werevvulf

Maekar had first seen it in the way you clutched your stomach during the funeral, fingers clenched over a stomach still too flat to raise suspicions. There had been a desperation in your touch, a desperation that he knew only a mother could have, an instinctual need to cling to what little pieces of your husband you had left.

The realization had settled over him heavily, pushing down upon his chest and threatening to crush him. The grief he felt was suffocating, and the new guilt even more so. He had left a woman widowed, but he had also left a child with a father that they would never know.

Maekar had not mustered the courage to speak with you for a long while. The trial had come and ended, the first night passed without Baelor, and he put a deal of effort into avoiding you during the funeral. He had watched, silence loud, as you embraced your eldest son and held him close. Your eyes had grown glossy with tears at the sight of Valarr, your son who looked so much like his father.

Maekar had killed him. He had killed a crowned prince, a husband, a father. He had killed his brother. The ache of his body was nothing compared to the ache within his chest, a deep rousing of pain.

It was not until the fire of the pyre had long died down that he scolded himself for his craven actions, building up the courage to face the mess that he and his folly had created. It still smelt of ash and charred wood, a heady scent in the bright meadows of Ashford, smoke lingering in the air though the flames had long died. The air was lighter in the castle, but it was still thick with sorrow and mourning.

Maekar's feet moved on their own accord, dragging him down the empty hallways. He passed stoned wall and stoned wall, his short journey taking him to a door that had been left half-open. Lord Ashford's chambers, which had been made up to be Baelor's and his wife’s for their stay during the tourney. A shadow moved from within, dark and willowy and unsteady. He heard a sniffle, then the creak of wood like a chest falling shut.

Though Maekar's feet felt like lead, he found himself stepping forward. He hesitated to push the door further open, but he heard the hinges squeak before he could truly stop himself.

You stood there, standing by the bed where a few bits of clothing lay folded, still yet to be packed up for the journey back to King's Landing. You did not see Maekar, or rather, you pretended you did not.

You were a truly pitiful sight in your black mourning clothes, your eyes bloodshot from what he knew to be a mix of tears and lack of sleep. Maekar doubted that you got any rest at all. The first night without your husband was spent crying into the pillows, aching and pleading with the gods to bring Baelor back. The bed had never felt so empty before. It was an ache that he knew too well, when his own thoughts drifted astray during odd hours, to the space on the bed that was always left empty and cold. The space that was once filled with warmth from the person loved most.

Maekar could only watch, his tongue like a heavy weight in his mouth, as your hands trembled above the folded clothing. He had come here to apologize, to ask of your well-being, to bring up the little life within you, or say something, anything of comfort, but the words would not come. He swallowed, his mouth drying out, and cleared his throat.

“That is a servant's job.”

You flinched at the sound of his voice, eyes falling shut as if he would disappear. As silence enveloped the chamber, Maekar did not expect a reply. Seconds could have passed into minutes before you composed yourself, your voice little more than a simple, dry response.

“I sent them away.” It was easier to ignore your thoughts if you kept your hands busy, so you continued your chore of packing. It was a servant's job, not that of a prince's wife, but you would not allow for anyone to touch his things.

A few stacks of your clothes were put into the empty chest, but your hands faltered when all that was left were Baelor's royal garments. Black and red velvet were stitched together, soft and still carrying his scent. The Hand's pin was still pinned into the fabric, the silver gleaming against the darker backdrop. You could not touch it.

Maekar noticed.

He noticed the way you stood by the bed, with nothing more than one final thing to pack away. Your hands clutched onto the edge of the chest, and a tremble took over your jaw. He took a step forward before halting, thinking better of closing the distance so prematurely. You must hate him. It was a sentiment he agreed with.

His violet gaze dropped lower, to the swell of your stomach that was made more noticeable by the slouch in your posture. He knew he had no right to ask anything of you, for you owed him nothing and he owed you everything. He felt the words tumbling out of his mouth regardless, because he needed an answer. He needed to know…

“Did Baelor know?”

Your trembling ceased, and Maekar saw the way your throat bobbed around a thick swallow. The silence that followed was nearly deafening, and time seemed to slow. The question was already out there, though a part of him wished he had never spoken. It would have been less painful to face his own grief than yours. He should never have come here. He should have wallowed in his own grief and guilt instead of coming to speak with his brother's widow. A widow that had been made by him.

“Why does it matter to you if he knew or not?” Your words were a sharpened barb, aimed to get him to simply leave. But there was a tremble to your tone, one that was unmistakably formed by shaking lips and a tightened throat. Your hands still shook as they clutched the edge of the chest, and your breaths had been as shallow as they were since the truth of the matter had been broken.

Maekar knew he deserved your anger. He deserved your hate. You should be screaming at him, hitting him. Harsh words were the smallest of punishments for what he had done. He exhaled, slow and deep, to compose the final thread that held him together. “I was only wondering.”

“Then you will keep wondering.”

It was a fair response, he wagered. After all, Maekar had no right to even ask such a question. That business was yours and Baelor's. He knew when he was not wanted, but his feet kept him in place regardless, as if tethered to the cold stone floor by some otherworldly power. Or mayhaps it was merely his own guilt that kept him rooted, for he felt a great need to do what he could to mend what had been broken by his own hand; and to protect you and his brother's unborn child.

