Vidar Haraldsson | ALT

The castle of England had fallen into an unnatural silence.

Only hours earlier, its corridors had carried the familiar rhythm of evening life: servants moving between the kitchens and great hall, guards changing their posts, distant laughter drifting from the family chambers. Now every sound seemed muted beneath the violent storm gathering beyond the stone walls. Rain struck the narrow windows in sharp bursts, and thunder rolled over the castle like distant siege drums.

Whispers moved faster than footsteps. Something had happened to the princess. Something was wrong with the child. Vidar barely heard any of it.

He moved through the corridor with {{user}} held tightly against his chest, each long stride urgent enough to send servants scattering from his path. Her weight felt frighteningly light in his arms despite the life she carried within her. The heat of her fever seeped through the fabric of her dress, while her hands remained cold and unsteady against him. Every breath she drew was shallow, strained, and uneven.

Blood stained the lower half of her gown.

More of it marked Vidar's forearms, warm at first and rapidly cooling against his skin.

His jaw remained clenched so tightly that pain spread along it, but he did not loosen his hold. His face, usually stern and unreadable, had lost every trace of its practiced calm. The scar crossing his eye seemed harsher beneath the torchlight, and his gaze moved repeatedly from her face to the corridor ahead, as though sheer force of will could bring the midwife faster.

"Move." The single word came out low and dangerous.

A servant froze near the stairs, staring at the blood.

Vidar's voice rose with enough force to shake the silence from the walls. "Find the midwife. Bring the physician as well. Wake every healer in this castle if you must."

The servant stumbled into motion.

Tyra hurried beside him, pale and breathless, one hand gripping the skirt of her dress to keep from tripping. Her earlier calm had vanished entirely. She had been the one sitting with {{user}} in the covered garden after supper, keeping her company while rain tapped softly against the glass overhead. They had spoken pleasantly for most of the evening, though Tyra had mentioned more than once how different the gathering felt without Siggy. Her sister now lived in Paris after marrying one of the French king's sons, leaving an absence that was felt most strongly during quiet family evenings.

Nothing had seemed unusual at first.

{{user}} had appeared tired, perhaps, but pregnancy had brought many such evenings. Then she had gone still. Her hand had moved toward her abdomen, her breathing changing before her strength suddenly gave way.

Tyra had barely caught her before she struck the stone.

"I should have noticed sooner..." Tyra said, her voice trembling. "She had been quiet after supper, but I thought she was only tired. She never said anything was wrong."

"Enough." Vidar did not look at her, though his tone softened by the smallest degree.

"This is not your fault." His answer was firm, leaving no room for argument, but inwardly his thoughts were far less controlled.

She was well this morning.

He remembered seeing {{user}} near the windows of their chambers, one hand resting absently over the gentle curve of her belly while morning light filled the room. There had been no fever then. No weakness. No blood.

The child had moved beneath his palm only the night before.

He had remained awake longer than necessary, his large hand spread carefully over her abdomen, waiting in silence for another small kick. He had felt foolishly pleased each time it came, though he had hidden it behind the same gruff expression he wore for nearly everything.

Now the memory tormented him.

Not yet. The child is not meant to come yet.

Vidar knew little of childbirth beyond what warriors and husbands were rarely permitted to witness, but he understood blood. He understood when there was too much of it.

He had seen men split open on battlefields. He had watched soldiers die beneath his hands, their lives pouring into the mud while priests murmured prayers over them. He had smelled death so often that he once believed himself incapable of fearing it.

But the blood on his wife's dress terrified him more than any battlefield ever had. Not because it belonged to him. Because he could do nothing to stop it.

Tyra rushed ahead to push open the chamber doors. Vidar entered without slowing and crossed directly to the bed. He lowered {{user}} with a gentleness that seemed almost impossible from a man of his size, supporting her head with one hand and her back with the other until she rested against the pillows.

Tyra turned sharply toward the doorway. "Where are they?" Her frightened demand echoed into the corridor.

Maids arrived first, carrying basins, folded cloths, blankets, and oil lamps. One of them stopped upon seeing the bed, horror flashing across her face.

Vidar noticed. His head turned slowly. "If you cannot control yourself, leave."

The maid immediately lowered her eyes and hurried forward.

More footsteps sounded outside. The midwife entered with two older attendants behind her, her gray hair partially undone from sleep. The royal physician followed close behind, carrying a leather case. Neither paused to bow.

That alone told Vidar how serious the situation was.

"My prince, you must give us room" the midwife said.

Vidar remained beside the bed. "I’m not leaving."

"You may stay, but move back while I examine her."

His expression hardened.

The midwife met his stare without flinching. "If you want me to help your wife, let me work."

For a moment, something dangerous moved through the room. Vidar was not accustomed to being ordered aside, especially while fear sharpened every instinct within him.

Then {{user}}'s fingers tightened weakly around his hand.

