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Of the men hailing from the Rosfield line, Joshua Rosfield could be considered the least problematic.
To put things into perspective:
- His mother had spent less time in labor during his birth compared to his brother, according to the records in the Rosalith archives.
- He had been dead on record for a majority of his life, allowing for freedom of movement in his travels across Valisthea without anyone worrying about him. Well, save for his attendant, but that was a given.
- He was adept at swordplay, once had the powers of the Phoenix, and could more or less keep himself alive in battle.
- He wasn't a picky eater, save for carrots.
- He was swift in his decisions and had relatively sound judgement when it came to matters of state and diplomacy.
- He never had Tarja chew him out so thoroughly as she did Clive, though that was probably a closer call.
- He never had a problem with marriage prospects, and while he had practically sprinted down the aisle before anyone could say a word otherwise and before the High Houses could throw their daughters at him, it wasn't as though he had married his cousin for the sake of the duchy’s Eikonic lineage (his father), endured years of separation and near-death with his wife before they finally tied the knot (his brother), or even stubbornly stayed single to enjoy the fruits of his labor in Rosaria (his uncle).
Therefore, on a very ordinary evening when his wife spoke up while he was sitting at his desk and finishing up his work for the day in their bedroom, he wasn’t necessarily worried he had done something wrong, per se, but it did have him internally panicking about what he could have done to warrant the conversation.
“We need to talk.”
A sentence that began with those four words never boded well, and Joshua’s hands froze in place where he was writing a missive to the Emperor of Sanbreque. Slowly, he turned his head to look behind him and took in the sight of Jote sitting on their bed with a furrow in her brow, one leg resting sideways on top of the bed and the other dangling over the side, her hands in her lap.
He swallowed, but dutifully pushed his chair back to stand, making his way over to sit down next to her and hold both of her hands in his. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I—”
She was not all right. Jote was ever steadfast and steady; she was always full of conviction in the moves that she made. And now that her gaze was flitting between somewhere past his face and their twined hands in her lap, Joshua knew something was wrong. Her raven hair, now grown out to her mid-back, slipped over her shoulders when she looked down, as though gathering herself.
He resisted the urge to push it back and tuck it behind her ear, scarcely breathing to avoid derailing her from whatever it was she felt like they needed to talk about.
“Jote?” he prompted after another minute of her clearly struggling to speak up but being unable to get the words out of her mouth. If the conversation hadn't started with the four most heart-stopping words in Valisthea, Joshua might have teased her for how adorable she looked when flustered, a look he really didn't see enough of. As it was though, he didn't want to give her another excuse to leave him, even after years of her reassurances that she wasn't going anywhere (“Joshua, if you were not too much when you were the human host of a god's powers and had said god trapped inside of your chest for years while throwing yourself all over Valisthea in less-than-ideal health, I assure you that you are not too much now,” she had said with a flick on his nose the year after they had gotten married and assumed the ducal throne).
She looked so frustrated with herself it made Joshua's heart ache. “Whatever it is, we can face it together,” he said, trying to reassure her now, his hand coming up to smooth out her furrowed brow with his thumb. “Just tell me what's wrong.”
Jote squeezed her eyes shut, waited one breath, two, and then—
“Joshua, I'm pregnant.”
Whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn't that. Joshua's hand froze hovering over her face, his eyes wide with shock and her words banging themselves repeatedly against the sides of his brain.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
“Joshua?” Jote asked, concern written all over her face—though unclear whether said concern was for her husband's current state of shock or how he would receive the news once he came back to himself. Joshua mechanically lowered his arm, looking at her dead in the eye.
“Pregnant?” he tried to say, but it only came out as a whisper.
His wife pressed her lips together with an almost half-shrug. “Pregnant,” she confirmed just as quietly.
“Baby?” Joshua asked again. He just needed to hear it again, needed to know for sure.
This time, a smile began to break over Jote's face. “Baby.”