“Do you think I do not know what I have done?” The words came softer than Maekar had intended, a crack splitting through his voice but not his armour. He would not stumble before you, and he certainly would not weep. “I killed my brother. I will hear that truth for the rest of my life.”

A breath, then another, as he steeled the quaking of his hands and the tremble of his jaw. You still shook, your once-graceful frame reduced to a woman so small and frightened. Maekar felt his chest tighten further, though he had doubted that was possible, at the sight of you. His feet brought him a step closer to where you stood by the bed, but he halted when you visibly stiffened. He was unwelcome, he reminded himself.

“Some will say I meant to kill him,” Maekar added, voice less strained, a quiet acceptance of the judgment he would face in the eternity to come, “but the gods know the truth of it. And you must, too.” He wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms - but he had never been a man prone to giving comfort. He had never known how to express his emotions, but after the recent mess of Ashford, he knew something must change. Only, perhaps, not now. Perhaps when he was stronger.

“I did not mean to kill him.”

It was the truth of it, but he did not know if you would ever believe him. He could still hear the sting of steel, though he hardly remembered the fatal blow. He had not seen anything, had not seen his own brother. It was an accident.

The quiet settled over the chamber again, broken only by the faint, unsteady rhythm of your breaths. Your hands retracted from the chest, shaking like leaves in the wind, before they fell to your stomach, to the final little piece of your husband you had left.

Maekar felt sick. He had left you a grieving widow, and a child who would never know its father. His mind raced with the words he wanted to say, a thousand apologies, echoes of his own pain, but his jaw was shut too tight to voice them. He sighed deeply, watching as you stood there as little more than a mournful, angry, trembling woman. You did not look at him. He was unwelcome. He began to turn away.

“If he knew, he would not have risked it.” Your voice came then, softer than the harsh barbs from moments before. It was a quiet, grievous statement that had Maekar freezing and looking to you. Your gazes met, your eyes red and glossed over. He watched as you exhaled shakily, fingers curling around your stomach as if you could cling to the child within your womb for comfort. “I did not have the chance to tell him.”

And that only made it worse. Baelor would never know of the child that you carried, of the little life born of love between you. He did not have the chance to know, and would never have the chance to know.

Maekar nodded, though it felt shallow. It was only an acknowledgement, as words could never form a proper reply. He watched as your expression fell, features twisting into a look of pure agony and he felt his gut churn. This was his fault, only his fault.

Your hands trembled as they reached for the final garment to pack away, before they fell back to your sides. One rose, covering your mouth as a sob shook your shoulders. “I wish I told him,” you wept mournfully, “I wish I told him. I wish- I wish…” The words came thick and broken, chopped by gasping breaths and cries. You wished you had your husband back.

Maekar felt his own eyes sting, but he could not crumble before you. A brief silence passed, filled with the heartwrenching sounds of your grief. “I am sorry.” Even to his own ears, the words felt hollow, though he meant them with every fiber of his being.

“Sorry does not bring him back, sorry does not do anything!” You shouted through your tears, whipping to face him like an animal cornered. Teeth bared and cheeks wet, eyes hollow and haunted with a pain that he had recognized in his own reflection. The yelling was better than the sobbing. He could take your anger and he would bear it with strength and silence.

You turned back to the bed, shaking with anger and with pain, and you built up the strength to touch Baelor's clothing. Your fingers curled around the fabric, bunching it in a tight fist before you let out another agonized cry, louder this time, as though the mere touch brought you a physical pain. Maekar could not take this. “Let me-”

“No! You will not touch his things,” you hissed fiercely through the gasps and hiccups that wrenched through you. You closed your eyes and shook your head, a hand rubbing harshly at one of your cheeks. “Go.”

It was a command.

Maekar did not need to be told twice. His words had only seemed to hurt you further, and his presence had only angered you. “I am sorry,” he whispered again, just to say it and have it known, though it did not reach your ears. His feet allowed him to move then, and he would not cry until he was alone.

Maekar knew he would return to you, when the dusts of the initial grief and shock were settled. He would not fail his brother a second time, and he would ensure that you were well. That you knew that it was an accident. This was his fault. He took Baelor from you.

The silence in the chambers after Maekar's departure were loud, ringing in your ears and mingling with the broken sounds you let out, now even more wretched that you were alone. Your fingers trembled upon the garment, but you managed to lift it. It felt heavier than iron, both hands trembling as you held it. “Baelor…” you whispered to the air, as though perhaps the gods would bring him back if you pleaded hard enough. “Please.”

You brought the clothing to your nose, inhaling the scent of him that lingered, warm and sweet. You closed your eyes as you let out a solemn cry, and you clung to it. His scent filled your senses, and once a marker of his presence was now only a memory. “Baelor, please, I need you. I need you so badly.”

For a moment, it felt like he was there, a looming presence that eased your soul. Though your husband was gone, he would live through memory and the child within your womb. A child of his own flesh and blood, one that had been prayed for and longed for. The grief felt like a shackle you could scarcely bear, but it was made lighter by the strength you needed - if not for yourself, then for them.

tags 𝜗𝜚 ◞ @dododix