"Maker's balls," Lana cried, her hand snapping out to grip anything as a fresh contraction pulverized her already tender hips. This one felt as if someone placed white hot spikes into her pelvis and tried to jam it open. Cullen dashed forward, knotting his fingers around her clamped ones as he whispered something of encouragement. She couldn't make it out through the pain.
Silently, Misha watched the performance, no doubt ticking her tongue at how Lana cracked from the pressure. She felt tears building in the sides of her eyes at the level of agony twisting through her body from a second joining to birthing a baby in the span of hours. Life was too cruel sometimes.
"Breathe," Misha said. "In and out, you know how to do it. Think of something distracting. Many recite the Chant of Light."
Dripping from Lana's lips came the first and last thing she wanted to think upon. "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. Oh Maker," she shuddered, the acute pain fading away to leave behind only her typical background level. As she returned to herself, she glanced up into Cullen's amber eyes, her mouth already finishing the phrase, "In death, sacrifice."
"That wasn't what I was expecting, but it worked," Misha said. "All right, I'll need to check you over, see how things are getting on down there. But, I need to speak with the Commander first. Are you okay on your own?"
Lana nodded, her teeth biting into her lip. The Grey Warden motto rattled around in her mouth like a bitter draught. It was why she was giving birth a month early, why she feared with every contraction pang what would come out of her, and also a reminder that she failed to finish it. Her victory against the archdemon, her vigilance in rebuilding the order, did none of it matter as she fled from the sacrifice?
It took a few more grips of his hand before Cullen staggered away from her. They didn't get far enough away from her for Lana to not overhear Misha explain what was most likely going to happen. Most of it was typical birthing stuff, the mess, the time it'd take, the noises, but then she paused and crossed her arms.
"Commander, I will not lie to you, the chances of your child surviving at this young of a stage are...slim. If you have anyone you can contact who is capable of great healing, I would do it now."
"I..." he nodded, and for a moment glanced over at the woman trying to pretend she wasn't listening in, "I will do that. Lana, I'll return shortly."
She waved meekly at that, unable to answer. This was her fault. All of it. She wouldn't be pregnant if she'd thought to plan for this possibility. She wouldn't be risking the life of an innocent if she'd not taken that stupid potion in the first place. And...Maker, damn it all, she wouldn't be facing holding its cold, little body in her hands if she'd gotten it right.
The tears wouldn't stop, Lana trying to hide away as the only one left in the room was the woman who hated her. Misha watched a moment, her head pulling out of her medicine bag, while Lana shrieked in fear and shame against the fist she wadded into her mouth. Everything. She doomed herself, Cullen, their baby. It was all her fault.
"It will be okay," Misha said. She unearthed a kerchief from her pocket and passed it to Lana, who tried to mop up her tears. "We take it one breath at a time. Luckily, you have the best midwife in Ferelden here with you."
"Thank you," Lana gasped, snot dribbling into the hankie along with her dignity. None of it mattered as long as... One breath. Then another. They could do this.
She could do this.
After all, she killed an archdemon and stopped a blight.
Anything was possible.
Taking a deep breath, Lana drew her fingers across her stomach and felt her baby's heartbeat. It was still with her.
* * *
For nearly thirty hours Lana screamed in agony as the contractions ripped apart her already depleted body while Cullen watched helplessly. He wanted to rush in and do something to free her of it, but it was all beyond him. The only thing he was capable of was giving her sips of water and holding her hand. Early on, during some of the time between contractions, Lana would pace, but then the increasing barrage wore upon her legs and she was stuck in bed.
"Andraste's prolapsed colon," she cursed, the last of the contraction fading away as her eyes darted up to her husband. "Well?"
He had to shake off the fear clinging to his heart to answer, "That's thirty two new curses." The game was meant to take their minds off the agony, but when she turned right to medical maladies, Cullen couldn't stop imagining every single one happening to her.
The midwife flitted between Lana's extended legs, always prodding into the intimate areas. He felt white hot both rage and bashfulness watching, but his wife seemed to take it all as normal. On occasion the pair would get into an argument about the best way to birth a baby, in particular over how dilated her cervix was, but Lana was willing to give in to Misha's wisdom. The pain must have been excruciating for her.