Before he knew it, Joshua was laughing, pulling her into his chest and hugging her tightly, feeling her arms come up around his back. “This is what you were worried about?” he asked, leaning back only slightly. Jote's hand came up to his face then, brushing off the tears he didn't know had fallen from his eyes.
“We’ve never really discussed it,” she said. “I—wasn't sure if this was welcome news.”
Joshua pulled back further, holding her at arm's length as he looked at her with all the sincerity he could muster. “Jote,” he said seriously, “a child will never be unwelcome news. Our child will never be unwelcome news. You know there is nothing in this world I wouldn't face with you, even this new adventure.”
A true, brilliant smile shone on her face. It was the most beautiful sight Joshua had ever seen, and then she launched herself forward into him.
Naturally, Tarja was the first to find out.
As talented and skilled a physicker Jote herself was, both she and Joshua decided they would feel more at ease with Tarja’s familiar presence and steady hands. Joshua sent a message out the following morning, receiving a reply only a day later that she would make her way from Lake Bennumere to Rosaria the following month after setting up Rodrigue and the Hideaway’s infirmary to run for several months without her.
Jote assured her in the note that she was still very early in her pregnancy after her self-diagnosis, no more than six weeks along, but Joshua asked that Tarja stay for the remainder of the term and delivery—not that it was her first stay in Rosalith Castle anyway; their favorite physicker had permanent rooms for her more-often-than-not unannounced visits.
“I have to tell you something.”
In the three weeks since Jote broke the news of her pregnancy, they had been quietly nursing the happy secret between them, not even telling the rest of their family just yet. Joshua had thought all was progressing well—she wasn't feeling too ill in the mornings, despite what the books in Rosalith’s rather extensive library said, and it was too early for any other unpleasant side effects—but the way Jote began their conversation, while not quite as daunting as we need to talk, was still nerve-wracking nonetheless.
He closed the book he had been reading and sat up straight in their bed from where he had been lounging against his pillows and the headboard, giving her his full attention. For her part though, Jote pulled at their duvet, tucked her legs underneath her, reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, then picked at the lone white feather that had escaped her pillow.
She was clearly nervous, but if Joshua had learned anything about her in the last twenty-six years, it was to not let her stew. Best to just tear the bandage off, as it were.
“What is it, love?” he asked gently, taking the hand that was plucking at her pillowcase. Jote took a deep breath before meeting his eyes.
“I’m pregnant.”
Joshua blinked.
“…Yes?” he tried after a moment, prompting her to continue.
She gripped his hand. “We’re having twins.”
It took him a moment. A slow, stupid moment.
“Twins?” he repeated.
“Twins.”
“We have two?”
Jote smiled, lacing their fingers together. “We have two.”
To His Radiance, the Emperor of Sanbreque and leader of the illustrious Dragoons—
In our last official gathering with the Triumvirate, Your Imperial Radiance mentioned that the bandit raids on your southern borders have increased in frequency, but from what our intelligence has managed to gather, it seems the attacks will lessen in number as the groups grow ever more disbanded. Rest assured that we have the best of our scouts keeping his eyes and ears to the ground, and will report any news that he receives so that we may be well prepared for any event. He and his team are stationed near the border to intercept any activity in the area, and have been instructed to defend the people to the best of their ability. We have enjoyed these eight years of peace in the partnership and flourishing of each of our nations by the bonds of friendship and alliance; rest assured, Your Radiance, that Rosaria is ever your friend and ally.
Joshua Rosfield, Archduke of Rosaria
P.S. – Plan for a diplomatic trip to Rosalith in the coming months. Jote is with child! We're expecting twins. Twins, Dion. You must come and meet them after they arrive!
P.P.S. – You and Terence will be the godfathers, won't you?
P.P.P.S – Bring Kihel along too—we miss her terribly.
When Jote read Jill's reply out loud in the library to Joshua a week after he had sent the missive off to Dion in Sanbreque, he couldn't contain his laughter hearing his sister-in-law write in great detail just how Clive reacted to the news of their expectant nieces or nephews. Clive was a strangely misleading person—in Jote's words, “he looks as though he could kill someone, but is actually like the sweet buns the kitchen makes with the sugar glaze on top", to which Joshua had baldly replied, “but he could actually kill someone”. He didn't find it prudent to remind his wife about how she had been both intimidated and in awe the first time she met Clive in Tabor, a fact she confessed much later after the defeat of Ultima, in the interest of keeping her mood relatively mild.
