to mayhem. There were few occupants of the room, but those present were at varying levels of shouting, babbling, or demanding. Ophelia hastened to Myrna, who had called her, anxious to see what her assignment was. Myrna surprised her then by transferring Genevieve's leaden leg to her hands.

Myrna was the queen's lady-in-waiting, not to mention everyone knew the two were close friends. To be there, to fulfill this role in the final stages of delivery, seemed natural to fall to Myrna. But Myrna was handing her charge over to Ophelia and sinking to the ground, wincing with concentrated pain.

Ophelia recognized the look. It had been mere months since she'd had it, herself. And in that moment, Ophelia realized what everyone else was too distracted to notice: Myrna would also deliver a child this night.

The piercing cries of Genevieve distracted Ophelia from her realization, and she focused on easing the transition for her queen. There was little she could do, but Ophelia stood strong, surprised to discover she had something to contribute to this chaos since she, herself, had experienced some form of it recently. And in her heart, she began to hope with intensity, that this child would live to see the world.

The child entered the world soon enough, coated with blood, but squealing, and Ophelia's heart moved within her as she affirmed that this child had breath. Genevieve seemed little calmed, even with the child delivered, and after severing the cord from the child and drawing out the placenta, the midwife did what she ought to have done hours ago and poured a sedating tea down the throat of the frantic queen.

It fell to Ophelia to hold the new child, Myrna still struggling to maintain her composure nearby. The midwife immediately excused herself to the next room, and Ophelia saw a vaguely flask shaped item in her hands as she departed. Ophelia wanted to know whether or not she should place the child at its mother's breast despite Genevieve's slumbering state. And she followed the midwife to the next room to ask her.

Myrna

She had no idea what to do, so she retreated to a corner of the room where she was out of the way, and concentrated on not ripping in two. Myrna was practiced at hiding her feelings, but this was testing the boundaries of even her composure.

She contented herself with managing to stay mostly silent besides some labored breathing. But that was anything but audible in the ruckus of the room. Myrna found herself grateful that, as always, Genevieve drew all attention to herself, and it seemed no one noticed the struggling Myrna, crouching in a corner.

For the most part, she was able to stay alert and aware of the status of her lady. She saw when the babe made its entrance, noticed the midwife give Genevieve a draught of calming tea, and spared the thought that a fat lot of good that had done her earlier in the night.

Things were settling down now in the room. The midwife had exited. Ophelia had gathered up the bloody towels, and the room bore almost no trace of the chaos that had just occurred. Genevieve was softly moaning in sleep, still not at rest. Myrna's pains subsided momentarily, and she moved to rise from the floor when the door opened.

She thought first it was one of the king's guards, come to fetch news for the king, and she belatedly realized she'd forgotten to send any word that the delivery was in progress. But it seemed strange that this man would walk straight into a birthing room without announcement, and she almost called out to reprimand him when she saw the knife.

It glinted in the lowing candlelight, and arrested all words from Myrna. She wanted to cry out, but logic told her that there was no good it would do, and the man had not yet seen Myrna in her corner.

He was no one she recognized, she was sure of that as she watched him advance toward the bed. In one fluid motion, he brought the dagger to the queen's breast and plunged it in deep. He drew it out again and plunged again at her belly. Myrna bit her hand to keep from screaming.

The man looked around briefly, then began knocking things over: tables, basins, chairs, creating a scene of disarray and tumult in the room. In the next moment, he fled without a word.

Ophelia

The baby in her arms was sleeping peacefully. Ophelia walked into the hallway to visit the adjacent room. But the midwife was not there. Returning to the hall she saw the midwife talking with an unfamiliar man. Who suddenly grabbed the old woman by the throat and shoved her against the wall.

"It's not been . . ." the woman croaked, prying at the hand. "It's not been born. The root didn't take fast enough." She coughed and spluttered, dripping spittle all over the man's hand. "I swear," she gasped.

