Free Risen by Sharon Cramer Page A

loved—by
his side. Then to see the child born unknown to him as he’d
languished in a prison cell.
    He asked again of the peculiar
beauty behind him, not doubting that he was the father but in
genuine amazement, “He is my son?”
    “He is.”
    “My son,” he murmured to himself
alone and reached for the sleeping babe. It was an awkward moment,
but Nicolette made no move to assist him.
    Ravan turned the baby upright and
laid his son’s face to his shoulder, rubbed his cheek against the
downy fluff of infant hair. He was more overcome with joy at this
moment than he’d been in his entire life, and he believed his heart
could burst; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to remember if
he’d ever held a baby, someone this small, and a far gone memory of
an orphanage, cradling an infant thrust into his arms in a moment’s
need of comfort, filtered back to him. He smiled. It was a good
memory, a powerful one, and this was a glorious moment as
well.
    The baby objected to his short
beard, mewling in a way that broke his father’s heart so perfectly.
Holding his son up so that he could see full well the face of his
offspring, he was stricken, deeply affected by a likeness of this
child to someone he’d only recently known.
    “He…” he struggled, swallowing his
disbelief, “…he looks like my brother.”
    This brought a curious rise to a
thin eyebrow of his beloved Nicolette. “The brother who spared you,
who died for you?”
    “Yes, the same.” Ravan had
neglected to mention D’ata was his twin. “We are twins,” he said it
as though his brother might at any moment walk through the door.
Gazing up from beneath a tortured brow with eyes full both of
happiness and sorrow, he said, “Nicolette, my son…he looks like
D’ata.”
    Nicloette’s eyes flashed in
surprise, then she let go a rare, fleeting smile. “Your son, my
love, looks like you.”
    Ravan was astounded to hear her say
such a thing. He cradled the now awakened child, fumbling so that
he could see directly the face of his son. The baby did not cry but
struggled to focus on the shadowed face of his father, and the
mercenary’s eyes filled with tears.
    “He is my brother returned,” he
exclaimed, and hugged the child gently, dearly, to his chest. “He
is risen. It is a good sign, Nicolette. He has overcome!” Then, the
beaten man, worn and road-weary, too thin and exhausted, asked,
“What is his name?”
    “He has none. Your son has no name.
His baptism is tomorrow morning.”
    This surprised Ravan somewhat, but
then it did not. She’d not named the infant, had felt no need to.
That was Nicolette in her entirety. What she shared with the child
had no need of definition—no need of a name. She would no more name
her baby than a wild creature of the forest would name its
offspring. It was simply a matter of no reasonable consideration to
her.
    He cradled the baby, so tiny in his
arms, and rocked him awkwardly, gently, gazing into the bright eyes
of the heir to the Ravan Dynasty. “Risen,” he murmured to the
child. “Your…name should be Risen, for with your birth my brother
has overcome death.”
    Nicolette paused, seemed to consider
this for a bit, then nodded. “Yes, your brother is risen, and your
son shall overcome. It is a good name. Risen it is,
then.”
    The infant was drifting off to sleep
now, and the mercenary placed his son into the cradle. He turned to
Nicolette, overwhelmed with his grand turn of fortune. She held him
with her eyes, invited him back into her life simply by the
expression on her face. Then, another sort of passion overcame him,
and the two, once separated by bad fortune, were reunited in an
unparalleled way. Their love denied fate, for it was as Nicolette
believed, only what they devised of it. Their destiny was their
own.
    Ravan advanced on his lover,
shedding in only a few steps the remains of a long and arduous
journey. With his clothes fell a lifetime of struggle and strife.
Naked, he lifted Nicolette,