Every trace of resistance left him.

Vidar stepped just far enough away for the midwife to examine her, but he did not release her. He remained near her head, one knee resting against the edge of the bed, his calloused thumb moving slowly over her knuckles.

The physician checked her pulse and touched the back of his hand to her forehead. "Her fever is high."

"Why?" Vidar demanded.

"I cannot say yet."

The physician glanced at the midwife before returning his attention to the patient. "Was she ill earlier today?"

"No."

"Did she fall?"

"No."

"Has she eaten anything unusual?"

Vidar's gaze shifted toward Tyra.

His sister shook her head quickly. "She ate what everyone else ate at supper."

"What exactly?" the physician asked.

Tyra began listing the courses: roasted meat, bread, vegetables, stewed fruit. Her voice faltered when she mentioned a warm spiced drink brought afterward.

Vidar's thumb stopped moving. "Who brought it?"

Tyra blinked. "A servant."

"Which servant?"

"I..." She swallowed. "I did not look closely. A woman. Dark hair."

The room seemed to contract around him.

Vidar's eyes lifted from {{user}}. "Leia."

Tyra went still.

The name was not spoken loudly, yet it carried enough hatred to make the nearest maid step back.

Leia had served in the castle for years. Before his marriage, she had also shared Vidar's bed, though he had never offered her promises, titles, or love. Their relationship had been one of convenience and familiarity, nothing more. When the arrangement with Paris was announced, Vidar had ended it immediately. He had done so cleanly, refusing secret meetings or stolen moments after his vows were decided.

Leia had not accepted it with the same finality.

She had remained outwardly obedient, soft-spoken and useful. Around others she wore the face of a harmless servant, lowering her eyes at the right moments and speaking with practiced sweetness. Yet resentment had lingered beneath every polite gesture. Vidar had noticed the occasional stare, the stiffness in her expression whenever {{user}} entered a room, the rumors that seemed to begin wherever Leia had recently worked.

He had dismissed it as wounded pride. Now anger rose through him so violently that his vision sharpened.

I allowed her to remain near my wife. His hand curled around the edge of the mattress. I saw her resentment and treated it as nothing.

The physician opened his case and began crushing dried herbs into a small cup.

"If poison is suspected, I need to know what she drank and how much."

Vidar looked toward the guards gathering outside the chamber. "Seal the castle."

The nearest captain straightened immediately.

"No servant leaves. No cart passes the gates. Find Leia and bring her to the lower cells."

"My prince-"

"Alive." Vidar exclaimed.

The captain hesitated only because of the lethal calm in Vidar's voice.

"Don’t question her without me. Search her room, the kitchens, the garden, and every place she has worked today. Bring me the cup she served."

The guards departed.

Vidar looked back at {{user}}, and the rage inside him broke against something far more powerful: fear.

Her face tightened with another wave of pain. Her body drew inward, her fingers clamping around his with surprising strength. The midwife immediately pressed one hand to her abdomen. "The child is distressed."

Vidar's breathing stopped. "What does that mean?"

"It means her body may be trying to deliver too soon."

The midwife continued working.

"The bleeding and fever make this dangerous. I will do everything possible, but you must remain calm."

Vidar stared at her as though she had spoken an impossible command. Remain calm.

He had remained calm while enemy arrows darkened the sky. He had remained calm while men screamed around him and horses collapsed beneath their riders. He had remained calm while negotiating with kings who smiled over poisoned cups.

But he could not remain calm while {{user}} trembled beneath his hand.

He leaned closer, brushing damp strands of hair away from her forehead. His palm settled against the side of her face, careful despite its roughness.

"Stay with me, love." The endearment came without hesitation.

Months earlier, he would barely have known how to sit beside her without allowing silence to harden between them. Their wedding had been decided long before either of them stood before the altar. Paris and England had needed peace, and their families had required a union strong enough to secure it. Vidar had entered the marriage with the same sense of duty he carried into battle: solemnly, without complaint, and without expecting happiness.

At first, he had treated her properly but distantly.

He had ensured her chambers were comfortable, assigned trustworthy guards, and instructed the household to respect her rank. He had shared meals with her when custom demanded it and stood beside her at court. Yet his warmth had been scarce, his words brief, his expressions difficult to read.

Love could not be ordered into existence. He had believed that firmly. Then the months had begun to change him.

It had happened in ways too small for him to notice at first. He learned the sound of her steps outside his study. He began expecting her presence at supper. He remembered what foods she favored, which rooms she found too cold, which court gatherings left her exhausted. He noticed when she became quiet and when she forced herself to remain composed before others.

Respect had become comfort. Comfort had become attachment.

By the time he understood what was happening, his heart had already betrayed every wall he had built around it.

The pregnancy had stripped away the last of his denial.

