He was not born healthy.

He was born early. Too early.

There was very little hope for him.

He hadn't been expected to make it. And so, he hadn't been named.

But dawn broke on the first day after his birth, the queen weak and strong all at once, and he was still there. Dawn broke on the second day after his birth, the queen still weak and strong, and he was still there. Dawn broke on the third day after his birth--

Dawn broke on the fourth day after--

Dawn broke on the fifth day--

Dawn broke on the third week after his birth, then the third month. The third month saw the weak-strong Queen Mother weaker than strong, but the Infant Prince stronger than weak. He had earned a name, and he had earned what little hope there had been for him a dozen times over.

His christening was a quiet affair. The Queen Mother was ill, yet, and the King was a kind and quiet soul who wished for her well-being and happiness more than he wished for the kingdom to pay respects to his firstborn son.

He was named Aurore, in honour of the dawns he had survived, against all the expectations to the contrary.

"My little Dawn," the Queen Mother murmured.

She could not stand long, even in the chapel of their palace, even before the clergywoman chosen to christen the Prince. She had to sit as she watched the boy being served to the morning sun, offered to the gods and commended to their safekeeping. She was happy, however, and watched with a smile mirrored by the King.

"Aurore," she murmured, as the clergywoman brought the baby back from the altar, cradled in her arms, and walked to the King and Queen.

"My Queen," the clergywoman said. "He will be favoured."

The Queen smiled, first at the clergywoman and then at the King. "He will be favoured," she echoed. "Aurore." She closed her eyes and breathed a happy sigh. Favoured. Her breaths were not anxious or excited.

If anything, they were small, muted, and demure.

And then they were not.

"My Queen, would you like to hold the Prince Aurore?" the clergywoman asked. She held the baby Prince out to her, but the only response to her offer was a quiet breath and the twinkling of the stained glass beyond the altar. The clergywoman withdrew the Prince. Her expression, as it always was with the clergywomen retained by the palace chapel, was serene and unchanging. But her eyes flicked from the Queen Mother to the King.

The King was not so muted or unchanging. He rubbed his palms slowly against each other and didn't know where to look. He looked too small for his cloak, really. "A christening party," he said, desperate to break the insurmountable silence. His words echoed emptily around the chapel and the stained glass continued to twinkle serenely. "We shall have it next week, to introduce him to the kingdom. Crown Prince Aurore. They will adore him, my dear Mirielle."

The Queen did not stir from her place, head slightly bowed, eyes closed, and breaths very small.

The clergywoman clicked her tongue so quietly that it was almost mute. When she moved, a floorboard creaked beneath her dainty, half-faerie feet. Not all clergywomen had faerie blood within them, but those that did were wiser and stronger and more connected to the nature gods. If one wished to be allied with nature, one wished to be allied with faerie-blooded clergywomen and clergymen.

"Mirielle?" the King turned to his Queen more completely. "Beloved, say something. I can't very well make all the decisions... should we wait longer than a week?"

"My King," the clergywoman interrupted.

"Eibhlin, wake her," the King said. He said it too quickly.

"I do not believe the Queen Mirielle can be woken," the clergywoman said. She still held the prince, but was so sterile and cold in her tone that the King thought she must have been like carved ice to the child. "The Queen-Mother is tired. The world cannot erase her weariness, anymore."

"Mirielle," the King said, a bit more harried than before. He knelt before the straight-backed pew that the Queen sat in. "Mirielle, please. What about Aurore? Well? He needs you, I think. We need you. Please, Mirielle."

The clergywoman stepped forward. "She should be moved."

The Queen's chest wasn't moving.

"My King. There are rites..."

"She is only tired," the King said, very softly.

"Shall I call a nursemaid to take the Prince? Or will you take him?" the clergywoman asked.

"Eibhlin, she's only tired. Only asleep," the King said.

"I will call a nursemaid." The clergywoman bowed her head and turned away as the King took the Queen's hands in his own. "Aurore. Dawn of a new day, but one without the Beloved and Adored Queen-Mother Mirielle. Perhaps your name should be Sadness, instead," the clergywoman told the Prince absently.

--

The Queen could not be woken.

She had met her son, as Aurore, and passed on before leaving the chapel to the tumultuous gods of nature. The gods of nature never claimed to be good or bad. They simply were. And the more they were, the less the King wanted them to be. Mercy was not always a part of nature and was not always in the nature of the gods.

Aurore was given back to his wet nurse and taken from the sight of the mourning King. Clergywoman Eibhlin was given the performance of the rites over the Queen Mirielle, a beloved and lost queen of the people. The King felt the colour leave himself until he felt thin, like rice paper or spider silk.

Thin.

Gray.

And unfeeling. Empty. A shell of what he had been with Mirielle by his side.

People came from every corner to mourn their queen, and to make small gifts to the gods, in hopes that the life ripped from their Queen might be returned to her, if only they pleased the gods enough. It was not unheard of for the gods to have such mercy. But it was not meant to be so for the Queen.

The gods' mercy had been spent on the wailing babe on the other end of the palace, who lie in the arms of a wet nurse instead of in the arms of his Queen Mother.