Chapter Text
King Kylo Ren paced outside of his wife's chamber, anxiety building within with each moment that passed. Occasionally, the piercing cry of the queen's pain sliced through the silence of the night, and he would wince sympathetically. The whole castle seemed tense with anticipation and worry. He could practically hear the thought of every denizen in his domain: would this be the night the queen finally produced a living heir? Would the next day be a cause for celebration, or would it again be a day for despair?
Six times he had waited like this, cast from the queen's chambers by the midwives and healers to wait in anticipation. Six times that ended in tears when the healer would come out, wiping blood from her hands, to inform him that the babe had not survived again. Six. Times.
Now it was the seventh. In the ten years that Kylo had been married to Bazine of Chaaktil, they had done their duty to produce an heir for the throne. As his mother oft reminded him, he was the last of the family line. After him, there was no one left to carry on their name. There weren't even distant cousins left, not since the war a generation before that nearly wiped out the entire family. It was he, and he alone, who was left to continue his family's long reign of Alderaan and Naboo, now folded into his greater Holy Sith Empire. But his wife seemed unable to bring a child to full-term.
This was the closest they had ever managed to get. While Bazine had suffered from a severe illness from the start, her belly grew larger until she could even feel the babe quicken. There wasn't much warmth between the two, and never had been, but it had been a tender moment when she had come to the chamber bidding him feel their child. It was the first moment he'd let himself get excited.
She wasn't due for another month, but the doctors reassured him it wasn't too much to worry about. Perhaps their estimation for the birth was off, and she had been impregnated earlier than thought. But the bleeding had been quite heavy, and her skin clammy as she was brought to the birthing chair. It was the last he'd seen of her before being shuffled out of the room: Bazine in a blood-soaked linen shift, her belly hard and seizing from contractions as she clung to the arms of the chair.
There was a flurry of activity behind the door, and it opened suddenly. The sounds of Bazine's strain were louder at that moment, but before he could peek in, the door shut as a servant carried bloody linens away. Her wide, hazel eyes met his briefly, with a look of sorrow, before she dipped a curtsy and fled down the hall. He watched her go, feeling discomfited by the sad glance she'd given him when suddenly Bazine screamed louder than ever. Then, he heard a baby's cry.
"It's alive," he murmured. His heart was in his throat. His child, his heir, was alive! He ran to the door, waiting for admittance, when he realized that the voices inside didn't sound elated. Instead, they were hushed and worried. The baby was still crying, but it sounded odd, almost duplicated. Then Bazine began to wail, and he knew something was very wrong.
The maid who had left with the bloody linens had returned with fresh ones. She saw the king's face and ducked her head, afraid of interrupting this heavy moment.
"Your Majesty," she murmured before entering the room. Ben didn't bother to look in this time. He wasn't eager to know what was wrong, not this time, not now.
After a few moments, the baby's cry dwindled, weakening until all that was left was a terrible silence. Only then did the door open. The healer Kalona stepped out, her face wan and troubled. Thankfully, she had cleaned her hands, but her apron was still stained from the birth.
"My king," she said, then hesitated.
"The babe is gone?" Ben asked dully, already knowing the answer.
"There were...deformities in the babes. They were twin boys, but were malformed, joined together by their stomachs. They only had the strength to live for a few minutes. It was...a mercy they didn't live long," Kalonia concluded. Ben stared blankly, horrified and distraught. Twins? Joined together? What mockery of God was this? He rubbed at his chest, trying to contain his emotions. It would not do for the king to break down.
"Always show strength," was the constant admonition from Pope Palpatine. Be strong. Be the pillar of the faith and of his realm. But his pillar was crumbling, and it was up to him alone to plaster over the cracks to keep it standing. He had to continue for another day. Another chance.
"And the Queen?" Ben asked after he had gathered himself.
"The Queen shall live, but the birth appears to have damaged her beyond repair. The likelihood of her carrying a babe again is low. Impossible, really," Kalonia said grimly, pitching her voice low so no one else could hear. He staggered back, his heart thumping with dismay. This news was devastating. Not only personally but for the realm.
The fact of the matter was that his reign was tenuous at best. He had claimed his empire with the might of the Church behind him, expelling the heathen worshippers from power. His marriage to Bazine, though loveless, had been vital in securing aid from her grandfather, Pope Palpatine, to secure his claim. In turn, she was to provide him with heirs to cement the alliance. That alliance had been shaky, to begin with, but now that it appeared that she was unable to bear children, they were teetering on a crisis.
And on top of it all was the painful loss of yet another child. Or rather, children. He knew that each loss ate away at him, and it had done so to Bazine. She had once been a lively woman, full of sauce and wit. While he had never loved her, he had been fond enough of her company. But with each loss, something crucial was eroded in her until she became cold, bitter, and cruel. Their bedding had become rote, almost a chore, that left neither satisfied. Aside from those conjugal visits, she hardly spoke to him.
