Chapter Text
It is the vernal equinox in Orsterra— the twenty-first day of the Month of Steorra, goddess of spring and the new year, 1595. Springtime celebrations are afoot in Noblecourt— maypoles, flower wreaths, and sowing new crops. Merriment fills the streets as flowers sway and bob in the gentle breeze of a beautiful spring day. But contrary to his people, Geoffrey Azelhart is anything but carefree.
In fact, Geoffrey Azelhart wrings his hands in the sitting room of his chambers in the Azelhart Manse. Sweat beads on his brow. Anxiety tightens his chest. Restlessness moves his legs. And sweat beads on his palms, all the while his wife pants and groans as each contraction wracks her body.
Dahlia Azelhart is in labor. It is the twenty-first day of the Month of Steorra, and Geoffrey is about to be a father.
A noise pierces the air. An inhalation, and then a cry, shrill and loud and strong. The midwife's assistant pushes the curtain aside and nods to Geoffrey.
"It's a girl!" the midwife announces, holding her up.
Dahlia smiles weakly, her chest heaving with the exertion of labor and the relief that it's over. "A girl," she says, reaching out her hand for Geoffrey. He takes it, holding it between his two, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. "Geoffrey, we have a daughter."
"A daughter," Geoffrey echoes. A baby girl. A daughter.
The midwife and her two assistants bathe, weigh, and measure the baby, and dress her in her first birthday gown and bonnet, and wrap her in a blanket. Dahlia shivers, and Geoffrey pulls her robe back around her shoulders. He kisses her head, squeezes her hand.
"Just over half a stone," the midwife announces. "Good color, strong cry. You've a little warrior on your hands."
"She's perfect," Dahlia says, nestling the baby to her breast. The baby roots for milk, finding her breast and latching. It's hard work, being born; thrust into a big, bright, cold world.
"What's her name?" asks an assistant.
"Primrose Dahlia Azelhart," Dahlia tells them. Just like Dahlia is Dahlia Angelica.
"She's beautiful," Geoffrey says. "The future of House Azelhart."
"We'll have ballgowns made for her when she's grown," Dahlia hums. "Only the finest."
"And the finest suit of armor as well," Geoffrey agrees. "She'll be kind and just in equal measure."
"And fair and strong, like her father," Dahlia says. Geoffrey kisses her, and she smiles into his lips, cradling baby Primrose.
She hands her to Geoffrey, and Geoffrey almost recoils, as if his hands would reject something so pure, so perfect. But he holds her, her pale eyes blinking fuzzily at the blurry shapes before her, and he is certain no man could ever love anyone as much as he loves her.
The birth of Noblecourt's newest daughter is an occasion celebrated across the city, gladly incorporated into the springtime festivities. The city adores her, as they ought to; the nobles of the other houses gift her with gowns and bonnets and booties, toys and dolls and trinkets for when she's older. And flowers, bouquets and bouquets of flowers, adorning every vase in the manse. Primrose is too young to understand, but it's all for her father's favor. How pitiable, Geoffrey thinks, to be a part of a scheme to curry favor before she's even old enough to know what it means.
In the peak of summer, her naming day comes, and they pilgrimage to Flamesgrace to have the Archbishop bless her. Dahlia and Geoffrey stand side by side with all the members of their house, watching the Archbishop hold her birthing gown to the Great Brazier, and set it alight with the Sacred Flame. The wisp of smoke rises and disperses into the air, and Primrose's spirit fully joins the world of the living. The Archbishop holds her tiny hands and says the benediction, and she sneezes on him.
The color of her eyes settles to hazel green, and her hair grows in dark brown curls that they tie back with tiny pink ribbons.
Dahlia and Geoffrey have sex again when Primrose is four months old, safely in her cradle in her nursery, with her nanny watching over her.
The midwife said it was safe to do after her naming day, but Geoffrey wanted to be sure. So when he says yes, Dahlia jumps him. But he's not leaving her disappointed— like he did when they were newlyweds, he worships her, and makes her sing.
After, they lie together naked and flushed and sweaty, the pillows askew, the bedsheets twisted.
Dahlia looks at him and grins wolfishly. "Still got it."
"You are so beautiful," Geoffrey says, and he means it. He traces the stretch marks on her thighs, her stomach, with his fingers.
"Did you mean it when you said you'd get Primrose a suit of armor?" Dahlia asks. "That's a lot of pressure to put on a baby."
"You know what she has to contend with," Geoffrey says. "Azelhart is not an easy name to bear."
Dahlia huffs out a sigh, and rests her head on his chest. He tangles his fingers in her long, brown curls. "I know it isn't. I just want better for her."
"As every parent ought to," Geoffrey replies. "But she's strong, like you. She'll rise to the challenge. I know she will."
She leans up to kiss him. She's gorgeous, she's stunning. She's the love of his life.
"With you as her father?" she says. "I know she will, too."
Primrose learns to roll over. She learns to reach and to grab. To sit up. To crawl. She learns to coo, to babble, to smile and laugh. Geoffrey loves every second he can spend with her and hates every second they're apart, but a city cannot be run well without constant paperwork. It's these checks and balances that the Azelharts bloodied their hands with establishing in generations past, and Geoffrey, now that he knows, is honored to uphold them. And yet he feels a dread within him that one day his daughter's brow will crease as she too looks over pages and pages of paperwork, that she'll burn down her candles to stumps as her family goes on without her. He hates that this is the lot he drew for her, that she didn't ask for. But he'll do it as long as he can, so she doesn't have to.
Her first birthday comes, and he holds her up at the table in her lacy toddling gown as she watches dancing magic lights, reaching for them with her pudgy little hand, her cheeks round and pink. Geoffrey's chest aches with love, but also with pain at the burden she doesn't yet know rests upon her tiny shoulders.
But those are worries for another day. Today Geoffrey is holding his daughter with his wife at his side, and he is the happiest man in Wold.