He released her and the woman bent over, hacking. "I believe you," he said to her, then dug a knife into her heart.

Ophelia strangled the gasp that wanted to rise from her lips, and began to walk backwards. As surely as her whole life had involuntarily happened to her thus far, it still dictated her actions, and she found herself retreating into the servant's hallway unaware of what she was doing. In a moment, she was rushing down the steps, clutching the child to her, and in the next moment, she had yanked a cloak from by the kitchen door and was gliding across the courtyard, shrouded in darkness. And while she heard cries from the castle, and swords clanging as the guards shouted defense, she slipped away, and not a soul saw her departure.

Myrna

Myrna didn't realize she was crying till she reached the door. She was crawling, capable of nothing else, but instinctually driven to seek someone else's aid. When she turned the corner and saw the midwife lying in a pool of her own blood, the unknown sob caught in Myrna's throat and in an instant, Myrna's vision was blurred with tears and her mind clouded with terror.

She dragged herself further down the hall, hearing sounds of screams, not sure if they were her own or someone else's. But there was no one else here. She dragged herself back to the room where her best friend's body lay still, blood seeping into the bed and soaking the floor.

Pain was ripping her in half. The midwife was dead. Who knew how the rest of the castle fared. But all these hellish events did nothing to stop what was happening. Her child was coming, and she had no choice but to set aside her griefs and deal with this impending delivery. She gasped. She cried. Her tormented cries were the only sound in the empty tower. She pushed the child out. It didn't cry, but she felt it squirm, knew it breathed. Tears blinding her eyes, she clamped the cord, severed it as she'd seen the midwife do in what seemed another lifetime. She operated on instinct, unable to restrain the sobs that wracked her whole body. The child squirmed. Myrna sobbed. Her mind was going fuzzy now. She tried to lift the baby off the floor before she lost all reasoning capabilities, and aimed for the soft, spacious bed. There was so much blood. She couldn't tell her own from her friend's. Her head sank onto her chest, shapes shifting and her vision swimming. She thought she saw someone enter the room and in her last moments of consciousness, she wondered if the assassin had returned to finish her off.

Frederick

He heard the shouts in a dizzy stupor. They slowly entered his consciousness as he came to. Pieces of the night slowly came back to him, and he looked around the room. Lajoya was no longer with him, though she had been when he fell asleep. He shook himself awake and poked his head out the door.

Guards were coursing down hallways, shouting to one another. Frederick barked to one of them what was this all about.

The man saluted, "Attack, your majesty."

"Attack?" Frederick panicked and took a step forward, realizing his breeches were torn and he was exposed. He looked at the man, who dutifully pretended not to notice. "Your pants, man," he shouted and the faithful soldier went to work removing his own to trade with his leige.

Covered at least, Frederick took off down the hall, to seek his captain of the guards. The man surely had information to clear up this mess.

"They must have breached the castle, sire," the captain told him. "I've no idea how they got inside."

Frederick's first thought was of his wife. It startled him, actually. He'd have expected his first thought to be of Lajoya or Myrna—himself, even—but it was of Genevieve.

He led the march to the Queen's quarters, cautiously clearing the halls as they went, but they met no foes. The first sign of disaster was the old midwife, laying in her own gore, dead eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Frederick signaled for his guards to be in position as they approached the bedroom with door ajar.

Slowly, Frederick pushed the door open to see two women lying in blood. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the still room as Frederick advanced on the scene, filled with dread. Among the blood, Frederick identified his sweet Genevieve, and his teary eyes took in her maidservant, Myrna beside her.

Frederick felt himself sinking to his knees, when a movement caught his eye, and a squirming, struggling fist rose from between the two women. Crushed with horror, and overcome with grief, Frederick's eyes shone as he reached out and touched the hand of his daughter. Life had begun in the same place where it had ended. He held the tiny fist of the girl who had entered as her mother departed, and wept with gratitude and grief.

Watch for part two of Edge of Lust: The Kingdom of Grandey ...coming soon.