A pale dawn found Robert and Harriet upon the threshold of Morven's hut, their breaths mingling in small clouds upon the mist-laden heath. In their clasped hands lay the offerings: a single, crimson rose—its petals as soft as a lover's sigh—and a small crystal phial containing a tear of true love, plucked from the corner of Harriet's eye as she wept for the future they dared to hope for.
Morven awaited them in the dim glow of the single lantern swinging at his doorway. His gaunt face, half-shrouded by his cowl, revealed only the glint of those ice-blue eyes. As they stepped forward, Harriet's knees faltered for a moment, and Robert tightened his grip upon her hand.
"Thou art come," Morven intoned, his voice a low echo in the quiet morning. "Present thy offerings, that we may bind thy fate."
Harriet advanced, laying the rose upon the carved stone altar before the silver-etched mirror. Her fingers trembled as she placed the phial beside it. Robert followed, his face pale yet resolute, eyes fixed upon the sorcerer's towering form.
Morven studied them both, lips curling into a faint semblance of a smile. "Know this, Robert Blackwood, Harriet Fairweather: in granting this boon, a covenant is woven between life and death. Though ye stand firm now, heed well the clause entwined with your offspring's birth."
Harriet lifted her head, her heart pounding like a smith's hammer. "What clause?" she whispered, though every fibre of her being braced for the answer.
Morven's voice dropped to a hush, heavy as dying embers. "Your child, born of this miracle, shall live only until its twenty-fifth year. At that appointed hour, breath and spirit shall depart, for the babe you crave is drawn from the realm of the dead—any soul desperate to be reborn upon the earth."
Robert staggered as though struck. He caught Harriet about the waist, steadying her. "Twenty-five years!" he gasped. "A mere quarter-century of joy—before they perish!"
Harriet's hand flew to her lips. Tears welled in her eyes, but she straightened with fierce determination. "We—" her voice trembled, "we do not flinch. Twenty-five years of laughter, of innocence, of hope… shall suffice, if it be but enough."
Morven's gaze swept from one to the other. "Thou art brave to embrace such sorrow. Yet understand why fate has decreed thus. First: by natural law, you are incompatible—no child could spring from your union. You have defied destiny itself. Second: this life you request lies in the shadowed realm; only souls cast from their rest—desperate to return—may inhabit the cradle you fill."
Robert's brow drew together. "Speak plainly, sorcerer. What meanest thou?"
Morven's voice was gentle yet mournful. "Your heir is no living spark of your blood, but a wanderer from Helheim—one of the dead who longs for the warmth of flesh and breath. Such souls may find brief solace in the mortal coil, but cannot defy the doom that claims them at twenty-five seasons."
Harriet sank to her knees, her skirts pooling upon the dew-wet ground. "Oh, cursed blessing!" she sobbed. "To hold a child's laughter but for such fleeting years… Yet I would rather bear such sorrow than remain forever barren."
Robert knelt beside her, cradling her head against his chest. His voice was thick with emotion. "Thou art my heart's desire. Though our child's days be numbered, each moment shall be a treasure beyond price."
Morven inclined his head, pressing the silver casket to his breast. "Then let the ritual begin." He raised his staff and began to chant, words older than any mortal tongue:
"Mortis vita, fistula renasci, vinculum amoris aeternum."
"Death's life, reborn in mortal flesh, bound by love eternal."
A wind rose suddenly, rattling the reeds atop the hut. The rose's petals fluttered and fell, swirling into the phial of tears until the vial brimmed with rose-tinted dew. The air vibrated with unseen power.
Harriet and Robert exchanged a final, fearful glance. Their expressions were a portrait of steadfast devotion: she, tear-streaked yet resolute; he, pale but unwavering, eyes burning with protective love.
Morven the Sorcerer reached into the folds of his weathered robe and produced two sacred items. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though unveiling relics far older than time itself. He placed them on the altar-like table in front of Robert and Harriet—one, a candle unlike anything they had ever seen, and the other, a small vial containing a mysterious potion.
"This," Morven began, his voice thick with ancient breath, "is an unquenchable candle. Crafted from wax rendered from the fat of black swans that died in mourning, and sealed with sacred runes blessed beneath the blood moon. Its light will never falter. It must burn beside your bed while your souls intertwine in the act of conception."
