Still Born

It was a midwinter night, the 15th of Hivintyr in 964 to be specific. Pristine flakes of snow fell from the heavens above, carried by chilling winds. The woods rustled and the sheep bleated. Fires crackled in the hearth of every home.

Usually, on such evenings, most of the village folk would be inside their cabins, sitting by the fireplace, sipping on warm tea. But not that evening. For young Phoebe Gwyn had gone into labor not long after sundown.

Her husband, Nathan, waited outside the cabin along with half of the village of Grenville. It was a fairly small community, tightly knitted as a family. The women inside had helped deliver almost every child born in Grenville in the last twenty years, and thus were the best midwives they had in the village.

Something was off, however, it was a strange sensation that Nathan had never felt before. One could call it a blend of anxiety and eagerness. The man was sweating as if it was a summer afternoon, despite the frost gathering on his cloak.

It was about an hour before midnight when one of the midwives rushed out of the cabin. Grief and pity clouded her face. The child was stillborn, she informed. Nathan burst into the cabin, tears streaming down his cheeks. Phoebe was unconscious, passed out due to the pain of childbirth. An elderly woman held the baby, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. She shook her head and handed the child to Nathan.

Wiping the tears from his face, Nathan held the child close to his heart and hurried out of his cabin. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. He headed towards the village's stables, calling for a horse. The stablekeeper gave him a saddled draft horse without a question.

The Tydestone Monastery was at a distance of half a mile. Even with a horse, it took Nathan some time to reach there. But miraculously, the child was still warm.

Nathan wrapped his fist against the tall doors of the monastery. A group of nuns answered the knock and were surprised to find a sobbing man at their doorstep. More so since the man was asking to see the cleric.

They allowed Nathan entrance and on seeing the child in his hands, immediately led him to the Shrine of Light. The cleric was a withered, old crone who at the time was meditating at the shrine. With a kind smile, she took the child from Nathan.

A golden aura radiated from the cleric as she chanted the incantations of healing and rejuvenation. The nuns and monks of the monastery prayed as well, supplementing the cleric's will with their own. Nathan was on his knees, silently pleading and begging the gods to let the child live.

But it was all for naught. The crone placed the unmoving body of the child at the foot of the shrine and consoled Nathan, saying that it was too late. He thanked the cleric for kindness and condolences, then picked up the newborn and began walking towards the door.

The snowfall was heavy outside, appearing to be almost like a blizzard. But Nathan cared nothing for it. His tears were already beginning to freeze on his cheeks. With a sorrowful heart and guilt-ridden conscience, he stepped out into the snow.

The clock behind him struck midnight. The bell on the central tower of Tydestone tolled. And the child began crying.