Jote was a naturally level-headed person, but the pregnancy had made something of a mess of her emotions, which, Joshua understood, was very normal. He had found her crying in the kitchen the other day because she had wanted a lemon tart even though she had never expressed a particular liking of them.
In conclusion: Clive and Jote were currently riding the same emotional wave about the future Rosfield twins for varying reasons, and Jill assured them at the end of her letter that they would be in Rosalith well before Jote's delivery date.
To His Prominence, the Archduke of Rosaria—
The Empire is ever grateful for Your Grace’s friendship and alliance, upon which we have built the foundations of a lasting peace. As Oriflamme is positioned so far from our southern border, we are exceedingly thankful for the eyes that Your Grace has set on the raids and aid in the protection of our citizens who make their homes and lives there. No citizen of Sanbreque is too low for the care of the Empire or the Council; we strive to ensure the prospering of each person, and are more than willing to assist in any time of need. I have deployed a squadron of dragoons to the south where they are to meet with the scouts of Rosaria and hopefully cease the raids once and for all.
We look forward to an age of stability and harmony in all of Valisthea.
Dion Lesage, Emperor of Sanbreque
P.S. – Apologies ahead of time to Gav if the dragoons give him any trouble. They are all capable soldiers, but some have only known these times of peace, and have not yet been broken in.
All our congratulations and love to you and Jote. Consider the trip planned. Do let us know as soon as your babes arrive so we may begin preparations to Rosalith. Kihel would never miss a chance to see her favorite aunt and uncle; there is no doubt that she would come with us regardless of whether or not we plan to bring her.
Terence and I would be overjoyed to be the children’s godfathers. We cannot wait to meet their acquaintance.
A last note, Joshua—are you aware of how to use a postscript? You do not need a new postscript each time a new thought comes to you. You were a Phoenix, not a cat. Pspsps.
Jote was still fine the first three months—walking fine, no aching feet or back, relatively normal asks in her diet—save for the morning illness, which she had informed him was still a lot better than most expecting women she had met.
The changes in her mood began to really affect her in the fourth and fifth months, though that was also around the time she began to take a lot more initiative in…and out…of the bedroom. More than normal, at least. Joshua was certainly not complaining, but if he spent several weeks more tired and running on less sleep than usual while attending to matters of state, everyone in his council was wise enough to not comment on the matter.
Months six and seven were increasingly difficult for the Archduchess though; while not confined to bedrest just yet, Tarja kept her eagle eyes on her at all times, especially after Jote had reluctantly expressed difficulty in walking around the castle, the grounds, and the surrounding town due to her feet painfully seizing up more than once. Joshua also knew that the aches in her lower back prevented her from getting adequate rest at night, resulting in a tired, grumpy, sometimes teary Jote. Knowing her, it was evident to Joshua that she was frustrated to no end, having to rely on him and Tarja and her maidservants for everything when she had been the one caring for others her whole life. Founder knew she was a talented physicker and an incredibly strong fighter, but Jote had never really known what it was to rest and put herself first until now.
Joshua hoped it would continue, even after their children were born. She deserved all the care in the world twice over after all she had done for everyone around her.
By the eighth month, Jote’s belly was well and truly swollen; her stomach was distended and round, the aches in her back getting worse given how Joshua would see her brows furrow while trying to sleep. Waterskins filled with hot water were the only thing that really gave her any relief, and while Joshua himself naturally ran warm, the warmth that could have truly helped her was gone with the Phoenix.
Jote stood in front of their desk, looking down at Cyril’s latest report on the ongoings of the Republic. She had one hand resting on her belly, the other supporting her lower back, and with the frown on her face, Joshua guessed that it was either less-than-good news from the Undying (unlikely, as things in Dhalmekia had been relatively quiet as of late and L’ubor had not mentioned anything amiss in his last letter), or, as it usually was, discomfort with her swollen stomach. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, running his hands soothingly up and down her arms. Jote dropped her head back to lean against him, sighing.
