Racheal sat alone by the hearth, enthroned upon a chair of cold-hewn stone, its unyielding back pressing into her spine.
In her hands, the knitting needles moved with dutiful precision, slipping and crossing in a practiced rhythm. Yet the motion was hollow, mechanical, and an instinct divorced from thought.
Her gaze never strayed from the fire.
The flames writhed and licked at the air, casting a fevered glow across her face, gilding across her cheekbones in an amber hue.
In that restless flame, she searched for something unnamed…absolution.
The fire reflected in her eyes, turning them molten, distant.
It reminded her of all the promises that had been reduced to nothing.
Her memories were in a state of jeopardy. Her skin prickling with heat from her own thoughts.
His hands—she remembered his touch grazing her thighs.
His voice, so deep and so enchanting, teasing at her earlobes. Those lips…oh, those lips.
But now, where was he?
In bed, a ghost of his former self, dying slowly.
The needles faltered once, the thread snagging tight. She did not curse. She did not sigh.
She only stared into the blazing fire, her expression carved from restraint, grief folded so deeply into her chest it had become indistinguishable from breath.
For days, she did not step beyond the threshold of her chamber.
The world outside, its corridors, its voices, and its light might as well have ceased to exist.
Time collapsed into a single, suffocating rhythm, marked only by the dull passing of hours.
In all that time, whenever her eyes lifted, it was to address her maid. There was only one question she ever gave voice to, her tone bare, stripped of pretense:
"Is he awake?"
Each time, the maid's answer was the same. A quiet negation. A subtle shake of the head, laden with reluctance.
At once, her gaze would drift away, retreating from the living world.
Her attention returned to the sweater pooling in her lap, to the yarn drawn taut between her fingers.
She would press harder than necessary, the needles biting into the thread as though she meant to punish it.
She was tired and enraged, so she bound her anguish into loops and knots of the stitch as she knitted a sweater.
Now, there she was again, seated in silence, allowing her hands to work the needles.
Multiple times the needle prodded her finger, but she felt nothing. It was as though she had become immune to pain.
Suddenly the needles stop moving; something strange… A glimmer stirred in her eyes.
The chair that had been rocking back and forth came to an abrupt pause.
A quiet mischief took root in her heart, born out of despair long starved.
The knitting pin slipped from her grasp; it struck the floor as she rose at once, rigidly.
The fire threw wild shapes across the walls as she crossed the chamber, her steps cutting through the room with purpose.
Whatever hesitation had once weighed her limbs down to that chair had disappeared.
She made her way to the writing table, its surface untouched for days, perhaps weeks.
Standing before it, she hovered for a while, eyes alight. She was hesitating; what she was about to do was wrong, and she knew it.
But that thought didn't stop her from going ahead anyway. She took her seat at the table, the solitary candle upon it burning low, its flame trembling as though it sensed the gravity of what was to come.
She reached for the quill lying untouched by the corner of the tabel. It fitted too easily between her fingers as she dabbed it into the ink bottle.
Drawing one scroll closer, she steadied it with her palm as she spread it wide open.
With her lips set into a hard, merciless line, she began to write.
When her handmaid, Rosa, stepped into the chamber and saw that Racheal had moved away from the fireplace, surprise flickered across her face.
It was rare. Her eyes followed the line of shadows to the writing table, and there she was bent over the table, writing.
Curiosity gnawed at the maid as she lingered by the door, unsure whether to retreat or speak.
"My lady…"
Her voice broke the silence at the precise moment the quill slipped from Racheal's fingers and struck the table with a soft tap.
Taking the scroll in her hand, Racheal raised it in the air, her eyes squinting as she read through the words.
She had a very beautiful handwriting; she remembered Ragaleon telling her that once.
"Rosa, have you ever thought that maybe…just maybe fate paves the way for cruel measures to be taken?
She asked, her hand dropping down as she sighed.
Rosa remained silent; she had no intention of attempting to answer that question.
"I do not understand."
She says innocently, and Racheal nodded her head in concurrence.
"I do not expect you to understand."
She said, rising to her feet as she rolled up the scroll, then sealed it.
"What you have seen tonight stays in this room…do you understand?"
"My lady, if only you would explain…"
"Do you understand?!
Racheal screamed, not giving her a chance to complete her sentence. The maid was forced to nod coherently.