"I don't think it'll be long now," Misha said. Someone brought a small plate of chicken up for them all. Lana was unable to eat a thing, of course, and Cullen refused to leave her side. Only the midwife took the time, enjoying the simple meal before returning back to the birth at hand.
"How dilated?" Lana asked, restarting the same argument.
"Here we go again," Cullen whispered to himself. He thought it was far too soft for her to hear, but even as she panted in a breath, she snapped her head up at him for not taking her side.
"Dilated enough," Misha answered diplomatically.
"Enough is a unit of measurement now? Yes please, I'd like enough apples. Oh wait, I was going to make a pie as well. Make that enough and a half!" Her sarcasm faded as she gripped tight to Cullen's fingers. Maker's sake for being such a tiny woman she had the bone crushing grasp of a qunari.
"I really hate you right now," Lana breathed, her eyes screwed up so tight tears sprung from them.
"I know," Cullen answered, trying to wipe away the sweat and wishing it worked for her pain.
"Really, really, really hate you," she cried, the last of the contraction ebbing as she dug in to prepare for the next wave.
"I'm sorry," Cullen breathed, dropping his lips to her forehead.
Lana blinked, letting the last of the tears fall, and her bottomless eyes stared up into his. "I love you," she whispered, free of the pain for a breath.
"I know that too," he said.
"Maker's sake!" Lana screamed, "Not again!"
Misha sat up at that, her bird-like head whipping back as she peered down between Lana's legs. "That's way too fast. It's time to push."
"You think?" Lana gasped, clinging tight to her certainty and sarcasm. "Damn, damn, damning damn it!" Her game flooded away as Lana tried to bear down on herself.
"You're doing great," Cullen called, causing her to glare at him and make a motion with her head as if he should be the one being split open by their child. Maker take him, but Lana's angry sense of humor made him feel better.
"Hold a moment," Misha ordered.
"What...?" Lana stopped pushing, all but flopping back onto the bed. "What is it?"
Misha didn't answer, her fingers drifting deeper inside of his wife as she must have been reaching for their baby. Sweet Maker, what now? They were both exhausted beyond measure, Lana barely clinging to the waking world after the torture her body put her under. Please, just let this be easy.
"Stop pushing!" Misha cried, startling both.
"I'm not!" Lana shouted back indignant, but under her breath he could hear the worry. She'd been careful to never use her magic save flipping the baby around while Cullen showed Misha where their privies were located. But now there may not be any option.
"Lana," Cullen skirted his forehead across hers to whisper in her ear, "heal yourself."
"I can't."
"We will deal with the fallout of her learning the truth later. Right now..."
"No, Cullen, I mean I can't do it. The pain, it's too much. I'm...gah!" She flinched hard, twisting her body to try and match whatever Misha was doing down below. Tears rattled in her eyes and she blubbe
red, "Middle of fights, torn apart by hurlocks and ogres, and now I'm...I can't even save my baby."
"Shh," Sweet Maker, what did he do to her? "It's okay, it'll be okay, we'll..."
"Boss?"
He whipped his head up to spot one of their hands, a good one whose name slipped from him in his panic, standing in the doorway. She was worrying her apron while staring at Lana twisting in pain. "What is it?" he prompted, shaking the girl away from his wife.
"It's Ser Derrik, he's having a fit."
"So calm him down," he tried to keep his voice level and not scream at her to do her job, but his skin was itching at how helpless he was to protect and save his wife. Someone had to pay.
The girl danced back and forth on her feet, "He won't, no one else can get him to. Please, there was an accident."
"Cullen," Lana drew her sweat soaked fingers against his cheek. "It's okay, I'm not going anywhere." A small laugh echoed in her words as she glanced down at her spread legs, "Go help him."
"Maker's sake, I..." He'd watched his wife all but raise mountains from the ground itself. Blights, darkspawn, demons, blood mages -- nothing slowed her down. But in this moment, with her normally dewy brown skin an ashen grey from over a day of pain as her tiny body clenched to finish this, Lana had never looked so frail to him.