“Not feeling well, love?” Joshua murmured, dropping a kiss on her temple. She hummed in response, and inspiration struck.
Never let it be said that Joshua Rosfield was not a scholar in his own right.
“May I try something? I came across a passage in the archives that might help alleviate some of your aches.”
“If you could tell your children to stop kicking me at night and let me sleep, that would be the best help of all,” Jote said with a yawn. He hid his grin in her hair, but lowered his hands so that they were supporting her belly. Ever so gently and slowly, he lifted her stomach to take the pressure off of her back, taking the weight of their twins in his hands.
The effect was instantaneous—his wife melted against him.
“Joshua.” She said his name on a sigh that almost sounded like a sob. He shifted his foot back into a secure stance, taking all of her weight in his arms.
“Do you feel better?”
“Yes.” Jote turned her face into the crook of his neck, practically burrowing into him. “Yes.”
Joshua slowly lowered her belly back down, repeating the motion several times until Jote nearly fell asleep standing propped up against him. “Can you do that every day?” she said, her words dragged out and her tone satisfied, tired.
He kissed the top of her head. “Of course.” Putting his hands on the sides of her belly, he grinned as he felt a kick against his left palm. “You heard your mother,” he said, tapping his finger gently against her stomach. “Let her rest.”
True to her word, Jill and Clive arrived at the castle about month and a half prior to Jote's due date with their small brood in tow—two boys and a girl—and Torgal, of course.
They wasted no time; as soon as they stepped foot inside, Jill, carrying her two-year-old daughter in her arms, rushed forward to envelop Jote in a warm hug, immediately drawing her and Tarja into conversation while her two boys, both a little older, practically assaulted Joshua in their excitement to see him. “Luke, you’ve gotten so tall!” Joshua praised the six-year-old, who puffed out his little chest in pride. He was the spitting image of his father down to his chocobo-tussled hair while four-year-old Lennox was, more or less, a relatively even mix of both his parents with his lighter hair color and stormy, blue-gray eyes. Joshua had just put his hand on Lennox’s head to affectionately rustle his hair when Clive walked in through the doors with Torgal.
It had been too long. Joshua was not surprised to feel the tell-tale prick of tears in his eyes as Clive rushed forward to hug him, and like the young child he had once been, he clung to him as though his life depended on it. “I’ve missed you, brother,” he said, his voice no louder than a whisper. He had known in his heart that he missed Clive, but being together again made him realize just how much. With Clive and Jill spending their time between their home in the northern reaches of Rosaria just south of the now-flourishing Northern Territories and the Hideaway, there weren’t many opportunities for them to all be together as a family in recent years.
“I’ve missed you too, Joshua,” Clive said, giving him one last squeeze before letting go. “Congratulations.”
As Clive went to go greet Jote, Joshua saw the tears in his eyes when he gave her the most careful of hugs around her belly. “Congratulations, dearest sister-in-law.”
Being together again as a family was revitalizing in a way Joshua had missed. He missed Jill’s warm comfort, Clive’s steady presence, and the laughter and unconditional love and excitement of the children, as young as they were. Having Tarja there kept all of their little toes in line, especially Luke and Lennox, who spent more time with her at the Hideaway than they did with their aunt and uncle in Rosalith. It was a warm, happy way to spend the last month and a half of Jote’s pregnancy, and her spirits seemed to be lifted with both Jill and Tarja there, having formed close bonds with them all those years ago in the war against Ultima. There was noise ringing in the halls again, more than usual, and the last of the preparations for the nursery were finally complete.
Everything was ready for the twins' arrival.
And then it all went wrong.
“Joshua.”
It was too early to wake. He knew it was too early because Joshua Rosfield liked to sleep until noon on his rare days off, and even on the days he had to claw himself upright just after sunrise (which was most days), his body would more or less kick itself into gear. More often than not, Jote was the one to wake him, but even with her shaking his shoulder, he knew instinctively it was too early and sunrise was still some time away.
