[TM] 225: Without words
Apr. 11th, 2008 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changehistory"Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" -- Marcel Marceau
1748
He was so small. Tiny and helpless. The midwife placed the bundle in his arms beaming. "You have a son, sir." A son. An heir. Something in this world that was truly his, of him, blood of his blood, for the first time in nearly a century. Helene had borne him no children in their twenty years of marriage. All stillborn or miscarried before they even had form. But this tiny bundle was staring at him with wide eyes, looking like it might scream its fury at being pulled into this world. He couldn't really blame it.
The midwife hovered, clearly not trusting the male with such a precious burden. "Your wife did well, sir, and is resting."
He nodded and moved to the window in the room he'd waited in, listening to her scream, fear slicing through him and horror at the mysteries of the childbirth chamber. Now it was quiet, save for the snuffling sounds. The midwife followed, almost reaching to take the baby back, but he dismissed her with a glance from eyes already too old for his face.
The evening sun filtered through the colored glass of the window in shades of red and orange and green, mottling over the skin of the child. He swallowed, feeling a lump catch in his throat. It felt almost dangerous to hold the babe with one arm, to reach a wondering hand to brush his cheek with a single fingertip. Tiny arms escaped the swaddling, waving in either protest or to catch the finger to bring it closer, without knowing how. He smiled, just a touch, wondering why the child seemed blurry until he realized he was viewing it through a film of tears. He tried to think of something to say, to murmur to the child, to name him, to welcome him, to bless him. Anything at all, but nothing came. Instead he sat down in the window seat, held the small body close to his, and just stared as the sun set and the shadows swept the room.
1748
He was so small. Tiny and helpless. The midwife placed the bundle in his arms beaming. "You have a son, sir." A son. An heir. Something in this world that was truly his, of him, blood of his blood, for the first time in nearly a century. Helene had borne him no children in their twenty years of marriage. All stillborn or miscarried before they even had form. But this tiny bundle was staring at him with wide eyes, looking like it might scream its fury at being pulled into this world. He couldn't really blame it.
The midwife hovered, clearly not trusting the male with such a precious burden. "Your wife did well, sir, and is resting."
He nodded and moved to the window in the room he'd waited in, listening to her scream, fear slicing through him and horror at the mysteries of the childbirth chamber. Now it was quiet, save for the snuffling sounds. The midwife followed, almost reaching to take the baby back, but he dismissed her with a glance from eyes already too old for his face.
The evening sun filtered through the colored glass of the window in shades of red and orange and green, mottling over the skin of the child. He swallowed, feeling a lump catch in his throat. It felt almost dangerous to hold the babe with one arm, to reach a wondering hand to brush his cheek with a single fingertip. Tiny arms escaped the swaddling, waving in either protest or to catch the finger to bring it closer, without knowing how. He smiled, just a touch, wondering why the child seemed blurry until he realized he was viewing it through a film of tears. He tried to think of something to say, to murmur to the child, to name him, to welcome him, to bless him. Anything at all, but nothing came. Instead he sat down in the window seat, held the small body close to his, and just stared as the sun set and the shadows swept the room.
