My father was the captain of the king's guard. My mother died when I was five. Maybe training every day to protect the king made him drift from her, I don't know. Even at the funeral, he barely cried. And in no time he went back to living as if nothing had changed. But for me, a seven year old boy, it felt like the world had tilted out of place.
It was not exactly sadness that stayed with me, more like a hollow sort of loneliness. Every day, after lessons, after chores, after pretending I was fine, I would sneak behind the house and watch Father train. Sword drills, lance forms, grappling routines, the endless rhythm of strikes and deflections, his boots carving familiar scars into the soil. I watched him until the sun fell, and while watching, I copied him, my skinny arms slicing the air with invisible weapons.
Six or seven months passed like that, until one morning he caught me mimicking him. He stood there with sweat dripping from his chin, studying the strange creature that was his son. Then he asked if I wanted to learn how to fight. I said 'Yes' instantly. And he smiled, truly smiled. I had never seen that expression on him before. Maybe that is why I remember that moment even now, after all these years. His smile felt like a door cracking open.
From that day onward, he taught me everything he knew. Every stance, every strike, every trick he had learned from decades of battle. And the skills he did not know, he found friends who did, men who carried strange weapons or strange philosophies, and he forced them to teach me as well. I grew up surrounded by steel and discipline.
When I turned eighteen, I joined the king's guard. The youngest royal knight in the entire history of the kingdom, maybe even the whole world. My father looked proud that day, though he hid it behind his usual stiff posture. At twenty five, I married a beautiful woman named June. Marriage was… bumpy in the beginning. Two stubborn people sharing a single roof, both unsure what gentleness was supposed to look like. It took us three years to become parents.
The day Hannah was born began with sunlight. Warm, pleasant weather, a good omen according to the priests. By nightfall, the heavens opened and rain crashed down in sheets so thick the world turned into a blur. We were not expecting the baby that day. It was only her eighth month. So when June suddenly said she was in pain, I, being an idiot who spent his entire life with beards, armor, and weapons, snapped at her. I shouted, 'Do you know more than a doctor knows?' She looked startled, afraid even, and she quietly went to bed without another word.
Around midnight, I heard her moaning beside me. Loud, urgent, not the restless kind. I woke up instantly and found her twisting in pain. She opened her eyes and screamed, kicking and punching the air as if wrestling a ghost. For several seconds, I just stared like a fool, unable to understand. Then she clamped down on my hand, hard enough that I thought my bones would crack. That was when it finally sank in. Labor pains. And she was suffering.
I jumped out of bed, tried to help her stand, but she kept kicking, so I scooped her up and carried her through the rain to the car. I placed her in the back seat, ran to the front, turned the key, and… nothing. Not even a cough from the engine.
I rushed outside, rain hammering me from all sides, and stood in the middle of the road trying to get a lift. Not a single cart, not a single carriage or patrol wagon passed. Only darkness and water. Meanwhile, June called my name from inside the car.
The moment I heard her voice, something inside me cracked. Worry, then fear, a fear I had never tasted before. Without thinking, I ran to the back of the car and began pushing. I thought the rain would harm her and the baby, so I forced the car forward with everything I had. Whenever I needed to turn, I stopped, ran to the front, twisted the steering wheel, then pushed again. The rain blinded me. My boots slipped. My legs screamed. But fear is a powerful thing.
Somehow, I managed to drag that cursed machine all the way to the hospital. The instant we reached the entrance, I lifted June again and sprinted inside. Nurses rushed to her, placed her on a stretcher, and wheeled her toward the labor room. I followed, but a nurse tried to push me out. I stared at him until he froze. His hands shook. He stammered something about regulations, then shoved a gown into my hands and begged me to wear it. So I did, and only then did he let me enter.
By the time I stepped inside, June was already in a hospital gown, doctors stationed on either side of her. I moved to her, and she grabbed my hand like a lifeline. I did not know what to say. What comfort looks like. What strength means in a moment where fists and blades are useless. So I just stood there, watching her fight a battle I could not join.
For the first time in my life, I felt weak. Truly weak. All the training, all the titles, all the glory did nothing for her now.
While I drowned in those thoughts, June suddenly stopped crushing my hand. I looked at her, and she was smiling faintly, eyes fixed ahead. I turned and saw the doctor holding the baby. A nurse gently cleaning her. For a moment, relief flooded me, but a strange tension quickly filled the room.
June's grip tightened again. I saw fear in the corner of her eyes. One doctor whispered, 'Is the baby alive?'
I looked closer. Hannah was not moving. Not breathing.
Silence fell so heavy it felt like time itself stopped. But the pain in my hand reminded me the world was still turning, only slower, as if afraid to break the moment.
Then a tiny sound shattered the tension, sharp and high pitched.
Hannah sneezed.