Suddenly Racheal reached out, bracing her hand against the chair, arching slightly as her face twisted into a deep frown.
A sudden movement stirred within her, and she froze as the child in her womb kicked, a painful reminder of the life growing inside of her.
"My lady, you must sit," the maid pleaded, stepping forward, fear threading in her voice; she could see that Racheal was in pain.
Racheal shook her head stubbornly, refusing the offered help.
Her jaw clenched, eyes burning with something fierce and newly awakened.
"I have been seated for days," she said, her voice low, trembling with restrained fury.
"Withering. Waiting. Dying in stillness."
She straightened despite the ache, her grip tightening on the scroll.
"But not anymore."
Those were her final words as she made her way out of the chamber.
The maid could only watch, helpless, as Racheal turned and took her leave.
Her lips parted slightly as she began to mutter silent prayers, hoping that the gods would answer them in due time.
Racheal pressed onward towards Ragaleon's chamber, each step a battle against the soreness in her feet.
When she reached the door, two guards stood sentinel, their stances rigid, eyes hardened, meant to intimidate any who dared approach.
But they did not scare her.
She met their gaze steadily, unflinching.
One of the guards opened his mouth to speak, but before he could…
"Move."
She commanded, her voice calm.
"Your Grace, we've been given strict orders…" the first began.
"Get lost," she interrupted, firmer this time.
The two guards exchanged a glance, uncertainty flickering across their faces, then stepped aside.
Her soft palm presses against the door as she nudges it open. She advanced into the room, without so much as sparing them a gaze.
A cool breeze slipped through the room, swirling around her and the loose strands of her brown hair, tossing them across her face.
She turned toward the bed where Ragaleon lay, pale and almost lifeless.
Her eyes closed briefly as she summoned courage, then she forced them open.
This was harder than she had imagined.
Her hand drifted to her protruding stomach. In that moment, a surge of strength coursed through her.
Just the thought of the well-being of her unborn child was enough reason for her to do anything at all.
The courage she had lost the instant she stepped into the room returned, wrapping around her like armor.
She shuffled toward the bedside and sat beside him. Just by gazing at his face, she felt pained.
Once upon a time, that face had brought her so much happiness, but now, just by looking at him, she felt nothing but deep sorrow.
Entangling her fingers in his hair, her thumb brushing gently against his forehead.
"I miss you…"
The words barely left her lips when tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
"I miss you… so much."
She sniffed, then gave way completely, burying her face in his chest as bitter sobs shook her body.
This was what she needed all this while, to let the pain out. But how could she have known?
"I told you...you shouldn't have gone, you shouldn't have!
Her voice rose, then collapsed, as more tears flooded her eyes.
She fought back the tears as she pulled away.
Wiping her tears away with the back of her palm, she brought out the scroll.
She moved away from the bed towards a huge oak table, where a bottle of ink and quill resided.
She took hold of them, then retreated back to the bed. Rolling the scroll open, she brought the quill to his hand, then positioned it between his fingers.
"I am doing this for the sake of our child."
She says as she directed his hands towards the scroll.
"You understand that, right?"
She asked, maybe thinking that he could hear her. She wanted to believe he did.
"Forgive me for what I am about to do."
She says, fighting back another round of tears. She brought the quill towards the mouth of the ink bottle, then dipped it in before trailing it back to the bottom of the scroll.
Just as she remembered, she was going to draw out his signature.
All those times she would stand by his side and watch him sign off petitions, and the monthly budget for the palace would finally pay off.
She had watched the way he drew out his signature and had it imprinted in her memory. That was the exact image she positioned in her mind as she held up his hand against the scroll.
"Forgive me…I am sorry."
She says as she made his hand draw out the signature, and it was perfect, the exact replica.
Sighing heavily, she took the quill from between his fingers and put it away.
Taking the scroll in her hand, she raised it in the air, then gauged the signature with her eyes.
Not a single line was out of place.
She then turns to look at him; she had to take laws into her own hands for the sake of the baby…theirs.
Placing a wet kiss on his forehead and stroking his hair for the last time, she rises to her feet and then looks at him one more time before turning away.
She made her way out of the chamber without looking back, trying as much as possible to suppress any ounce of guilt crawling up her chest.
Indeed, she had crossed the line. She was supposed to be a good example, a leader, someone to rely on, but that didn't seem to matter, because more than anything, she was a mother.