Chapter Text
I had woken up.
Like the world was closing in on me, dark, dank and dreary.
Yet eerily warm and comforting, aside from the fact that it felt like I was being suffocated every so often, like a strange cord tied around my throat. It felt like this for months after I had gained consciousness of my surroundings.
I could always hear a soft voice, whispering gently, as if a mother cradling her newborn child.
I had grown accustomed to this loving, nurturing voice. It felt familiar, but I couldn't understand why... And then my world came to a halt, like it was pulling me apart, that cord around my throat ever tightening, like my body was squeezing into places into places it shouldn't be.
~
A light brown-haired woman let out a weak cry, biting down on the cloth she had kept in her mouth to prevent her ever-aching screams.
A midwife and her nurses hurriedly held the woman, examining her, providing help, giving praise towards the woman giving birth to her second child.
A maid, Emma Loulbrit, a former lady of the fallen house of Loulbrit and main handmaiden of Lady Rosalie Roscente Née Brannelly gently touched her lady's forehead with a silk handkerchief, wiping away at sweat. 'It's alright Madame, it'll be alright, it'll be fine, it's okay...' Emma's thoughts were rushed and worried, more of a comfort to herself than rather saying them out loud to the distressed woman.
"She's bleeding too much!" A nurse exclaimed, holding a basket of cloth and bandages.
Another nurse brought in a tub of water, nearly tripping over blood covered discarded woollen bandages, "Water is here!"
The midwife spoke in terror "I can see legs! it's a breech!" Rosalie let out a weak gag, light blue eyes teary with pain and exhaustion. Emma sat by her lady's side, holding her hand in a firm, comforting grip.
"Push madame! Push, please! It's too late to do a caesarean!" A nurse begged, wiping away at the blood on Rosalie's thighs. Rosalie groaned, her grip on Emma's hand practically tightening tenfold, Emma winced but placed her forehead on their intertwined hands, praying to whatever gods out there that her lady and the baby would survive.
"Goodness gracious! the umbilical cord is around the child's throat!" A maid cried out, as other nurses and maids alike rushed around, the same maid let out a gag of shock, "A fourth-degree perineal tear!"
Another maid whispered to a colleague. "If the child were to survive, she would have Anoxia! or Hypoxia!" She then gasped. "Maybe asthma!"
Emma held her Lady's hand tighter, cradling the gentle woman's shaking hand. Whispering, pleading, begging, "Please my lords, please let her survive, please..." Tears pricked at Emma's eyes, as more nurses and the Midwife gasped, blood dribbled down onto the floor like a waterfall, the nurses hurriedly attempting to keep the woman from bleeding any further. "The child is alright!" A maid cried with joy; a nurse had thankfully helped the child free from the noose of birth. "It's a girl madame!" A nurse quickly wiped the baby down, cleaning the child of blood before bundling up the screaming infant.
Rosalie couldn't breathe, a baby girl, she smiled weakly, eyes teary, her free handheld out, begging to hold her child just once, only once.
Emma looked up, eyes widening, shaking her head as her lips parted to speak, but alas no words came out. The nurse holding the infant slowly walked over before placing her in Rosalie's hold, Rosalie's bottom lip quivered, her eyes slowly losing its delicate shimmer as she held her newborn daughter close. "Mielle, her name... Shall be Mielle..." Rosalie whispered. "I love you... M- My sweet baby girl..."
Emma felt her throat tighten, a beautiful name of course but... Emma couldn't- The once screaming infant now sniffled, cooing with teary blurry eyes. "Emma," Rosalie spoke softly, "Please look after... My daughter..."
Rosalie smiled before her eyes rolled back, her once heaving chest now slowly stopping, body slumping. Limp.
"Agh-! No! My Lady!" Emma cried out, before a few maids held Emma back from cradling Rosalie's body.
"Miss Emma! Calm yourself!" The midwife said, as a nurse quickly grabbed the infant. Before anyone else could do anything, the doors opened.
A woman, willowy yet petite, wearing a long white gown trailing along the floor, the sleeves covered gloved hands, feet bare against the blood drenched carpet, a white veil covered her eyes, yet soft pink lips remained in a soft smile as long black hair cascaded down the beauties midback.
The midwife and her entourage of nurses and maids gasped, Emma looked up in shock as her grey eyes gazed at the figure.
"L-Lady Saint!" A nurse squeaked.
"Saintess!?"
"Lady Saint, may Ekaterina bless you."
