𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒂 𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆

The Cinematic Orchestra

0:22 ──♡───── 6:11

"𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚆𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜. 𝚃𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎."

The church was quiet, save for the soft hum of whispers and the occasional shuffle of polished shoes against wooden floors. The building, weathered and modest, bore the weight of countless ceremonies before this one, each brick a testament to the passage of time. Stained glass windows bathed the pews in muted hues of blue and gold, the colors dancing gently across the faces of the gathered guests.

Arthur Shelby stood at the altar, his broad frame encased in a sharp suit that didn't quite sit naturally on his rugged form. His tie was slightly askew, the effort of dressing up clearly against his instincts. He shifted on his feet, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as if holding himself steady. John stood to his right, the toothpick in his mouth betraying the smirk he barely suppressed. Tommy lingered on Arthur's left, his calm demeanor contrasting with the barely concealed nerves of his elder brother.

"You're sweating," John whispered, leaning in slightly.

"Shut your bloody mouth," Arthur hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on the doors at the far end of the church.

John stifled a laugh, and Tommy, ever the observer, shot Arthur a sidelong glance. "You'd think he was facing the firing squad," Tommy murmured, just loud enough for his brothers to hear.

Arthur didn't respond. He was too busy staring down the aisle, willing the doors to open. The organist began to play, the notes slow and deliberate, filling the space with a gravity that commanded attention. The conversations died down, replaced by the collective anticipation of the congregation.

When the doors finally swung open, the room seemed to hold its breath. Maeve stepped into view, her arm linked with an old family friend who had stepped in to give her away. Her dress was elegant but understated, a reflection of her own practicality and taste. The lace at the sleeves and neckline was delicate, but the lines of the gown were clean, no unnecessary frills or excess. Her auburn hair was gathered back, her face framed by a simple veil that added an ethereal softness to her otherwise sharp features.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. She moved with purpose, each step deliberate but unhurried. Maeve's eyes locked onto his, steady and unwavering. She wasn't the blushing, demure bride of storybooks; she was Maeve Harding, sharp-witted and composed, and every step toward him was a declaration.

Rosie followed behind, her emerald green dress a perfect complement to Maeve's ivory gown. At seventeen, Rosie carried herself with the same determination as her elder sister, though her youth brought a brightness that Maeve had long since tempered. She held the train of Maeve's dress carefully, her face glowing with pride.

Arthur felt John nudge him subtly. "Don't forget to breathe," John muttered under his breath, the smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He stood a little straighter, his hands unclenching. Tommy, catching the movement, glanced over, his expression unreadable but faintly approving.

As Maeve reached the altar, her escort stepped aside with a nod, leaving her to face Arthur directly. There was no moment of hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Arthur reached out, his rough hand steady as it met hers. Maeve's lips curved into the faintest smile-just enough for him to notice, and enough to steady his nerves.

The priest began the ceremony, his voice rising and falling in rhythm with the sanctity of the moment. Polly and Ada sat in the front row, their expressions softened by rare emotion. Polly's hands rested neatly in her lap, though her sharp eyes didn't miss a detail. Ada leaned slightly toward her aunt, her focus solely on the couple at the altar.

Finn sat beside them, fidgeting slightly in his suit. He tried to stifle a yawn, only to be shushed by Polly with a stern look. "Show some respect," she whispered, though there was a trace of a smile in her reprimand.

The ceremony itself was simple. The priest spoke of unity and resilience, qualities that everyone in the room knew would be required in abundance. When it came time for the exchange of rings, Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second. His large, calloused hands fumbled slightly with the small gold band, but Maeve didn't let him falter. She held out her hand patiently, her green eyes steady on his. He slid the ring onto her finger, his movements rough but deliberate.

When Maeve placed the ring on his hand, she did so with the same calm efficiency she brought to everything. Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and for a brief moment, her smile widened. It wasn't just for him-it was for herself, for everything she had fought for to stand here, in this moment, with him.

As the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Arthur didn't wait for permission. He pulled Maeve into a kiss, one hand cradling her face as if to anchor himself in the reality of her. The room erupted into applause, loud and unapologetic, a cacophony of clapping, whistles, and shouts that echoed off the stone walls.

John let out a low whistle. "Well, he didn't waste any time, did he?"

Tommy shot him a look but said nothing, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

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The house was tense, alive with an energy that refused to settle. Maeve's screams echoed off the walls, sharp and guttural, as Polly, Ada, and Esme worked around her in a flurry of motion. No midwife had been called; it was too late for that, and the burden fell squarely on the women.

"Boil more water!" Polly barked, standing at the foot of the bed, her hands steady but her voice sharp with urgency. "Ada, grab more towels!"

