If even he is blanching, then…

"How is she?" Hermann asks. "Is she…?"

He doesn't know what he's wants to say. His mouth closes around the question, it seems to take every muscle in his body to simply swallow.

"She's doing fine, far as I can tell," Henry replies, his optimism a balm to frazzled nerves. "And she's in good hands. Pavlena's been a midwife since she were a girl herself."

Minding his expression, Hermann nods wordlessly. Pavlena, the herbwoman who had moved not far from their doorstep a little more than a year ago, now. Such women are only a spell away from being witches, but when Henry arrived with her in tow, there'd been little room to complain. Not when the town doctor had more important people to tend to than the headsman's wife.

They always do, unless it's a noblewoman's cunt, and a nobleman's baby.

The floor creaks with Henry's weight crossing it. He's looking for something, heels lifting from the floor to peer onto the high shelf where they store Elishka's embroidery.

"Are you going back in there?" Hermann says, feeling breathless. His mouth's pulling in air, but it's like his lungs are rejecting it. He pushes through.

"I ought to," Henry answers, finding another shelf to peek at. He huffs softly as he comes away, fruitless. "Pavlena asked for some clean sheets. Linen, if you have any."

He has just enough air in him to scoff. "Linen?! You come from the castle and you're asking me for linen?"

At least Henry has the sense to look embarrassed. Enough that some pink colours his clammy cheeks and he mutters, "Anything clean will do."

"It's in the pantry, top of the shelf." Henry wastes no time heeding his instruction. From around the corner Hermann can just see his shadow hopping up on his toes to reach. He calls after him, "Are you certain it's proper, you being in there?"

"Don't worry, Hermann. I won't get any ideas." He emerges from the pantry, a pile of rags draped over his arms like a fainting maid. "Quite the opposite, really. I may never lay with a woman again."

Despite the dread mounting in his chest, Hermann laughs. He catches Henry's smiling at his own joke as he pries the door open with his knee and then his ankle, toes pulling it shut behind him. Elishka's shouts burst past, quieting any laughter.

And leaving Hermann alone with his fears.

The day drags. Afternoon slouches into evening. In the distance he hears the bells ring for Vespers, but in the height of summer, the evening is long and the day stubborn. Outside, the shadows of their homestead slant towards the eastern sky.

He lifts the rosary from his pocket, the beads clapping together as it's drawn out. He thumbs a bead, prying them apart enough to see the ribbon that binds them together, and the lock of hair braided around it— Elishka's idea, so that even while she lies on the birthing bed, they could still be together. Pressing it to his forehead, he begins to pray:

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Again.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Again.

Again.

The beads grow warm with the passage of his hands, the impression of the wood wearing a groove into his forehead. Hail Mary, full of grace. He prays until he has no breath left to hail with. In whispers, he asks her to intercede, to bring life to this place of death. To not make him his own wife's executioner, his seed the poison that takes her from the world.

As he reaches the last step and hails the holy Queen, he realises their little home has gone quiet.

He can hear his blood rushing in his ears; the whine of a dog outdoors; somewhere in the woods, a buck brays.

The birthing room, where they'd laid together, just the two of them, these last few years— silent as the grave. Heart in his chest, Hermann has barely scrambled to his feet by the time the door cracks open. No shouts, nor cries of pain, carry from the room at Henry's back…

And his hands are covered in blood.

Hermann falls, legs helpless as a hanged man beneath him.

The rosary beads clatter in his ears.

He hurts in new ways when he comes to. There is warmth on his right side, from the fire, and on his left—

Elishka is using the wall to sit upright. Pale, and clearly fatigued, but alive.

Alive.

God above— alive.

"Elishka…" he heaves her name, ribs aching. He'd only fallen from his own feet, but he felt like he'd taken a tumble down a flight of stairs. Every inch of him, straining.

"You're alright," she says. "Henry thought you'd died of fright for a moment there."

"And you?"

"I know my husband. I know you wouldn't dare leave us, now of all days."

Us.

A new word for their home. Once, it'd been 'I.' Then 'we.' And now…

Hermann tries to find his strength, straining to sit up. "Where are they?"

They had agreed not to name the babe until the Christening, but still, the mind has a way of naming the nameless. He'd taken to calling it Fate, the very thing that determined their lives; that bade he wake up a father and not a widower.

Elishka nods wearily to the window. Sounds he'd been deaf to moments ago now lap against his ears: the splash of water, quiet sounds of protest, a woman speaking in hushed tones. When he looks, he can see Pavlena standing against the light, holding something. Just a glimpse of a leg, kicking. "He's almost clean," she says, pretending she was not privy to their exchange. "Would you like to hold him?"

The room smells of blood and viscera, but the child she offers forward seems unspoiled, untouched by the violence of birth. He'd heard the priests speak of the sin all men were born with, but the wrinkled newborn, pink with his own blood running hot in his vein, seems the farthest thing from the word.

"Please," Elishka answers for them both. "Although I think I lack the strength to do it alone. Hermann…?"

He'd never heard her tell a bigger fib in his life. She, the woman who watched her husband hang; who carried on alone; who'd married him, and bore their child. Who had brought life to Gallows Hill.

She could shift the circle of the sun itself, if she put her mind to it.

But with Pavlena in the room, he can only grunt and nod, then accept the weight laid half on his arm, half hers. Fate squirms in their grasps then settles, seeming almost as tired as they are.

There are doubts (there will always be doubts) of what life they can offer him, but his wife leaning her weight into him, and his son in his arms— suddenly death is the last thing on Hermann's mind.