a heart made of wax

This time he takes a seat atop the recently changed linens, next to you, his body turned to show off your labor of love to your bleary eyes. 

“She’s beautiful, just like her mother,” he continues, carefully moving her from his chest to the crook of his arm so you can gaze upon what love has made. “God willing, may she give me fewer issues.”

You smile softly though it turns into a grimace as you move. His face contorts in concern but you shake your head as you reach  to wrap your hand around his shoulder, instinctively using him as leverage to pull yourself all the way up to sitting.

It’s uncomfortable but it’s nothing compared to the pain you were in mere hours ago.

“And I’m certain she will be as kind and insubordinate as her father,” you whisper, leaning to rest your cheek against his bicep.

Looking down at you, his heart swells with pride. 

The reality of the situation is such that it will never just be the two of you and the inane things you get up to again. Despite this, a strange sense of wholeness fills his chest just the same, a future he was uncertain he’d ever claim promised before him.

Once upon a time he’d vowed to leave his life behind on a battlefield, far away from the kingdom he called home. Now he cannot imagine being even one day’s ride away from the two of you, mind turning in terror at the mere thought.

Sir Dante, the Demon of the Killing Fields, has a family. 

Smiling at you, he nods down toward her for just a moment before returning to gazing lovingly at the first precious thing he ever held.

“What should we name her?”

His question moves you. Part of you was concerned that your husband would be as uninvolved with childrearing as your father was to your mother – absent at every birth including the one that thrust you, his successor, upon the earth – but he’s ever stalwart and vigilant at your side, eager to be involved.

“We could name her after your mother,” you suggest, considering what a lovely name it would be in honor of the lovely woman you have faint memories of. 

Dante shakes his head, hiding how his heart skips a beat over your constant generosity toward him. Your devotion to creating a place for him not only in your heart but in the family royal has always been unparalleled. It’s one of the reasons he’s found it easy to fall as deeply in love with you as he has despite your pouts and demands and the paces you’ve put him through.

They were all worth it to end up here, as far as he’s concerned.

“I’d like her to have a name all her own. She’s going to be queen someday, it’s the least we can do.”

Nodding in understanding, you finally reach with a trembling hand to touch the soft cheek of your child. Before you can stop them, tears well in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the fabric that clings to his arm. 

“She’s really ours, my love,” you marvel, sniffling, lifting your head to lean down and take a good look at her for the first time since giving birth. “You’re our fearsome, thorny little rose, aren’t you?”

Furrowing his brow, he leans down to kiss your forehead. 

“My daughter has no thorns.”

You snort, looking up through your eyelashes to meet his eyes. 

“The pain between my legs would beg to differ,” you offer humorously, punctuating your words with a sniffle which concerns your husband.

“Are you alright or should I beckon a nurse?”

Shaking your head, you lean against him once more, reaching across his lap to pet the top of her head.

“No. I’m alright, I merely wish to name our child, Dante.”

Unshakeable as ever, aren’t you? He chuckles, unable to help himself, and hums quietly while you breathe at his side. 

What’s in a name? He wonders how his own father felt when he named his twin sons, tasked with coming up with two instead of one. Did he mull it over like this, turning every possibility over in his head? That would be unlike Sparda, knowing he’d name solely off of instinct rather than a carefully considered decision.

Taking a theoretical page from his father’s book, he goes with his instincts, looking down at the little red cheeks and lips of his daughter.

“Rosemary,” he states confidently, just as the child begins to slowly open her eyes. 

Leaning over his lap despite the ache in your groin, you look at her and nod.

“I believe she agrees,” you giggle, placing a kiss on her little hand that stretches out toward the ceiling, so overwhelmed with love and perhaps exhaustion that your eyes well up, unable to contain the emotions running through you.

As little as the knight-turned-husband-turned-future-king envisioned such a thing, you envisioned it even less, convinced no man would ever be able to tolerate much less truly love you and all that comes with your life.

Fortunately, you found such love and as they told you upon your wedding day, true love multiplies. You are more grateful than any one woman should be, tears falling freely, unable to even speak to your child.

Dante looks down and reaches to wipe your cheek with his thumb, reminding you that he’s still your protector first and foremost and forevermore.

“Do you agree, my heart’s treasure?” he asks, continuing to thumb away every last tear.

You nod, vigorously, eager to let him name not only this child but however many more he will bless you with to come.