In Which Octavius Watches a Candle's Reflection

April 7, 1167

"I just can't help but feel responsible for this." It was the first phrase out of Severin's mouth in the three or four hours they'd spent sitting on the couch in the front room, waiting in pained tension for Laveria's assessment of Alina's condition. Octavius had muttered the occasional word of reassurance, but never once had he received a response. He'd eventually just stopped trying; so long as he couldn't prove that it wasn't anything life-threatening, that she was going to be all right, he supposed anything he could say would be meaningless.

It had all begun so suddenly--one moment, she had been conversing with Holladrin, chattering away like a chirping bird in the early summer's breeze, then before anyone could have guessed there was anything amiss, she had slammed headfirst into a clear glass windowpane. She'd been on the floor, blood streaming from between her legs, her eyes rolling back in their sockets; somehow, everyone had blinked and her descent had gone unnoticed.

Severin had carried her to her bed while Garrett made haste to Laveria's house, then had settled himself on the couch in the bedroom as he waited for his mother to arrive. As soon as she had, the first thing she'd done was chase him to the foyer, where he had remained ever since.

"Severin, there's no possible way this could have been your fault," Octavius insisted. Really, how could it have been? So far as he knew, the only ways a man could cause his wife to miscarry were to beat her to that point or to otherwise place her under excessive stress, and Severin and Alina's marriage was anything but the sort that included such brutalities.

If Severin had heard him, however, he didn't seem to believe it. "I knew there was something odd about this pregnancy, but I never said anything to her. She just seemed so happy; I couldn't take that away from her." He drummed his fingers against his knee and sighed. "In fact, I think I knew even before. I knew something would happen if she got pregnant again, but when she said she wanted another baby... God, the look in her eyes. How could I have refused her?

"All I've ever wanted to do with my life is make her happy."

Damned if that sentence wasn't what fairytales were made of; of course, Octavius had lived long enough to realize that 'Happily Ever After' was not quite the same thing as 'The End'. "No one can say you failed her there."

"But what if I've killed her?" Severin demanded bitterly, perhaps more to himself than to Octavius. "Maybe it was selfish of me to bring her here in the first place. Maybe it would have been better for her health if I'd just let her marry my brother like she was supposed to. If I'd just been a man and sacrificed my own happiness for what was best for her--if nothing else, it might have been worthy of some epic poem."

Octavius shook his head. "She loves you. She always loved you--not your brother. Besides, what sort of masochistic cretin would want to live out an epic poem?"

Severin breathed the hollow laugh of a man who could not truly be amused. "Well, all the epic poems in the world can rot in hell as far as I'm concerned. Suffering isn't supposed to be a glorified, beautiful thing. It's ugly. It's vile. It makes death look like a beautiful temptress wearing nothing but a smile."

"So does epic poetry."

"That's because epic poetry is suffering." Severin tossed back his head and closed his eyes. "Why is it them, do you think? Women. So many men believe that a woman's only purpose is to produce children for her husband, yet that purpose has such a high mortality rate. What sort of cruel deity would send a child into the world at the cost of its mother's life? What sick ferryman demands a life as a tip? It should be obvious to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that any woman in the world has just as many purposes as any man, and shouldn't be put at risk just as her husband pleases. Alina's meant for so much more, Octavius--what sort of sadistic God would take her so early?"

Octavius slouched, the image of his pale, unconscious cousin lying in the next room swirling about his mind like leaves caught in a spiraling breeze. "I doubt such a thing could be called an act of God."

"Severin?"

Laveria had finally emerged from the bedroom, tired and resigned. Octavius could not find a trace of optimism anywhere in her face; he wasn't sure whether or not he hoped Severin saw otherwise. He stood, then nudged his friend's shoulder in order to bring him to his feet; there were times when a man could not stand on his own.

"How is she?" Severin asked in barely more than a whisper, a misty sort of gloom looming in his eyes as he debated whether or not there was any reason to even dare to hope.

The reflection of a nearby candlelight could be seen as a glimmer on Severin's wedding band. It danced and flickered for a moment as the wick shortened and the wax melted around it--when there was no longer anything left to burn, the flame vanished, taking the glimmer with it.

Biting her lip, Laveria clasped her hands together and frowned. "She's lost a lot of blood, and... well, the flow is rather slow, but it just keeps coming. It's not just menstrual blood either--regular, run-of-the-mill blood. She seems to be bleeding from somewhere inside, and I can't say I can see it stopping any time soon."

Severin's eyes flitted open and shut in a rapid succession of blinks. "Have you seen anything like this before?"

"A few times," Laveria answered, though more bitter than reassuring. "My guess would be two days, maybe three."

"Two days," repeated Severin, shifting the weight of his body from side to side. "So she should just... rest for two or three days. Two or three days, and then the bleed will have clotted and she'll be fine, right?"

Either he was in denial or the stress was taking its toll on his head--Octavius wasn't quite sure. Nevertheless, the sorrowful look on Laveria's face said it all.

"Baby, I think you misunderstand."

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