He stepped into the room, which was dark and gloomy. Bazine was reclining in bed, her face drawn and pale. Her hair was unkempt and greasy, an unusual sight for the usually vain woman. He approached her, and the attendants tending to her stepped back, heads dipped down deferentially as they stepped away.
"Hello, wife," Ben said, taking Bazine's hand. Her skin was clammy and cold. She snatched her hand away and pulled them close to her bosom, not meeting his eyes.
"I apologize for my failure, my king," Bazine said, her voice bitter with loss. Ben swallowed back his own grief and touched her shoulder. He ignored how she flinched away from his touch. He was used to that now.
"You did not fail, Bazine. We are only at the mercy of God's will. There is nothing to forgive," he said. She nodded, tears dripping to soak the fresh linen shift she'd been dressed in.
"Your majesty, I must check the Queen's humors," Kalona said. Ben stepped aside, leaving his wife to the tender care of the healer. He looked around and noticed the maid from earlier gathering up a tightly wrapped bundle. She seemed to almost cuddle it in her arms, her movements gentle and tender. She headed towards the door and slipped out unseen by all but the king.
Ben followed, curious, eager to leave the bed chamber's suffocating atmosphere. The maid walked briskly from the wing and down the servant's stairs before exiting out of a side door into the back gardens. He kept a careful distance to not alert her to his presence. The night was chilly; summer was already at an end. Soon the world would be covered in snow again, and everyone would be cooped up next to the fire. He hated the winter and how suffocating and claustrophobic he felt trapped in the castle.
The maid picked her way carefully through the gardens, the night lit only by the moon, until she approached a wild piece of land. A large willow stood by a small pond near the forest that the men would hunt in from time to time. She stepped into the graceful drape of branches, and he stopped, close enough to hear her when she began to speak.
"Who are you, and why are you following me?" the maid asked sternly. She turned around to peer into the darkness, and the king stepped forward. He felt foolish to be caught sneaking about in the dark like a spy.
"Oh, your Majesty," she said when she saw who it was. She gulped nervously and dipped a curtsy.
"Forgive me, madam. I…I was just curious when I saw you leaving and needed to get out of the castle," he admitted. She was holding the bundle close, her pretty eyes wide and nervous.
"Oh, yes. I…I understand. My sorrows for yours, your Majesty," she said.
"What are you carrying in your arms?" he asked. The servant looked down, even more nervous, then straightened to look him in his eyes.
"Forgive me, my king. I was tasked with…disposing…of the afterbirth, as well as…the babes," she said.
"Oh," Ben said numbly. He had never wondered about the bodies of the lost children. In a way, it was a method of compartmentalizing the loss. If he didn't think of the theoretical heirs as flesh and blood, the loss would be lessened. But a body must be disposed of, one way or another.
"Still-born children are often just left in the woods, exposed for beasts to take. I, well, I find the practice cold. So, I bring them here. I've brought all of them here," the little maid said. His breath caught in his throat, and he realized he could see the small mounds containing every lost child.
"I hope you're not mad. I know unbaptized babies do not warrant a proper burial, but I couldn't just leave them out there, and—"
"I am not angry," Kylo said and meant it. And he wasn't. But he was just so sad to see how many times he'd failed his kingdom; how many children who had never had a chance to live. And now two more would be added to the cold earth.
"May I hold them?" he asked suddenly. Why he was asking permission from a servant, he couldn't say, but there was something about this girl, a nobility to her, that bid him to be respectful.
"Are you sure?" she asked. Usually, Kylo would be angered to be questioned by a servant, but not tonight. No, tonight, he knew it was a kindness on her part to prevent him from pain.
"I am," he repeated. The servant girl nodded and stepped up to him, her stance deferential as she carefully passed him the wrapped bundle. She helped position the body in his arms after he realized he'd never held a child, even his own.
"There you go," she whispered reassuringly, stepping back to give him space. The infant was so tiny in his arms. He never realized how small infants could be. He could tell that the baby was misshapen. Curious to see the truth, he unwrapped the bloodstained linen that covered them.
True enough, there were two babies. Their arms were wrapped around each other, skin cold and blue-tinted already. They could have been sleeping if not for how cold they were. And true enough, they were connected from sternum to groin, with only three legs.
The only sound was the wind in the willow leaves, the air frigid and crisp. The servant looked at him with such tender sympathy, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight with unshed tears. Kylo brushed his thumb against each child's cheeks, wondering what they would have been like had they been born healthy and whole. Would they have looked like him or Bazine? Would they have been mischievous or well-mannered? What would they have been like as men, as kings? He would never know.
