#siegnificant

2. conquest; in his first words. War never ends cleanly, never stops with a treaty or truce or a call to cease action; she knows firsthand, and although she affects a particular distant smile, attempts to keep morale up in with wake of her husband’s work, she worries, catches the restless look in everyone’s eyes.

     It is her son that ultimately sets her to take an axe to fell training dummies before down, as the thought of chaos erupting before he’s even old enough to defend drives her. Blood drives her to stay sharp, just as much as it had before-- blood, and a desire to rest, to enjoy life in the gilded light instead of scraping for an ounce of that glory.

     It feels distinctly wrong, having him in his own room-- wing, even, something she couldn’t comprehend a babe of barely three needing but he deserves the world-- but she’s there more often than not, especially after she’s set her axe to rest, to be there when he first wakes, tiny arms begging for her to hold him. Her worries do not melt away, but they are put on hold for his smile, for Siegbert’s clumsy words. Every morning, gleefully announcing mama as she arrives-- it’s better than any riches she could have conceived.

3. birthright; in his strength. Years of trying to step out of his father’s shadow, for reaching for heights he cannot grasp, all for naught-- all for him to fall to a traitor’s sword, to lose family and his idol all in one.

     For her, there is anger, for a man unwilling to put down the sword for-- for the love of his kin. He was felled for being unable to stand down, married to the duties of his country before her. The cynic in her knew but the love she had wanted to believe that, for once, he’d stand down because he had them. He used to relent, only to her, and she’d felt proud as their hands intertwined; now, she wishes there was something other than an ire driven by the pain searing into her chest.

     But Siegbert catches her hands in his, speaking so quietly she barely catches the Mother that slips from his lips. He looks grim, a younger mirror of his father but trying so, so hard to stand taller than he is ( when he eclipsed her in height, she’ll never know ) but she can see beyond his solemn expression, to his wide eyes looking down at her, worried about her before himself.     He grew up before her eyes, trying his hardest not look the part of the mourning son but the enduring one. Despite the anger ( the sorrow ) lurking in her mind she could not be prouder.

4. revelations; in his concern. Charlotte is elated-- worried, but cannot keep her pride under wraps as she sees what a fine young man her son has become. He picks up behind others and takes on chores so no one else has to, sword always at the ready and wielded with such skill ( from her, she wants to think. The power behind his blows are his hard work and her strength ) that he impresses immediately, and savors each word of praise with a smile much wider than he’d ever admit.

     But she is still troubled. Years have passed in the blink of her eye; days ago it feels as though he was still only coming up to her knee, running towards her enthusiastically when she can afford to visit ( and especially when she can’t ) but--

     -- but the look on his face when they’d arrived the other day, exhausted and genuinely surprised, as though his troubles were unimportant compared to the trials of his parents. It cuts in a way she didn’t know could hurt; she’s been on the receiving end of nasty comments and pulled arrows from her arm with grit teeth, but it hurts in a way she does not know and cannot cut back with.     Such a thoughtful boy. She’s afraid that might be the end of him. That day, he wants her advice, and she hangs on every word, smiles brightly and makes sure he knows that his concerns are hers.

5. heirs of fate; in her last words. They step into a word of chaos and she barely hears Xander calling her name as she speeds ahead, smelling acrid smoke and seeing, at the corner of her vision, soldiers and a ghoulish glow flitting in and out of existence faster than she can say. The world appears to be in flames but it hardly matters and she’s calling his name over and over until her voice is hoarse. She cannot see enemies but they can see her, and it hardly matters; one swing of her axe cleaves and clears and she’s picking her way through chaotic streets, innocents and soldiers on both sides alight with fear.     She sees his horse first, rearing at an incoming brute, Siegbert’s sword striking true. He sees her and screams Mother, but Charlotte’s attention is diverted, driven nearly back-to-back by seemingly endless forces.

     His expression, his confidence-- everything wavers when she finally meets his eye, and her heart drops.

     Charlotte smiles as though charming her way into a party she would have once been shunned from, the kind she eases skeptics with. The grin meant to conquer-- and clears a path for him, rolling heads, feeling the bite of other blades but far from concerned.

     Awash in chaos, her entire state in disarray, she smiles.