Ada rushed into the kitchen, her hands shaking as she grabbed cloth after cloth, muttering to herself to stay calm. "You've got this, Maeve," she called over her shoulder, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound confident.

Esme hovered near Polly, holding a clean towel ready in her hands. "You're doing fine," she murmured to Maeve, though her eyes darted nervously toward Polly. "Aren't we supposed to have-"

"We've got what we need," Polly snapped, not looking up. "Keep your head on."

Maeve arched her back, her body trembling as another contraction hit. She gritted her teeth, her auburn hair plastered to her sweat-soaked face. "Jesus bloody Christ," she hissed, her hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

Polly smirked despite herself, wiping Maeve's brow with a damp cloth. "You can tell him yourself after this. Now push, Maeve. Hard as you can!"

Maeve bore down, her scream raw and piercing. Polly's hands worked deftly, her years of experience guiding her even without the presence of a trained midwife. The tension in the room was thick, but when the first cries of a baby filled the air, it broke like a dam.

"It's a boy!" Polly announced, her voice triumphant as she wrapped the baby in a towel and placed him in Maeve's trembling arms. "A strong, healthy boy."

Maeve's chest heaved as she stared at the tiny face, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "A boy," she whispered, her lips curving into a tired smile.

But the relief was short-lived. Maeve's face twisted in pain again, her breath hitching. "Something's wrong," she panted. "Pol, there's something-"

Polly's eyes darted down, her expression tightening. "It's not wrong," she said, though her voice carried a new urgency. "There's another one."

"Another one?" Ada's voice cracked as she stumbled back into the room with more towels. "You mean-"

"Twins," Polly said firmly. "We've got another one coming."

Maeve let out a strained laugh, though her eyes were wide with disbelief. "Twins?" she gasped. "Bloody hell, Arthur owes me for this."

Esme exchanged a look with Ada, both women pale but resolute as they moved back into position. "Right," Esme said, her voice steadying. "We're ready when you are."

Polly leaned closer to Maeve, her hands gripping Maeve's knees firmly. "Listen to me, Maeve. You've done it once, and you'll do it again. Now push!"

Maeve gritted her teeth and pushed, her screams reverberating through the house. The second labor was quicker, but no less brutal. Her strength was waning, and Ada leaned down to hold her hand, murmuring words of encouragement that barely broke through the haze of pain.

"Come on, Maeve," Polly urged. "One more. One big push."

With a final, primal scream, Maeve gave everything she had, and the room was filled with another sharp cry. Polly's face broke into a rare, wide grin as she lifted the second baby. "Another boy!" she declared, wrapping the smaller infant in a fresh towel. "Twins, Maeve. Two strong boys."

Maeve let out a shaky laugh, tears streaming down her face as she held her sons. She looked at each of them in turn, her fingers brushing over their tiny faces. "Twins," she whispered again, her voice thick with emotion. "Arthur's never going to shut up about this."

Polly straightened, her hands on her hips as she let out a relieved breath. "Esme," she said, jerking her head toward the door. "Go find Finn. Tell him to run to the Garrison and tell the boys. And make sure they don't bloody pass out when they hear it."

Esme grabbed her coat and nodded, her face lighting up with a smile as she headed for the door. The sound of her footsteps faded into the night, leaving Polly and Ada to tend to Maeve and the newborns. The air in the room was still thick with the intensity of the moment, but for the first time that night, there was also joy.

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The Garrison was alive with its usual cacophony of voices and clinking glasses. Arthur, Tommy, and John sat at their table in the corner, a deck of cards spread out between them, whiskey glasses half-drained. Smoke hung thick in the air, curling from cigarettes perched on lips or snubbed into ashtrays.

John tossed down a card and grinned, leaning back in his chair. "What's wrong, Arthur? Can't keep up with us anymore?"

Arthur snorted, downing the rest of his drink in one go and slamming the glass on the table. "You're getting cocky, John. Might have to teach you a lesson."

Tommy didn't look up, his focus on his hand, his sharp features illuminated by the dim light. "You two shut up and play."

The door of the Garrison swung open with a sharp creak, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. Finn darted inside, his face flushed and his chest heaving as though he'd sprinted the entire way. His sudden arrival caught everyone's attention, the room going still for a split second.

Finn skidded to a stop at the Shelby table, barely catching his breath as he blurted out, "Arthur! Twins! Maeve had twins!"

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room, the weight of Finn's words sinking in. Then the Garrison erupted into cheers and chaos. Men banged their glasses on tables, shouted their congratulations, and a few bolted outside, firing their pistols into the air in celebration.