"You can do it, Honey eyes. I have faith in you," Lana whispered. She foolishly guided his hand up to her lips and placed a kiss to it.
She was right. They gave of themselves to the people here and it was their job to help them. Cullen brushed his forehead against hers, and with shut tight eyes whispered, "I love you. And Maker's sake, stay safe." Her head nodded with his attached, when another contraction drove her to crumple up.
"Sweet Andraste," Misha sat up, grabbing onto Lana's arms, "not yet! Hold tight and don't push!"
"Ser?" the girl tugged on Cullen's sleeve as he stood slack watching the two women struggle against Lana's own body.
He had to turn away from her or he'd never leave, "Stay here, help where you can, Sam." The name came back to him once his vision wasn't filled with Lana in pain.
"I..." poor Sam blanched, the girl not one for blood. But she wasn't about to let down the heroic Commander of the Inquisition. "Yes, Ser. I will." Sliding around, Sam picked up Lana's hand and gave it a soft squeeze. Lana glanced over at the addition and smiled ironically at the slip of a girl telling her to breathe.
Cullen made it to the door when the midwife suddenly staggered up and bumped into his elbow. "Commander," Misha whispered, "if things do not progress well... There is a chance there may need to be a, well, choice."
"Lana," he made it without a second thought, turning back to watch his wife crumpling back into a ball while poor Sam tried to keep her from pushing. "Save my wife first."
Having issued the order, he turned and left the three women alone. Maker, please don't let that be the last time I look upon her. Outside the closed door, Cullen stared up at the afternoon sky. The last time he stepped away from her it was night. It felt as if both months and only moments passed since the labor began. Shaking off the terrified husband as best he could, Cullen marched to Derrik's room with a set to his jaw. Two of their male assistants stood outside, both speaking in the commanding but calm manner to try and talk down the old templar. He, sadly, was having none of it.
Derrik's haggard shoulder slammed into one of the strapping twenty something men from a local village, nearly laying the lad flat out. Luckily, Cullen was quick to catch him before there was any real damage. The move drew Derrik's eye and he snapped to attention. "Knight-Captain, Ser! These traitors were trying to impede me from my duty."
"It's all right, Ser Derrik," Cullen sighed. He patted the one boy's arm then tugged on Derrik's to drag him back into his room. The place was a disaster. It looked as if someone kicked apart the small bookcase in rage and then shattered a teacup. Slivers of broken clay and glass littered the floor. Cullen tried to step Derrik around it to help him to his bed.
"You need to rest," Cullen ordered.
"There's no time for that. The apostates are mounting a new defense off of the western district near the marketplace!" Derrik insisted. He tried to shake Cullen off, but the office he once held had more weight for the old templar.
"Derrik, there are no apostates here. You're safe. It's over," he tried to assure him. The man's eyes dipped down, the sparkle in them fading as a hint of reality slipped in over the lyrium's influence.
"Safe? But what about...? There was an attack on the chantry."
"The chantry is fine, it's okay. We handled it. You're okay," Cullen said, then his eyes wandered over to the side of Derrik's face. He'd been badly burned in an attack during the Kirkwall rebellion, leaving half of his face scarred, the flesh slopped and molded back onto the bones like half baked clay. Dripping across the cheek was a line of blood which the old templar seemed unaware of.
"Did you hurt yourself, Derrik?" he asked, turning around to find a small bandage kit in the end table drawer.
"I..." his fingers drifted up to his cheek and Cullen watched the sorrow return as he cupped the mutilated skin. It was hard to escape the memories of what created it, as hard as some templars tried. "I don't remember," Derrik whispered.
"It's all right, I can help." Focusing fully on the man staring wide eyed up at him, Cullen dabbed away the blood, cleaned the skin, and added a little blue bandage. "There," Cullen tried to smile at him, "good as new."
"Ser," the old templar's shaking hands reached over to grip Cullen's. He started at the realization his own were trembling the bloody washcloth. Derrik's striking blue eyes honed in on Cullen, "Are you injured?"