“Joshua.”
There was something in her tone that had his eyes snapping open, his whole body immediately alert, like the times they spent on their travels where they would have to pack up camp in mere moments because danger had found them. Joshua went to reach instinctively for Burning Thorn, but the look on Jote's face in the warm light of their hearth momentarily stopped his heart—she was scared. And he had seen her many faces and expressions, had seen her go through a lifetime of war, had seen her beyond worried for him, had seen her heart break, had seen her angry and frustrated, but he had never seen her scared, not in the way she was now.
“Jote, what is it?” he asked, immediately sitting up and putting his hands on her shoulders, scanning her body for anything out of place—and then he saw it, saw the way her nightgown clung to her legs as though it were wet. Wet and bloody.
“Joshua, I-I think we need Tarja,” Jote said, barely holding back a sob.
Joshua had never moved so fast in his life, not during his fight with Ultima in the Rift at Drake’s Spine, not during the war; he flew to Jote’s side of the bed, carefully scooping her up and walked as swiftly as he could down to the infirmary, barking orders at a patrolling Shield to immediately rouse Tarja and Clive and Jill. In his arms, silent tears started slipping down Jote’s face as Tarja rushed out of her door.
When they asked months ago, Tarja had told Joshua he was allowed to be there for the delivery and birth of their children. Tonight, after he gently put Jote on the infirmary bed he had been directed to and wiped away her tears with his thumbs, Tarja took one look at Jote’s bloody thighs and softly told him to wait outside until she gave the all-clear. Clive and Jill rushed into the hallway, both in their house slippers and robes with Torgal running after them.
“What’s happened?” Clive asked, immediately at Joshua’s side.
“I…” For a moment, Joshua felt light and hollow, his head disconnected from his body. Nothing felt real, nothing felt close enough to touch; he couldn’t feel the plush carpet underneath his bare feet, the soft cotton of his now-bloody sleeping trousers, nor the bite of the morning chill against his shirtless torso that was also lightly smeared with blood. When Jill pulled him down into a hug as she had done thousands of times before, he suddenly couldn’t remember how to hug her back.
She silently held him until he came back to himself enough to register the cool hand that was on the nape of his neck. Though Shiva had been gone for eight years now, Jill herself naturally ran a little cooler than most people and it was this whisper of winter on his bare skin that guided him back to his body, grounding him in the moment. Joshua shuddered, arms then slowly coming up to wrap around his sister-in-law, if a little mechanically.
“She woke up, said she needed Tarja,” Joshua said into Jill’s shoulder. “But there was so much blood.”
Jill’s other hand came up behind his head, carding her fingers through his curls in the way she used to when they were children and he had been much shorter than her. Joshua already felt like a ghost, displaced and unsure. She didn't say anything to comfort him, and though the cold, logical side of him knew that she couldn’t, that there was nothing Jill could guarantee and that he and Jote had to be prepared for anything that might happen in childbirth, all he could feel then was numb, numb and the endless fear that lurked just underneath the ice.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Jill slowly eased away until it was his brother who propped him up, Clive’s fire breathing life into the embers that Joshua’s had become.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Joshua admitted quietly. “How do you be a father?”
“I didn’t either,” Clive said, just as softly. “But you will. It will come naturally, though not without many mistakes.”
A low moan of pain sounded from behind the door, and Joshua’s heart lurched.
“I…” There was a stone in his throat; it was terribly difficult to speak. “I don’t want to do any of this without her.”
His brother put a hand behind his head, pulling him in until he took all of Joshua’s weight. “You won’t have to,” he said. “You know Jote would fight her hardest to stay with you. She would fight for her children no less than Jill would ours. It’s Tarja in there with her right now—between the two of them, she could not be in better hands.”