The saintess bowed her head as if in mourning, hands clasped together in prayer. She had kneeled before the fallen woman that lay upon the blood covered bed, tears dribbling down her cheeks. "I apologise for my late arrival," She whispered forlornly. "I truly do apologise for your loss; it is my fault."
The midwife bowed, shaking her head. "No- No, no Lady Saint, it, it is not your fault! I- I am sure you came as soon as you could!" Emma glanced at the open doors, seeing the church guards in their golden armour and white capes, the lump in her throat rose, feeling like bile.
The veiled saint only sighed softly, shaking her head gently. "No, it is quite alright. I shall atone for my sins of letting a loving mother perish in childbirth when I, the Saint could have saved her if not for my late arrival. I shall atone by praying at the Altar of Temperament for three days of which how long her labour was."
The maids shook their heads, as if begging the saint to not lower herself, the midwife bowed her head feeling faint. (She had met the saint before during the child birthing ceremonies of other noble woman, but she still couldn't get rid of that feeling of awe.)
Emma bit her bottom lip, standing and grabbing the baby from the nurse.
The nurse guffawed.
The Saint looked up, tilting her head before a lovely smile like the beginning of spring bloomed upon her lips. "Is this the child of the passed?" The midwife nodded meekly, she and her nurses still kneeling, cowering on the floor. "Goodness Gracious, in the name of Ekaterina, Goddess of Purity. I bless this young one." The Saint walked or more practically glided over to the baby in Emma's arms before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss upon the infant's forehead.
The nurses and maids let out a small gasp as small sparkles of light glittered around Mielle.
Emma stepped back hastily, holding the child, stern grey eyes watching the Saint.
"Saintess Reina." A guard spoke, his voice deep and rough. "I believe it is time to leave, lest you be late once more."
The Saintess turned to face the guard before walking towards the doors to leave, her once white dress was now red at the hem, her feet looking like she trod upon a lake of blood, which she did somewhat do. "Thank you, Maximus." She turned to face Emma, though her veiled face seemed to be looking more so at the child in her arms. "I will see you soon, my dear."
~
Albert Roscente had rushed back to his manor on horseback like his life depended on it, his noble steed whinnying.
Why today of all days? Why the day his wife finally gave birth? Is she okay? is their child, okay? thoughts raced endlessly like a marathon with no winning end in his mind.
As soon as he reached Roscente manor, he practically jumped off his horse, gasping for air as he tumbled before slamming open the entrance doors, barrelling past servants and climbing up stairs and finally reaching his wife's room only to see the Saintess and her guards leave, heaving for breath as he turned to look in.
He fell to his knees, covering his mouth as he let out a cry.
But a maid, his wife's main Handmaid held the child of which his wife gave birth too.
A beautiful little girl by the name Mielle.
~
Cain sat in his class, four years old and already a prodigy at his age, two more years and he would be allowed to leave the church and finally go home.
~
Months had passed, and the church had come to take the newborn daughter of Albert Roscente to grow up in the church for the next six years, receiving the best of education.
And because of a mother's sacrifice for the little girl to be born, she would receive lovely treatment.
~
Emma had gone to the church as a personal nanny for the noble lady, as she wouldn't want some scum to attempt to groom the daughter of Rosalie.
~
At age one, Mielle was a remarkably advanced toddler, steady on her feet with big, curious Caledon eyes, already babbling with an unusual clarity that hinted at her future eloquence. By age two, she was speaking in simple sentences, mimicking adults, and showing an uncommon understanding of her surroundings. It was at age three that her extraordinary intellect truly began to manifest; she would spend hours poring over illustrated books, clearly attempting to decipher the symbols, and her tutors began teaching her the rudiments of reading and writing, finding her a startlingly quick study. (The whispers of the Saintess's blessing began then.)
By age four, Mielle was surprisingly literate for her age, capable of reading simple texts and holding short, intelligent conversations. She was beginning to absorb knowledge from early lessons, though her "excellent marks" would have been relative to her tender age. At age five, her education expanded to include foundational lessons in music and dance, along with the very first steps in noble etiquette.
By age six, she possessed a solid, if still burgeoning, education in essential subjects, and her manners were notably refined. She was clearly a child of exceptional promise, ready to return to the Roscente Manor for the more rigorous and tailored home education befitting a prodigy.
~
Mielle knew that, ever since she was born. She was, different per say.
She belonged physically yet never mentally.
She never knew why, she had grown up in the church under the tutelage of the high Priest, his apostles, the saints, learning about the history of the Franz Empire, their enemies, their gods. It was so strange, so exhilarating.
She didn't know why but, her purpose, she knew it was important.