In Which Severin Pushes the Line

October 12, 1166

According to Severin's mother, dreams were far from obscure bedtime stories comprised of random, nonsensical events--far from. No, she had always claimed that every dream had a purpose. They mirrored the heart, she claimed; they were a reflection. To dream was to gaze into the soul.

Being well past the age when people sorted out their beliefs for themselves, however, Severin liked to think that he was practical enough not to put any stock in such nonsense. Who cared about dreams? Even if they did have meaning, they were often too abstract to decipher; even if they were significant, chances were that they wouldn't even be remembered. If there was one thing Severin knew about dreams, it was this.

And yet, whenever he thought about them, there was--for some inexplicable reason--a quiet, yet nagging voice in the back of his mind, wondering if perhaps his mother had been right all along.

He hoped that wasn't the case, as his dreams of late had grown increasingly unpleasant. Nightly, he walked an endless corridor; he could see the door at the end, but no matter how many steps he took, it was never any nearer. Sculptured figures lined the walls, like the inner chambers of some pagan temple, their lifeless marble eyes piercing through him as they whispered back and forth in tongues he could not even identify. All the while, a sourceless wind howled in the background, the breath of some shadow-beast in hungry search of its pray.

But tonight, he had reached the corridor's end. He had taken hold of the knob at turned, bracing himself for what lay on the other side in mingled hope and fear--

Alas, it had been locked all along.

He pushed himself upwards and looked at his wife. Even in the dull light of the morning's earliest moments, she was radiant. He reached across the mattress and massaged the small of her back with the tips of his fingers. She didn't stir; she was fast asleep.

Or, so he supposed until a muffled sob told him otherwise.

"Alina?" She didn't acknowledge him, but the soft cries continued. Had she even heard him? He wasn't sure.

Severin kicked back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Princess?"

Nothing but sniffles. He stepped around the bed-frame to her side, then lowered himself so they were face to face.

Alina had a way of crying without tears. Her eyes were puffy and her lashes fogged, but nothing spilled from their depths. In the morning, she would wake with her face as fresh as ever, not a single streak across her freckled cheek; he would have never known had he not woken when he had.

He reached under the blanket and took her hand in his, then watched as her eyes fluttered open. "You all right?"

She nodded, though a little hesitantly for his taste. "I thought you were asleep."

Shaking his head, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her, taking momentary refuge in the cinnamon scent of her hair. "Bad dream. I won't bore you with the details."

Alina sniffed. "Well, at least one of us got some sleep, then."

Severin frowned as he twirled one of her red curls around his finger. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Her chin rubbed across his shoulder as she shook her head. "I... I don't think you'd understand."

In an attempt to assure her, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Try me."

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

Sighing, she let her arms fall to her side as he released her. "Can we sit down?"

Severin nodded. "Should I light a fire?"

"Please."

He took her by the hand and led her to the couch, twirling her into her seat. He grabbed a nearby flint and set the sparks falling to the firewood, then placed it on the mantel and took to prodding the logs with the poker.

Something was troubling his wife. Something had been troubling her for a while now, and he'd never even bothered to find out what it was. Perhaps there was a monster in his dreams, and he doubted it was whatever it was that made that gusty sound. "Angel, I'm so sorry."

Alina responded with a dismissive half-laugh. "For what? It's not as if it's your fault."

"Perhaps, but whatever it is, it isn't as if I did anything to help," he admitted as he put the poker aside and joined her on the couch.

She bit her lip and tossed back her head. "How could you, though? You don't even know what it is!"

"Maybe I should have asked."

"Maybe I didn't want you to."

Severin raised an eyebrow. "Now you're just being cryptic."

"I'm sorry," she apologized hastily. "I... I really don't know how to talk about this. I'm not sure I feel comfortable saying it aloud."

"Then at least tell me what I can do to help." Damned if he would continue to enable her suffering. Over the course of his life, Severin had failed to be many things for many people, but he did not think he could live with himself if he failed to be a good husband to his darling, increasingly melancholy princess.

She took a few seconds to consider, her blue eyes flicking up and down as she surveyed him. "Severin, I want another baby."

Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that. "...Sorry?"

Alina frowned. "You heard."

He supposed there was no denying that, but... why? How? "Princess... don't you think we have an inordinate amount of children as it is?"

"But they're getting older," she insisted, driving her heel into the floorboards. "Laveria is five years old now; it isn't as if any of them need our constant supervision any more. Another baby won't be too much of an inconvenience for anyone in the household, you must admit."

He sighed. "Alina..."

"I mean, who says we can wait until Raia and Searle and Viridis are married and out of the castle? We're still young now--I'm not sure I care to be having children at the same time the grandchildren are arriving. Can't we please have another baby? Just one; it might be nice to try for an even number of sons and daughters."

And what if it was another girl? Would she then want to try for two sons? Perhaps eight was manageable, but ten seemed nothing short of ridiculous. "Princess..."

And yet, he could see the longing in her eyes. She wanted this baby, son or daughter. She had been thinking about this for quite some time, he knew now, and it was apparent that she was not about to go back on her decision at this point.

"Well," he relented with a grimace, lifting her from the couch and leaning in to kiss her, "I suppose there wouldn't be any harm in having just one more."

Her lips brushed against his for a brief moment, then he released her. Her smile was of the sort he had not seen since their youngest's birth. "God, I love you."

He rested his hand above her hip and drummed his fingers against her side. "I love you too, Princess. Now, what do you say we try to get some sleep, all right?"

He took her in his arms and prayed that she didn't notice as he swallowed in discomfort. He wanted her to be happy, and if another baby was what she wanted, then he would give it to her. When he thought about it, he did have to admit that eight did not seem all that worse than seven; on the other hand, he also supposed that a hundred was not all that worse than ninety-nine. How many times could he agree to 'just one more'? How far could the line be pushed before all hell broke loose?

He did not particularly care to find out.

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