Jote had never felt comfortable around dogs, but over the years, it seemed Torgal had been the one exception when she started sitting by and petting him during the rare times the family could be together. The frost hound had all but adopted her into his circle of children, and even with the gray fur starting to peek out around his muzzle, he showed no signs of slowing down or relenting on the defense of his charges. As though knowing Jote was behind the door, Torgal laid down on the left side of the doorway, not obstructing anyone who needed to get through but in a clear defensive position should anything come barreling down the hallway toward them.
The sky was beginning to lighten. Joshua pressed the palms of his hands hard against his eyes when another pained sound came through the door; he had lost count a while back.
He was sure Jote had just let out an actual sob, and he balled his hands into fists, trying to keep himself grounded, to keep himself present when he knew his wife was in danger and in pain just a room away. Jill had not stopped rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles, and on his other side, Clive kept a warm hand on his shoulder.
Despite knowing how impossible it was to even entertain the thought, he couldn’t help but feel as though this was his fault if only because he was now just Joshua Rosfield and not Joshua Rosfield, Dominant of the Phoenix. If still had his Eikon, he would have had the healing flames of the Phoenix and could have fixed whatever was wrong that was taking the best physicker they knew hours behind the closed door, could take away Jote’s pain and guarantee her safety, could ensure that their children would be brought safely into the world. Joshua mourned the loss of the Phoenix more keenly than ever, if only because he was completely helpless but to wait, to hear his wife crying as his heart shattered over and over again.
“Who’s watching Luke, Lennox, and Lia if you’re all here?” he asked, trying to distract himself.
“Lady Rowell is looking after them in their room; they're probably still asleep,” Jill said. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, light slipping onto the white marble floor from the very bottom edge of the windowpanes when the infirmary door finally opened, all three of them and Torgal immediately shooting up to their feet. Tarja looked a little haggard and her hands were bloodstained, but there wasn’t a hint of resignation on her face, which, really, was all Joshua could ask for.
“Is Jote all right?” he asked before Tarja could even open her mouth. She shot him a tired, exasperated look before she nodded.
“Jote is fine for the time being, but she’s gone into labor. I was able to perform a full diagnosis, and based on the bleeding and how she’s responding with the contractions, it seems that the babes are positioned a little lower than they should be. They are not so low as to require a more invasive birthing procedure, but I will not lie, Joshua,” Tarja said, disregarding the title she usually called him by in times of levity and looking steadily into his eyes. “This will be a difficult birth.”
“Thank you, Tarja,” Joshua said hurriedly. “Can I go to her now?”
She nodded and he immediately took off without another word, hurrying into the infirmary to see blood in the many towels and basins strewn around the room. The attending physickers and assistants were running around changing out the bloody water for clean water and providing an endless supply of fresh towels, but Joshua only had eyes and attention for Jote, laying in the same bed he had put her in just hours before, but considerably paler. She looked so small against the white sheets, sweat matting her hair and shining on her face.
Swallowing, he made his way to her bedside. She didn’t even look up until he sat down on the side of the bed, and when she did, her teary eyes flooded with relief so immense that it made Joshua’s stomach twist with guilt.
“I’m sorry, Jote,” he whispered, taking her hand. Jote shook her head, her breath hitching as her free hand flew to her stomach. Her pain was telling only in the way her hand tightened around his like a vice for several long seconds before letting go.
“What in the Founder's name are you sorry for?” she asked, rubbing her thumb soothingly across his knuckles. Joshua cradled her hand in both of his, pressing it to his chapped lips, fixed his eyes on her face, so very beautiful even now, and willed back his terror. Jote had always been the strong one for everyone. He needed to be strong for her now.
“Had I still the power of the Phoenix, I could help,” he said against her skin. “You would be safe.”
She frowned, unlacing their fingers and brushing her fingertips along the side of his face. “You're being ridiculous, Joshua,” Jote sighed, gently tapping his cheek. “You're helping now.”
Her hand flew to grip the bedsheets a second later and she let out a long groan pulled from deep in her belly, and Joshua started to panic, eyes wild as he tried to figure out what to do. Jote relaxed back against the bed after a moment, taking in a few deep breaths. Tarja approached them then, the door to the infirmary closing behind her as her critical eye assessed Jote. “Where do you want him, Jote?” she asked, her tone gentler than Joshua had ever heard it.