"Two boys!" someone hollered. "A proper Shelby legacy!"

The sound of gunfire echoed outside, and a few men raised their glasses high in toast. "To the twins! To Arthur Shelby!"

Arthur had already shot up from his chair, his face unreadable, but his movements sharp and decisive. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, throwing it on with practiced ease. His brothers barely had time to react before he was heading for the door.

"Arthur," John called after him, laughing, "you can at least finish your drink!"

But Arthur was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him as he strode out into the night.

Back in the Garrison, the celebration showed no signs of slowing. The men were shouting over one another, toasts were being made, and the sound of gunshots punctuated the noise. Tommy remained at the table, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched the chaos unfold.

"Twins," John said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Bloody hell."

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, his eyes glinting with rare amusement. "Better him than us."

The card game forgotten, the brothers joined in the revelry, whiskey flowing freely as the night carried on. But for Arthur, there was only one place he needed to be. His family waited, and nothing else mattered.

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Arthur Shelby stepped carefully into the room, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor as he tried to be quiet. The noise from the Garrison and the boisterous celebration outside was a dull hum in the background, fading into irrelevance as his eyes locked onto Maeve.

She lay against the headboard, her face pale and damp with exhaustion but calm. Her auburn hair was still a mess, but her green eyes were steady, sharp even after the ordeal she'd just been through. Two tiny bundles rested in her arms, one cradled on either side.

Arthur stopped in his tracks, just staring, unsure of what to say.

"Well, don't just stand there like a bloody statue," Maeve said, her voice soft but with its usual edge of wit. "Come meet them."

Arthur swallowed hard, his throat feeling strangely tight. He stepped closer, his hand going instinctively to the back of his neck. "Two of 'em," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Bloody hell."

Maeve smirked faintly. "You thought I'd make it easy?"

Arthur let out a low laugh, scratching his jaw. "Suppose not."

She shifted slightly, holding one of the babies toward him. "Here. This one's yours to hold first."

Arthur hesitated, his rough hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before he took the baby as if handling fine china. The little one stirred slightly but stayed quiet, a tiny hand peeking out of the swaddle. Arthur stared down at him, his brows knitting together in a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"What's his name?" he asked quietly.

"Samuel," Maeve said, leaning back with a tired sigh. "Sammy, for short."

Arthur smiled faintly. "Sammy," he murmured, his voice soft. "A proper name."

Maeve nodded toward the other baby still resting in her arms. "And this one's Aiden. Addy for short."

Arthur's gaze flicked to Aiden, and he chuckled low in his throat. "Sammy and Addy. You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Someone had to," Maeve replied, her tone dry but affectionate.

Arthur sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, his focus still on Samuel as he cradled him in his large, calloused hands. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the soft sounds of the babies breathing and Maeve adjusting her hold on Aiden.

"They're tiny," Arthur said suddenly, his voice rough. "Never seen anything so... small."

"They'll grow," Maeve said, her lips quirking in a faint smile. "Probably faster than we'd like."

Arthur glanced at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yeah. They'll have to. World's not exactly waiting to be kind."

"Not if we have anything to say about it," Maeve said firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

Arthur's jaw tightened slightly, and he looked down at Samuel again. The baby's tiny fingers flexed slightly, and Arthur chuckled under his breath. "He's got your attitude already," he muttered. "I can tell."

Maeve let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You're imagining things."

"Maybe," Arthur admitted, though there was a glint of something uncharacteristically warm in his eyes.

Esme poked her head in the doorway then, her cheeks flushed from running. "Finn's already off to the Garrison," she said quickly. "Shouldn't be long before they all know."

Arthur nodded but didn't look up. His focus was entirely on the tiny life in his arms and the other resting with Maeve.

Esme lingered for a moment before leaving again, closing the door softly behind her.

Maeve shifted slightly, adjusting Aiden's swaddle as she watched Arthur. "You alright?"

Arthur glanced at her, his expression somewhere between overwhelmed and content. "Yeah," he said after a pause. "Yeah, I think I am."

Maeve arched an eyebrow. "You think?"

Arthur chuckled, a rough, low sound. "Alright, alright. I am."

She smiled faintly, leaning her head back against the headboard. "Good. You'd better be. They're not exactly going to wait for you to figure it out."

Arthur leaned down slightly, pressing a brief, awkward kiss to Maeve's forehead. "Thanks, Mae."

"For what?" she asked, her tone light.

"For this," he said simply, gesturing slightly toward the twins. "For... all of it."

Maeve gave him a tired but knowing look. "Don't thank me yet. Wait until they're crying at three in the morning."