“They…they wanted to do to him as they did to you. I couldn’t allow it. I-I ran. I ran from my Valtrue, from your father. We’re the Richiko Valtrue. We betrayed the Godsdawn.”
Anger courses through me at the vaguely familiar name. I didn’t know them personally. There are many completed Valtrues in Godsden and the Godsdawn that I don’t bother to get to know. I remember that name for the simple fact that five years ago, during an attack, we declared them dead because they were captured. All five of them together.
I was there at that battle. I witnessed it happen.
Yet, what I witnessed was apparently a deception.
She doesn’t have the time to explain to me how that was possible.
Her time is up.
“What is your name?”
“Griery Richiko.”
“Do you have a dying prayer, Griery Richiko?”
She chokes back a sob that crushes my heart despite the animosity I feel in this moment. It’s easy to make excuses for her choice to betray our people at a time like this.
Joining the forces of the Abandon will never be something my Valtrue and I face, but other than that, we’d follow each other anywhere.
Her sliver of soul isn’t nearly as tainted as many I’ve come to visit on their brink of death. Therefore, and since she called me here, I’ll make her as comfortable as I can.
“My son. Please don’t allow them to get him. Please take him.”
Her voice cracks as tears slowly trail down her face. With a painful groan, she leans forward and lays her lips to her baby’s forehead.
My eyes grow wide as she pulls the blanket down for me to see the innocent child still covered in blood and the pure essence of birth.
“How long ago was he born?”
“Twenty-seven minutes. Give or take. I may have messed up my count. Please take him.”
A gut-wrenching sob falls from her as she attempts to move, and I lay my hand on her shoulder to stop her. She takes a moment to catch what little breath she has left, then she raises her baby boy in her arms and nuzzles her cheek against his. I turn my head to ignore the softly murmured words she whispers to him.
“P-please,” she begs once more on a broken, tender stutter, passing him to me with shaky hands as I face her again.
I would’ve taken the child no matter her request, but it kills me to know that she and whoever may have put it in her mind to pray to me, would think I’d leave a helpless, innocent child behind in a situation like this.
I may bring death, but that doesn’t mean I purposefully, cruelly take life.
Now isn’t the time to explain to her my moral compass or beliefs.
“Does he have a name?”
“Yes. Ezra.”
“You don’t wish to bestow him your last name?”
“No. I don’t want him to grow up being known as the child of traitors. Allow him to take the name of the mother who becomes his.”
Ezra Akova.
A strong name for a strong baby.
His wails ring out, and her tears stream faster down her face. I adjust the little one into the crook of my elbow and bounce him softly as I lay my hand to his mother’s heart.
“What is your dying prayer, Griery?”