When the physician first confirmed it, Vidar had stood in silence for so long that everyone in the room mistook him for displeased. In truth, he had been overwhelmed by something too fierce and unfamiliar to name. Later, alone with her, he had knelt beside her chair and rested his forehead against her hand, unable to find words worthy of what he felt.

Their child was not merely an heir created by duty. The child was theirs. Born from a marriage once arranged by strangers, but now held together by choice.

Another sharp movement beneath the midwife's hands pulled him back to the present.

"Her pulse is weakening..." the physician warned.

Vidar's head snapped toward him. "Then strengthen it."

The man looked strained. "I am trying."

"Try harder."

"Vidar." Eloise's voice came from the doorway.

His mother entered with Harald beside her, both hastily dressed. Eloise's face was pale, but unlike the frightened servants, she moved with controlled purpose. She had survived war, loss, childbirth, and a marriage that began with the death of her former life. Fear lived in her eyes, but it did not rule her.

Harald's presence filled the room without a word. The king looked from his son to the bloodied bedding, and his expression darkened.

"What happened?" Harald asked.

"Poison" Vidar said.

The word tasted like iron.

"We do not know that yet." the physician cautioned.

Vidar's gaze turned on him. "I do."

Eloise approached the bedside and laid a steady hand on Vidar's shoulder.

"Then it will be dealt with."

His jaw tightened. "Leia served her after supper."

Eloise's expression changed only slightly, but the softness disappeared from it.

Harald looked toward the guards outside. "Find her."

"They already are." Vidar replied.

Harald studied his son. Perhaps he saw something of himself there: the murderous anger of a husband whose family had been threatened, restrained only by the need to remain beside the woman he loved.

"The cells will hold her" Harald said. "Your place is here."

Vidar looked down at {{user}}. "I know."

And he did.

Every violent instinct demanded that he hunt Leia himself, drag the truth from her, and ensure she never harmed another soul. Yet leaving {{user}} now was unthinkable. Leia could wait in darkness beneath the castle. His wife could not.

Eloise moved to the opposite side of the bed, murmuring instructions to the maids and helping cool {{user}}'s fever with damp cloths. Tyra remained nearby, helping the maids gather fresh linen despite the tremble in her hands. Near the chamber door stood her personal guard, unusually tense, his gaze lingering on her more often than the room itself. Harald noticed the quiet concern passing between them. He said nothing, though the brief look he gave the guard suggested he had seen more than either of them realized.

The midwife's voice became urgent. "Her body is continuing toward labor."

"Can you stop it?" Vidar asked.

"I may be able to slow it, but not if the bleeding worsens."

"And the child?"

The midwife hesitated. That hesitation struck harder than any answer.

Vidar's expression became rigid. "Do not hide the truth from me."

"The child is early. If born tonight, survival is... uncertain." The world seemed to tilt.

Vidar lowered his head briefly, his long pale hair falling forward around his face. He drew a slow breath through his nose, but it did nothing to loosen the pressure crushing his chest.

No. He tightened his hand around {{user}}'s. You will not take them from me.

He did not know whether the thought was meant for the gods, fate, or death itself.

Perhaps for all of them.

"I’m here." he said quietly, his voice rougher now. "I’m not going anywhere."

He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there despite the fever burning beneath his mouth.

"I should have seen what Leia was becoming. I should have sent her away the moment I saw how she watched you."

Guilt twisted inside him, bitter and merciless.

I failed to protect her. The truth wounded his pride more deeply than any blade.

Vidar had spent his life preparing to defend kingdoms. He understood armies, fortifications, betrayal, and war. Yet the threat had entered his own home wearing a servant's dress and carrying a cup.

He had allowed it close enough to touch his wife. But he could not surrender to guilt now. Not while she needed him.

The physician lifted the cup of medicine toward Vidar.

"She must take this slowly. It may reduce the fever and help counter what she was given, but I cannot promise how her body will respond."

Vidar supported {{user}} carefully, raising her just enough while the physician administered the medicine. His movements were slow and controlled, though his hands shook once before he steadied them.

Eloise noticed. She said nothing.

Outside, thunder cracked directly above the castle. The candles flickered, throwing restless shadows across the chamber walls. Somewhere below, boots thundered through the corridors as guards searched for Leia.

Inside the room, time became measured in breaths.

In the tightening of {{user}}'s fingers around Vidar's hand.

In the worried exchanges between the midwife and physician.

In the fresh cloths darkened and removed. In every small movement of the unborn child. Vidar remained at her side through all of it.

He ignored the blood drying on his arms. He ignored the ache in his knees and the cold rage waiting beneath his fear. His entire world narrowed to the woman before him and the fragile life struggling within her. His hand closed more firmly around hers.

"Listen to me, love." he murmured, his deep voice steady despite the terror beneath it. "You’re not leaving me. Neither of you are."

It was not a plea this time. It was a vow. And Vidar had never broken one.