“Can he sit with me?” Jote asked in response, blindly reaching for him—she didn’t have to reach far; Joshua was there as soon as she needed him, gripping her hand.
Tarja wasn’t fazed in the slightest. “Do you want him next to you, or do you want him behind you?”
“Can he come on the bed?”
Joshua didn’t need more encouragement. He slid into bed behind her, his legs bracketing her body as he braced his back against the wooden headboard behind him. Jote slowly raised herself up to her hands, both Joshua and Tarja supporting her weight and shifting her backwards until she was leaning against his bare chest. They only had a minute or so to adjust before Jote gripped his thigh, hunching forward as she was wracked with another long contraction, a keening cry leaving her lips. When she finally settled back down, Joshua pressed a kiss to her hair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his free hand taking hers. “You're all right, love,” he reassured her softly, dropping another kiss on her temple. “You’ve been through worse battles. This is just another battlefield.”
Tarja watched them both until another contraction hit a few minutes later. Joshua realized then she was counting, the knowledge that whatever was going to happen was wholly and completely out of his hands hitting him square in the chest where the scar of Ultima's prison was.
“It's almost time, Jote,” Tarja said.
The world was full of beauty and wonder, but more often than not, it was a place filled with cries of pain, the sharp metallic tang of blood and copper permeating the air.
There was so much blood. Jote cried herself hoarse, tears streaming down her cheeks and blood trickling down her thighs when it came time to deliver the babies, her face turned to the side and pressed into Joshua’s neck every time she had a moment to breathe before it started all over again. Joshua held tightly onto her, their hands still twined and his arm loosely draped across her chest as a comforting weight whenever she leaned back. She looked paler by the minute; everything in him prayed and prayed and prayed for her safety as he murmured praises and reassurances into her ear, leaving kisses anywhere he could.
“You’re doing great, Jote, one more!” Tarja called, and Jote took several quick breaths, a deeper one, and then yelled out as she pushed—and the next second, a new voice shattered the battle-thick atmosphere with cries only a newborn could make.
“Joshua,” Jote whispered, her voice hitching as she truly began to cry upon hearing their child screaming in the late morning air.
“That’s one,” Joshua said, pressing his lips hard against the side of her head. “You’re doing so well, Jote. So well. Just one more.”
He watched as she closed her eyes, dark against the marble of her skin, and drew in a ragged gasp, rebuilding and bracing herself with only him as witness. Her hand tightened around his, and then the battle began again—more tears, blood, sweat, and screams as Jote fought for their second child. It was no more than three minutes of an eternity, but it lasted an age for them both. Joshua watched the stream of blood on the sheets, watched as Jote’s strength, something he had correctly thought was insurmountable, was proven once again even as her body was exhausted and close to giving out on her. She fought with everything she had, until—
Their second child came into the world with wails loud enough to wake the entire castle. Jote collapsed back against Joshua, but Tarja immediately snapped to attention, her voice a whipcrack. “No! You’re not done yet, Jote—the afterbirth!”
Minutes more of agonizing pain, of Jote’s silent tears against his neck, and then…
And then, it was done. Tarja, with her hands and arms bloodied and face exhausted, stood and gave Jote a thorough once-over, her hands fliting over her before she breathed out a sigh of relief. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, more than most women,” the physicker said quietly as she wiped down Jote’s legs with a fresh towel and warm water an attendant set down next to her before rinsing off her arms and hands. “It will take time to replenish and for you to recover. I will stay in Rosalith for a while longer to keep an eye on you.”
“Thank you, Tarja,” Jote rasped, her body completely spent and slumped against Joshua, who had his arms tight around her shoulders. He couldn’t quite speak past the emotions clogging his throat when Tarja looked over at him, only managing a respectful nod of his head. She seemed to understand though; she merely nodded back, placing towels upon towels underneath them to keep the blood from seeping through.