"No, Derrik. I'm fine."
"Then why are you crying?"
Maker's sake! He swiped at his cheeks to clear out the tears. This wasn't the time to be worrying about...
"Did the mages hurt you too?" Derrik whispered.
"They..."
Not again. He couldn't do this again. After all these years, everything they built together, their life. No. She was his heart, and to have her die because of... "They didn't," Cullen gasped out, trying to shake away his emotions, "There are no mages here, remember?"
"Right," the man nodded, "this is the abbey, with my old friends."
"Yes, now you should get some rest," Cullen said rising off the bed. The man nodded his head, swinging his legs up onto his mattress and stretching out. "I'll clean this up."
"We can get it, boss," one of the two men spoke up. "You should return to...um," they shared a look, both seeming to be scared to mention Lana by name. How many more whispered about the potential death of his wife? How many wondered if he was going to snap because of it?
He nodded his thanks, even as he felt his body slide away from him while he rose to his numb legs. The shell was the Commander who valiantly protected Haven and led the forces in the Arbor Wilds, but deep inside he was the trembling barely adult trapped in a tower full of demons. A hand snaked out from under the blankets and Derrik grabbed onto his. Blue eyes danced as he smiled, "Knight-Captain, may the Maker turn his gaze on you."
"And on you, Ser Derrik," he smiled, patting their clasped hands before letting go and walking back into their abbey.
It was his job to tend to the old templars clinging to life here. Cullen had the idea, but Lana...she was the one to make it work. Not only to acquire the land and brew up healing potions, but she taught him to be calmer. To cool his anger so he could help soothe the templars who'd lost too much of themselves to the song. He was the face, the old Commander who somehow became the emblem of what good the templars can do. But Lana, she was the heart here. Without her, nothing would work.
Without her, he wouldn't work.
Staggering outside their shared door, Cullen expected to hear screams of pain and shouts for her to either push or not push. Yet, nothing but the sweet song of birds cut through the air. Was this abbey that well insulated to be soundproof or...
Was he too late?
&nbs
p; His hand froze upon the door handle, his body coming to a halt while his mind shattered. Maker, no. No, you cannot. Not after... Blessed Andraste, please, you're supposed to watch out for her, to...to save her.
The chance for a child was a foolish one, but Maker take him, he'd bought into it. He let himself hope for a little joy. But that wasn't Cullen's lot in this world. Every step he took towards happiness, the Maker's plan knocked him back another ten. The world bled him dry, wringing everything from him, as it took its thousand cuts but left him alive. Maker's sake, it already stole Lana once from him.
Please, don't do this.
Keep her here, where she belongs.
Damn the taint! Damn the Grey Wardens for filling her veins with that poison! Damn that curse of the Tevinter Magisters! If it weren't for their egotistical madness...
If it weren't for him. Lana accepted her fate, she sighed on occasion about the voices or missing a night of sleep, but faced the lone walk of the Calling head on. He was the one to push her, unable to imagine living out his end years here alone. If he hadn't been so selfish she never would have strived to solve it. She wouldn't have accidentally fallen pregnant and he'd have another ten years with her instead of...
No.
"Blessed Maker, I beg of you," Cullen folded to his knees, palms clasped as he turned his words beyond Andraste to the only power he thought could help, "give her your strength. You have before, you've let her work the impossible odds, miracles. She is your arm, a force for good upon this world. Please...please don't take her from me. I love her with everything inside of me, and I can't...I can't do it alone."
He felt the door begin to move, and Cullen scattered backwards, rising fast to his feet. Barely wiping away the tears in time, he stared down into the midwife's set face. Misha breathed slowly a moment, and then smiled, "Commander, you have a son."
"Lana?" he began to barrel past the woman with the news, praying for a miracle. Misha scrabbled to the side, her lips moving but the noise faded away as he stared over at the bed. Their bed, the one he'd made with his two hands for the only woman he dared love. Sitting propped up in it -- Lana's skin glistening with sweat and eyelids gently closed, curls of ebony hair tufted around her head like a halo -- she looked like an angel. A perfectly preserved angel.
Love's Blush Page 93