The candle stood tall and slender, as black as ink, its surface smooth yet lined with delicate carvings that shimmered like tiny rivers of mercury. As it caught the faint light, the runes seemed to move—twisting, reforming themselves in quiet secrecy. The wick was silver, like a thread from the moon itself, and even before it was lit, the candle radiated a quiet heat, as though a breath of life had already been sealed within.
"And this," Morven continued, holding up the vial, "is the portion of bridging. It is what shall open the passage between realms." The potion inside was thick and golden, but swirled with faint threads of red and pearl white, like blood and bone being churned in sunlight. The vial itself was forged from obsidian, cool and smooth to the touch, capped tightly with a small silver skull and sealed with crimson wax that bore the symbol of Hel's eye.
Harriet reached forward with trembling fingers. She looked up at Morven, her eyes questioning. "And I must drink it before we… before I lie with my husband?"
Morven nodded, his eyes grave. "Yes. Let the potion flow through you before the act. Let the candle burn beside your bed. These two, when combined in the sanctity of love, will summon the soul. But mark my words—this is no ordinary child. You have accepted the clause. At twenty-five, the cycle shall end. The life you borrow will be reclaimed."
Robert, swallowing hard, placed a hand over Harriet's. "We are ready," he said. "Even a single moment with our child would be worth a lifetime."
Harriet turned to him, her voice soft but firm. "We've lived with emptiness for years. If this is the price, then we pay it gladly."
Morven lowered his staff. "Then go. Let the flame guide your night. Three days hence shall the child take form. Go now, and keep your hearts prepared for all that must follow."
____________________________________________
Back at their home, under a sky drenched in stars, Harriet wasted no time. The moment they entered the house, she clutched the vial with both hands as though it might be snatched away by fate. Her heart pounded as she broke the crimson seal. The scent of the potion was thick—sweet but metallic, like roses steeped in blood. She tipped the bottle to her lips, and the moment it touched her tongue, a fever rushed through her. It made her knees weak, her skin electric. She gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest as the warmth of it filled her veins.
She set the empty vial carefully beside the candle on their lampstand. With a deep breath, she struck a match and lit the candle. It flared to life with a quiet hiss. The flame was tall and white, with a violet edge that danced slowly, as if aware it had been summoned for a divine purpose. The shadows in the room shifted. The air seemed to bend toward the flame.
Robert, who had been in the kitchen preparing a light meal, called softly from the hallway, "Harriet? Come eat something, love. You've barely touched anything since…"
His voice trailed off as he entered the room and saw her standing there, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glossy with desire and firelight. "You lit it," he whispered.
She didn't speak. Instead, she crossed the room with sudden urgency, gripped him by the shirt, and pulled him toward her. Their lips met in a fierce kiss that left no space for hesitation. Her hands roamed down his chest, gripping his hips as she pressed her groin against him. She was wet—aching and ready. The potion had ignited something feral in her, a hunger too long denied.
He gasped as she whispered into his ear, "Don't say a word. Just feel me." Her voice was breathy, laced with desperation.
Robert, stunned at first, responded in kind. His hands cupped her face, then slipped behind her neck, pulling her closer. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head with trembling fingers. As he undressed her, his fingers brushed against the soft curves of her body, now warm and slick with heat. When they fell into bed together, the candle's flame cast shifting silhouettes across the walls—like spirits watching, like gods blessing them.
He entered her slowly, and she arched against him with a soft moan. Her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapping around his hips as though to trap him inside her forever. Each thrust was deep, rhythmic, their breaths rising together. Their bodies moved as one, sweat mingling with whispers and moans.
"You feel like fire," Robert groaned against her neck.
"And you," she whispered into his ear, "you feel like coming home."
The bed creaked beneath them, their bodies tangling tighter, their cries swallowed by the steady flame's watchful glow. At the peak of their union, Harriet cried out, her hands locking behind his shoulders, tears spilling from her eyes—not of pain, but of release, of hope, of a promise fulfilled.
A month passed.
Harriet awoke one morning to find her breasts unusually full, the fabric of her bodice tight across her chest. Her appetite shifted; she could no longer stomach the meat she once loved or the herbs she once craved. She felt a weight low in her belly and a strange stillness in her spirit. Then, her monthly bleeding did not come. One day. Two. A week.
Fear mingled with wild hope.
She visited the village physician under the guise of a routine check. He listened with quiet patience, examined her gently, then leaned back in his chair with a small, knowing smile.