“We can move you to a new bed once your body has had a chance to recover,” she said, and then stood as two attending physickers for the delivery walked back into the room carefully holding two swaddles of blankets.
“Congratulations, Your Graces!” Rosalith’s full-time physicker, Aryll, exclaimed. “It’s a boy and a girl!”
Tarja instructed Joshua on how to place his arms under Jote’s so that she would be supported, and then the two small bundles were placed into their arms, the blankets shifted back to allow for skin-to-skin contact as they were pressed to Jote’s chest and shoulders.
The twins’ faces were red and mushed but cleaned by the physickers, their tiny hands balled into fists, and they were both shifting in their blankets. One had their eyes closed—their son—but the other was squinting up at them, valiantly moving her little head around before settling on gazing up at the two people holding her. Jote let out a trembling sigh that Joshua felt against his chest, and he tightened his arms around his little family, speechless.
“Joshua, look,” Jote whispered. “They’re here.”
And then he broke.
The tears came instantaneously, and it took everything in Joshua to keep as still as possible to not move all four of them around too much when he drew in his ragged breaths. An overwhelming wave of relief and gratitude, awe, and the remnants of fear washed over him and pulled him under; his tears seemed to kickstart his wife’s, and then they were crying at each other.
“Thank you, Jote,” Joshua said, voice thick with emotion as he pressed his forehead against her temple. “Thank you. You are incredible.”
Jote let out a soft laugh. He shifted his legs up so that his thighs and knees braced the bottom of her arms, their children nestled safely in their entwined limbs as he freed up his hands to wipe the tears from her face. A cry from their right side stole the moment, their son’s eyes now open and waving his tiny fists in the air.
Joshua took their daughter from Jote’s arms as she shifted to hold their son, Tarja showing her how to allow the babe to latch on and feed. He felt his throat close up once again as he took in her little face, her curious, inquisitive eyes that were the dark gray of a newborn. He wondered whether she would grow to inherit his pale blue or Jote’s dark umber, his index finger gently stroking her little cheek. “Hello,” he whispered, holding her until it was her turn to be nursed and then he held their son instead, the baby gurgling happily now that he was full. It didn’t take long before they were both satisfied and asleep once more, leaving their parents to finally let out a long, tired breath.
Tarja left their side to undoubtedly break the news to their family, standing in the doorway.
“Clive and Jill are waiting to come in, whenever you feel ready,” she informed them. Jote nodded without hesitation, and Clive and Jill nearly ran inside the room, both of their faces drawn in worry. Jill sighed in relief at seeing them all, putting a hand on Jote’s forehead when she was close enough to touch.
“All right?” she asked, stroking back her sister-in-law’s sweaty bangs. Jill reached for a nearby clean towel, rinsing it in the basin next to her and wiped Jote’s face down to give her some relief before she turned her attention to the children they held. Clive wrapped an arm around Joshua’s shoulders, squeezing once and then shifted over to drop a gentle kiss on Jote’s brow. He took his place next to Jill, both of them admiring their newborn niece and nephew.
“Do you want to hold them?” Jote asked, handing their son to Jill and their daughter to Clive. Jill cooed at the baby, gently tracing her finger over his face as Clive took a moment to look at his niece, so small in his arms, tears building in his eyes.
“Are you all right, brother?” Joshua said, drawing the room’s attention to them. Clive sniffed.
“Fine. I just—she’s beautiful,” he said with a watery smile. “Congratulations. Do you have names yet?”
Jote looked up at Joshua, who kissed her cheek.
“You’re holding Carin,” she told Clive, and then looked at Jill. “And that’s Caden.”
Joshua watched his brother and sister hold his children, framed by the early afternoon light streaming in from the tall windows of the infirmary, and looked at his wife’s exhausted, smiling face. And maybe there was something of the Phoenix still with them after all, his family whole and accounted for. Jote leaned back against him as he took her hands, kissing her knuckles and tucking her head underneath his chin. He grinned as he felt and heard her let out a yawn, her whole body molded to his.
“Rest,” he whispered, and she did.