After several long moments staring at the malformed babies, he carefully wrapped them up and passed them back to the servant. She took them without a word and walked under the tree's canopy. He followed as if in a dream, following this faery like creature into her realm. He had a feeling he would follow her anywhere on that queer, cold night.
She knelt on the ground and began to dig a hole with a spade she had tucked into her belt. It was slow going as the ground was hard, but she demurred when Kylo offered to help. So he instead stood there, taking in the small graves, thinking of each life that had never had a chance to live. His children. His failures.
A metallic clink brought his attention back to the matter at hand, and he turned to see that she had cast the spade aside and had picked up the bundle. She whispered something into their head and lowered them into the cold, dark, unforgiving ground.
"Wait," Kylo said just as she was about to release the babies softly onto the soil. He came to her and knelt. He took the babies and brought his lips to their heads.
"Travel well, my sons. I will see you in another life," Kylo said. Then he placed the bodies in the grave as tenderly as possible, wishing instead he was putting them in a cradle or against their mother's breast.
He used his own hands to refill the grave. The girl had dug a deep hole, deep enough to prevent predation. His hands were freezing from the cold soil, but he used the pain to bolster his resolve. He didn't stop until he patted the soil flat. His fingers lingered there.
The girl started to sing then, a soft, lilting tune. It was in a strange language, one he didn't know. It was sweet yet haunting, full of grief and longing. She took a small stone and cut her thumb before drawing a symbol on it. He recognized the ritual faintly, a remnant of the old religion. As the Defender of the Faith, he should reprimand her for heresy, but he found he couldn't care. If she was a witch, it did not matter. She had afforded more care than the Church ever did for the unbaptized babies.
His face was hot as the song tapered to an end. His shoulders shook, and soft gasps escaped him. He was crying. He was finally grieving for each of the children he'd lost, for the pain his queen carried, for the weight he held on his shoulders. A terrible pain that had been so long a part of him he hadn't known it was there was finally released.
He didn't know how long he sat there, crying blindly when he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder. It was small and dainty but warm. He turned to see the servant girl had moved over to his side. An overwhelming need for human contact rose up, and he turned into her embrace. She accepted him into her arms without flinching. How long had it been since someone had touched him without reserve? How long had people feared his station so much that none dared to lay a hand on him? Since he'd been made king? Since he was a child? He didn't know the answer. All he knew was that, at that moment, he was no king, and she was no servant. They were simply two people alone on a cold autumn night, taking comfort in each other.
"Thank you," he muttered after his tears finally dried. He pulled away reluctantly from the embrace, The moment had passed. The burdens of their individual stations were reasserting themselves again, as they always did. Still, he found himself hesitant to break the moment completely.
"There is no need to thank me, sire," the girl said simply.
"No, you deserve thanks above anyone I have encountered this night. Thank you for taking my children and ensuring they have a final resting place. Thank you for your kindness towards me this night," Kylo said.
"Is the world so cruel, my liege, that simple human kindness is so surprising?" the girl asked, her voice sad and contemplative.
"In my world, sadly, yes," the king confessed.
"That seems lonely. I am sorry," she said. It wasn't condescending, as some may assume. It was sincere. Kylo didn't know this girl, but sincerity clung to her like perfume, sweet and fragrant.
"Right, well, some things cannot be helped," Kylo said curtly. He looked at the tiny grave one last time. He saw that the girl had placed the blood-marked stone on the grave.
"What does it mean?" he asked, nodding at the stone. The girl hesitated, clearly nervous about confessing her heresy. But he was king, and she could not refuse to answer a direct question.
"It's a symbol for protection. To guide lost souls to the Peaceful realm," she said. He gave a soft hum of acknowledgment and moved to stand. She did the same, brushing the dirt from her simple gray linen skirt and apron. He realized in the dull light that she still had the bloody streaks from the birth on her apron and arms.
"I must be returning to the palace, your Majesty," the servant girl said. "I have some duties I must attend to still."
"Of course," Kylo said, dipping his head in dismissal. She dropped a low curtsy and backed away three paces before turning, parting the curtain of willow branches.
"Wait," Kylo said, speaking before he realized he was going to.
"Majesty?" the girl asked, turning to him with curious eyes.
"She is lovely," he thought suddenly. Her figure was slim, her stance upright and proud. Her face, even in the dim moonlight, was finely cast. Lovely.
"What is your name?" he asked. She hesitated for the slightest of moments, then dipped her head in acknowledgment.
"My name is Rey, Majesty," she said.
"Rey," he repeated. Unusual name but fitting somehow. "Good night, Rey."
"Good night, your Majesty," she said. She dipped one last curtsy, turned, and was gone into the night.
"Ben," he whispered into the dark. "Call me Ben."
But there was no one left but the dead to hear.