"You are with child, Lady Harriet," he said, his voice like music. "The signs are clear."
She blinked rapidly, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears blurred her vision, and a sob burst free before she could stop it. "Truly?"
"I would not tell you otherwise. You carry life within you."
She stumbled from his cottage with her hand on her belly, half-laughing, half-crying. The sky never looked so blue. The trees seemed to sway in rhythm to her joy. She was light, floating, a woman reborn.
That very evening, she sat by candlelight and penned a letter to Lisa.
Dearest Lisa,
I write with trembling hands and a heart so full it may burst. I am with child. After all these barren years, the miracle has arrived. I shall explain everything in time, but for now, I needed to share this with you. I feel him—or her—already. Something is growing inside me, and for the first time, I believe I am whole.
With joy and all my love,
Harriet.
She sealed the letter with her personal wax stamp, the color of lavender and ash, and gave it to the messenger with a tip and a whispered blessing. The candle still burned in their room that night, its flame unwavering as Harriet sat at the edge of her bed, one hand over her womb, her soul overflowing.
When Harriet got home after closing early, she paused on the threshold, her heart trembling with the secret she bore. Within the hearth-lit parlour, Robert sat by the fire, a worn handkerchief pressed to his brow, the lines of fatigue softening beneath the glow of the embers. His gaze lifted in gentle surprise as she stepped inside, cheeks flushed and breath catching in her throat.
"Harriet," he murmured, rising to his feet despite the ache in his limbs. "Thou art home early. What ails thee, my love? I thought to sup alone this evening." He pressed a hand to his chest as though steadied by her presence.
She crossed the room swiftly and laid a hand upon his shoulder, fingers trembling with joy. "Robert," she said softly, voice alight, "I had meant only to come early myself as I have some good news to share, yet now that I see thee… I find I cannot linger elsewhere."
He offered her a puzzled smile, brushing back a curl from her brow. "Dost thou miss me so dearly that thou hast forsaken thy errands?" His tone was teasing, yet his eyes shone with affection.
Harriet laughed, the sound like a chime of silver bells. "I miss thee every waking hour, so keenly that it aches within me, Robert." She pressed her lips to the tip of his nose. "I could not bear a moment more apart."
He caught her hand and pressed it to his heart. "Then let this hearth be our haven. Tell me thy news, dear heart, for thy countenance betrays a gladness beyond my ken."
Taking a steadying breath, Harriet met his gaze. "I went to the physician today. He examined me, and—" Tears of joy welled in her eyes as she whispered, "I am with child."
For the space of a heartbeat, Robert's cough caught in his throat. Then, as if a spell had been broken, color flooded his cheeks and his eyes brightened. "With child?" he echoed, voice thick with wonder. "Thou hast given me health again, my love. The chill that beset me this morn has fled." He pressed her to his side, arms encircling her as though she were the most precious treasure.
They laughed together, the sound rich with relief and delight. When at last they drew apart, Robert's eyes shone with new purpose. "Come," he said, sweeping a hand toward the window. "Let us plan this miracle."
Harriet guided him to the low oak table by the hearth, where she produced a scrap of parchment and a stub of charcoal. "We must choose a cradle," she declared, already sketching a slender, curving design. "Shall it be painted white? Or perhaps a soft dove grey, with carvings of ivy upon its scalloped edges?"
Robert knelt beside her, tracing the outline with his finger. "I would have it of pale oak," he said. "Sturdy enough to rock the babe safely, yet light enough for thy gentle hand. We might have it inlaid with a band of silver, as a token of our enduring love."
Harriet considered this, her eyes dancing. "Yes, and cushions of eiderdown, pale blue or rose depending upon its gender." She paused, cheeks coloring. "Though truly, I care not if it be boy or girl, so long as it be healthy."
Robert's smile was tender. "A daughter we could dress in ribbons and send to school. A son we might teach the smith's trade—or whatever path his heart might choose." He laid his hand upon her blossoming belly. "I am content with either gift, for any child of ours shall be blessed indeed."
They spoke then of toys—a silver rattle that chimed like distant bells, a set of wooden blocks painted in bright bands of color, a soft cloth bear stitched by Aunt Agnes herself. Each idea sparked fresh laughter, fresh dreams, and as the fire died low, they fell silent at last, hands entwined, gazing into the hearth as though already seeing the tiny face that would soon brighten their world.