The warmth that had once surrounded him was gone.
Arthur felt the world shift around him, the gentle embrace he had always known replaced by something cold, something vast and unyielding. His tiny body trembled, assaulted by sensations unfamiliar and cruel—the harsh bite of the air against his delicate skin, the blinding light piercing his still-weak eyes, the overwhelming vastness of sound that filled his ears.
Pain. Cold. Emptiness.
It was too much. He did not understand. He did not know this place.
A cry tore from his lips, weak at first, then rising into a desperate wail. He sought the comfort that had been his all his life, but it was nowhere to be found.
"Look at him," murmured a voice, awed yet gentle. "His cry is strong."
Warm hands lifted him, wrapping his trembling body in soft cloth. The cold lessened, but his confusion did not. His breath hitched, his cries faltering as something familiar—something safe—pressed close.
"My child…"
The voice was soft, soothing, though he could not understand its meaning. Still, it was enough. His sobs weakened, turning into faint whimpers. He was no longer alone.
And then he felt it.
Another presence beside him—small, fragile, yet undeniably there. He could not see, but he knew. This presence was one he had never been without, one who had shared in his very existence.
His twin.
The woman holding them gazed at them both, her eyes shining with quiet wonder. The firstborn had cried so fiercely, while his sister, now lying peacefully against her chest, had entered the world in serene silence.
"They are both safe," the midwife murmured, a breath of relief in her voice.
The mother closed her eyes for a moment, exhaustion washing over her, but nothing—not pain, not weariness—could diminish the overwhelming gratitude swelling within her chest.
"They are together," she whispered. "As they were always meant to be."
Beyond the chamber walls, the gentle patter of rain kissed the earth, a quiet blessing upon the night of their birth.
A week passed.
Arthur slowly became aware. The strange sensations, the unfamiliar sounds, the overwhelming vastness of this new world—he had begun to grow accustomed to them. And yet, confusion still lingered.
For though his body was small, though his movements were clumsy and weak, his mind was not that of an infant. He thought. He understood. And he remembered.
He did not know how, nor why, but he knew this truth:
He had lived before.
At first, he had believed it a dream—some cruel illusion conjured by his fractured mind. But as the days passed, the realization settled deep within him. This was no dream.
He had been reborn.
The knowledge both awed and unnerved him. He had no power in this form, no control over his fate. Yet, at the same time, a new life stretched before him—one untainted by past mistakes, one filled with possibilities unknown.
His thoughts were disrupted by a soft knock upon the door. It was hesitant, yet urgent. Before an answer could be given, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
A woman entered—Miriam, the ever-loyal handmaiden. But unlike her usual composed self, she seemed breathless, her eyes alight with barely contained excitement.
"My lady," she spoke, voice trembling with emotion. "The king has returned."
For a moment, the words seemed suspended in the air, hanging between them like an unspoken prayer finally answered.
The mother of the twins simply stared, her lips parting, her breath catching. Then—
"He is home?" she whispered.
Miriam nodded. "His army has passed the gates. The people sing of his triumphs. He returns victorious."
A shuddering breath left the queen's lips, her arms instinctively pulling her children closer. "He is safe," she murmured, voice thick with unshed tears.
Relief, pure and overwhelming, flooded her heart.
Her husband, her love, the father of her children—their king—had come home.
A distant cheer rose from beyond the palace walls, the joyous cries of a kingdom welcoming its sovereign. Bells rang through the night air, a song of victory woven into their chimes.
She pressed gentle kisses upon the crowns of her twins' heads. "Do you hear that, my loves?" she whispered. "Your father has returned to us."
A trembling sigh left her lips, though whether it was from relief or the overwhelming tide of emotions within her, she could not tell. The weight of the past weeks had been heavy—her husband's absence, the uncertainty of war, the trials of childbirth but now, at last, the storm had passed. He had returned.
Her hands trembled as she reached for Miriam, clutching the handmaiden's arm as though grounding herself in reality.
"Help me prepare," she said, her voice steady despite the tears brimming in her eyes. "I must go to the king."
Miriam hesitated, her gaze shifting toward the cradle where the newborn twins lay, nestled in peaceful slumber. "So soon, my lady? You have barely recovered. Surely the king will come to you."
The queen shook her head, her expression resolute.
"He must see them with his own eyes. He must hold them in his arms. He must name them."
For a week, she had watched over them with love, but they remained nameless. Tradition dictated that the father must be the one to bestow their names, to define their destinies with the first words spoken over them. She would not wait another moment.
Miriam, understanding at last, bowed her head. "At once, my lady."
The chamber, once quiet save for the soft breaths of the newborns, soon stirred with hushed movements. The queen sat tall as her gown was exchanged for one of richer fabric—a flowing robe of deep blue, embroidered with silver thread. It was neither ostentatious nor cumbersome, for she wished to present herself not as a queen upon her throne, but as a wife bringing forth the fruits of their love.
Miriam moved with careful hands, weaving the queen's dark hair into an elegant braid, while another attendant draped a warm cloak over her shoulders to shield her from the evening's chill.
Then, with utmost tenderness, the handmaidens wrapped the twins in soft swaddling cloths, ensuring they were protected from the cold. The queen herself cradled them, feeling their warmth against her chest, their tiny fingers curling instinctively at her touch.
With slow, deliberate steps, she left her chambers, her attendants trailing behind her. The castle corridors stretched long and quiet, torches flickering along the stone walls, casting elongated shadows upon the floor. The servants she passed lowered their heads in reverence, yet she barely noticed them—her thoughts were wholly consumed by the moment that awaited her.
The great hall was not far, yet every step felt like an eternity.
At last, the doors loomed before her. The guards stationed at either side exchanged glances before bowing and pulling them open.
Warmth and golden firelight spilled from within, illuminating the vast chamber beyond. The scent of burning wood and damp steel lingered in the air, remnants of the long campaign the king had endured.
And there, at the center of it all, he stood.
The king.
Her husband.
He was still clad in the remnants of his armor, dust and blood clinging to his boots, his sword resting at his hip. The weight of war still lingered upon his shoulders, yet as he turned and met her gaze, something within him softened.
She stepped forward, cradling their children close.
"My lord," she whispered, voice trembling with emotion. "Your children await your blessing."