Author’s note: As wonderful as childbirth can be, it is disheartening how little attention is given to postpartum depression. Every mother deserves the kind of unwavering support system that Circe is fortunate enough to have.
***
Two weeks had passed since the birth of Lamora’s heir.
The kingdom had not stopped celebrating.
Even now, long after the official ceremonies marking a royal birth had concluded, the distant strains of music still drifted through the palace windows from the city below. The streets remained crowded with common folk eager to honor the arrival of their new prince. Colorful banners bearing the royal crest fluttered from towers and rooftops throughout the capital. Every day brought new gifts from nobles, rchants, and foreign dignitaries seeking favor with the crown.
Inside the queen’s private chambers, however, the mood could not have been more different.
The curtains remained partially drawn against the bright afternoon sun. The air carried the lingering scents of healing herbs, warm milk, and the oils the palace physicians insisted aided recovery. A fire crackled softly in the hearth despite the mild weather, keeping the rooms comfortably warm for both mother and child.
Circe sat near the window, a blanket draped across her lap.
She watched the distant movent of people below, watched banners dancing in the wind and listened to faint cheers carried upward on the breeze.
It felt as though she were looking at soone else’s life.
A maid quietly entered carrying a tray laden with roasted pheasant, fresh bread, fruit, and broth.
"Your Majesty," the woman said gently.
Circe turned from the window and offered a small smile. "Thank you."
The maid set the tray down and left afterwards.
The food remained untouched for nearly an hour. When Circe finally forced herself to eat, she managed only a few bites before pushing the plate away. She knew she needed the food. Everyone reminded her constantly. The physicians, her ladies, her mother, Ragnar.
Yet her appetite seed to have vanished entirely.
Everything felt difficult now. Getting dressed. eting with servants. Reviewing palace correspondence.
Even simple conversations required effort she often did not possess.
She still handled the private responsibilities expected of a queen. Her ladies brought reports from various household officials like requests required her approval, charitable matters demanded her input, palace schedules that needed organizing.
She completed every task. No one could accuse her of neglecting her duties.
Yet the woman performing them felt distant from the woman she rembered being.
All her answers were polite. Her decisions were sensible. Her smile always appeared whenever required.
None of it felt real.
The only monts that seed to pierce the strange fog surrounding her were the monts spent with her son.
Khamsin slept against her chest now, wrapped securely in a soft blanket. He was born with a lot of hair on his head and it was sohow thicker now.
His tiny fingers curled and uncurled against her gown.
As he slept, she could feel the faint rhythm of his heartbeat through the layers of cloth separating them. A tiny, rapid flutter, like the wings of a trapped bird.
The sensation never failed to draw her attention.
Slowly, her hand moved to cradle the back of his head.
Khamsin stirred. A small sound escaped him.
Almost imdiately, he turned toward her, nuzzling closer as though seeking reassurance that she remained nearby.
A genuine smile touched her lips for the first ti all day.
She lowered her head and pressed a kiss against his forehead, a habit she had developed recently.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she began humming an old Westerian lullaby. One her mother had sung countless tis to her as a child.
The lody felt familiar against her tongue. Both comforting and emotional.
Painful.
Khamsin settled almost instantly, the sound of her voice slowly lulling him back to sleep.
Circe continued humming long after he had fallen completely asleep.
In those few precious minutes, the emptiness that plagued her receded. Those monts never lasted.
Later that afternoon, another knock sounded at her door.
She smiled when she heard who it was.
"Circe?"
"Co in." She called.
The door opened.
Her mother entered first and Rowen followed close behind. Both imdiately gravitated toward the cradle beside her bed.
"There he is," Rowen said playfully in Westerian. "Still stealing everyone’s attention, I see."
Circe laughed. The sound surprised even her.
"He learned from you."
Rowen placed a hand dramatically against his chest. "I am wounded."
Their mother rolled her eyes at his theatrics, though the fond smile on her face never faded. More than anything, she was simply relieved to see Circe doing well. Childbirth was a grueling ordeal, one that took its toll on both the body and the mind, and for that reason Thalora made a point of spending several hours with her each day whenever Ragnar’s duties kept him occupied elsewhere.
The conversation continued entirely in their native language as it always did. It was such a small thing and many would never understand how rely hearing them speak Westerian to her montarily soothe that haunting emptiness deep in her soul. The tension she constantly carried seed to ease. Her stiffened shoulders relaxed.
She watched Rowen regale Khamsin with the most ridiculous parts of his day and listened as her mother offered advice regarding child-rearing.
The familiarity felt like warmth after a long winter. She could almost imagine she was ho in Westeria. Her mother and brother were her only connections to her life before she ca to Lamora.
They stayed with her well into the night and in what felt like a blink of an eye, her ti with them ended. Her mother kissed her forehead before she took Rowen by the hand to lead him out of the room to give her space to rest properly. But Circe didn’t want them to leave, not quite ready to part with the peace they brought with them.
All she had to do was ask them to stay, and they probably would have. Yet that would an explaining why she suddenly needed their company so desperately. She would have to admit that she felt like a hollow version of herself, a shell of the woman she used to be, and that only Khamsin and their presence could distract her from feeling that way. But by the ti she finally found the courage to speak, they were already gone.
Silence settled over the room once more. The joy they brought with them faded with startling speed.
The familiar lancholy returned. Perhaps even stronger than before.
She stared at the closed door for a long ti. Then she looked at her son and suddenly she missed Westeria so fiercely it physically hurt.
Across the palace, Ragnar was beginning to reach his limits.
He stood outside the council chamber after another tedious eting and watched as servants scurried past.
His thoughts lingered on his wife and the subtle changes in her—changes so gradual that most people had failed to notice them.
He had. Ragnar noticed everything about her.
He noticed how rarely she laughed now. How often he found her staring off into the distance.
How she lingered by windows for hours, how she barely touched her als.
How her smiles were no longer as bright as they usually were, like candlelight struggling against a draft.
She loved their son without reservation. Whenever Khamsin was placed in her arms, so fragnt of the woman he knew erged. But once the child slept, the sadness always returned.
At first Ragnar had given her space.
Childbirth had been difficult and she needed ti to fully recover, both physically and emotionally. He understood that much.
Yet two weeks had passed, instead of improving, she seed to be drifting further away.
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