>>5199779It is, of course, not long before the birth comes. Alys demands to be there to aid it, despite the enmity Vera still bears her. You wait outside, your current duties at the capitol beginning and ending with the prisoners for now. It is some hours, and you reflect on not ever being present for a child's coming before, being away training for your younger sisters' births. You find yourself nervous despite your detatchment from the child. You worry for Alys, who surely must be conflicted delivering the child of a woman who hates her, and you even find a surprising pang for Vera, who you will very shortly deliver to her end regardless of the outcome of the birth. You find you really want a drink.
You are surprised to find yourself asleep, a hand on the pommel of your sheathed bastard sword, when the screams of the girl's agony come to be joined by the shrill cries of an infant. A quick glance at the infirmary window tells you it is early morning, the sun only cresting the horizon. You slept through most the night, a long labor, you reckon. Standing, you take your former place near the door, waiting patiently for any call. It's not long before the door bursts open. It's Alys, her arms covered in gore, her eyes red with open weeping. She doesn't need to say a thing, you enter the room.
The assistant midwives crowd Vera, covered in her blood as much as Alys is, and not nearly as much as the bed. You have never seen a birth, but you know the battlefield. Vera is dying, and very soon. One of the midwives holds the newborn, the cord cut, as Vera limply reaches for it.
You shout. “For fuck's sake, woman! Give the poor girl her child!”
The midwife startles and shakily hands over the infant. Vera's pale face lights up at the baby's crying face, still red and pink all over. “My son, my little boy.” You would rather face the Depths than ever see another dying woman hold her infant again. Your face remains immovable, but your soul screams. Vera hugs the child to her breast, this girl barely more than a child herself playing the mother to a son doomed to orphandom. You stand, like an idiot, just inside the door as she takes her fleeting joy from a son she will never see grow. Her head turns to you, the last thing you ever wanted to see here. Her weak voice the last thing you wanted to hear.
