Page 5

5

AURELIE

I t's been hours of pain coming and going. Ada is coaxing me through it, but my body can't keep taking this. I'm already weak, starved. She has gotten water in me and used tinctures that have broken my fever. But even with that, I'm struggling to hold on much longer when it feels like I'm being ripped apart.

"Breathe," Ada reminds me, her voice gentle but firm. "That's it. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I try to follow her instructions, but another contraction builds—this one worse than the last. My fingers twist in the threadbare sheets beneath me, knuckles white with strain. The pain crescendos, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming.

"Don't hold it in," Ada scolds, pressing her palms against my lower back. "You'll exhaust yourself faster."

The pressure of her hands grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides the agony tearing through my abdomen. Sweat drips from my hairline, plastering auburn strands to my forehead and neck. The small room is stifling despite the open window.

And Rolfo is still standing in the doorway. He fetches fresh water and cloths when Ada asks for it, but otherwise, he hasn't moved. His presence feels steady.

"I can't—" My words cut off as another wave crashes over me. This time I don't hold back the cry that claws its way up my throat.

"That's it." Ada nods, satisfaction in her warm brown eyes. "Work with the pain, not against it."

Easy for her to say. She isn't the one being torn in two.

Between contractions, memories flash unbidden—Kaelith's cruel smile when he discovered I was pregnant, his threats about what would become of the child, the terrifying night I fled with nothing but the clothes on my back. Each recollection makes my heart race faster, adding fear to the already overwhelming sensations.

"Stop spiraling," Ada says sharply, somehow reading my thoughts. "Your baby needs you present."

My baby. The reason I'm fighting so hard. The reason I ran.

My eyes drift again to the demon watching over me and I hope this won't be another mistake. But staring into his silver eyes, I feel far too at ease.

"Tell me again," I pant as the pain momentarily subsides, "about the herbs you used for your daughter when she was colicky."

Ada's expression softens. She moves to dampen a cloth in the basin of water beside the bed, then presses it to my forehead. "Dreelk and brimbark steeped together with a touch of meadowmint. Works every time."

"I'll need to remember that," I whisper, trying to believe in a future where such knowledge will be useful.

"You will," she says firmly. "Both of you will be?—"

Her reassurance shatters as another contraction hits, more powerful than any before. I arch off the thin mattress, a guttural sound escaping me that I barely recognize as my own voice.

"That's it, Aurelie. You're doing this." Ada's hands are on my hips now, applying counter-pressure. "You're strong."

"I'm not," I gasp when I can speak again. "He broke me. He?—"

"Look at me." Ada's tone brooks no argument. I force my eyes open, finding her face hovering above mine, fierce determination etched in every line. "He didn't break you. You're here. You escaped. You're fighting for your child. Those aren't the actions of a broken woman."

I feel Rolfo's eyes boring into me as she says it.

The next contraction begins building before I can respond. I feel it coming like a storm on the horizon, gathering strength.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.

Ada takes my hand, lets me squeeze until I'm certain her fingers will snap. She doesn't flinch.

"Fear is how we know what matters," she says. "Channel it. Use it."

I cry out as the pain peaks, but there's something different this time—not surrender but defiance. Every muscle in my body screams in protest, but I push back against the pain.

"Good," Ada murmurs. "That's good, Aurelie."

When the contraction passes, I collapse against the sweat-soaked pillow. My entire body trembles with exhaustion. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Ada checks my progress, her movements efficient but gentle. "Not much longer now. You're close."

"You said that hours ago." A watery laugh escapes me, surprising us both.

"And I was right then too." She offers a rare smile, wiping my face with the damp cloth again. "Time works differently in birth. It stretches and contracts like your body."

I close my eyes, trying to gather what little strength remains. "Tell me about your daughter again. Tell me something good."

Ada's hands continue their work, preparing for what's to come, but her voice softens. "Rose has her father's laugh. Sometimes I hear it when she doesn't know I'm listening, and for a moment, it's like he's still here."

The tenderness in her voice gives me courage. If she survived losing the one she loved and still found joy in their child, perhaps I can too. I can forget who fathered her and just love my child.

Another wave of agony crashes over me, stronger than all the ones before. My vision swims, reality fragmenting at the edges as my body pushes beyond what I thought possible. I'm vaguely aware of movement in the room, of Ada's steady voice calling out instructions, but everything feels distant, as if I'm underwater.

"Aurelie, I need you to focus." Ada's voice cuts through the haze. "Your baby is coming. I can see the head."

The words register dimly. My baby. Coming. After months of terror and running, of nightmares where Kaelith finds us both, the moment is finally here.

"Open your eyes," a deeper voice commands, closer than before.

I force my heavy eyelids up to find Rolfo kneeling beside the bed, his silver eyes intense and focused. When did he move from the doorway? His presence has shifted from sentinel to something more immediate, more involved. Ada must have beckoned him closer.

"You're doing it," he says, his gruff voice softened to something almost gentle. "Keep going."

His hands hover uncertainly near mine, like he wants to offer comfort but doesn't know how. I grab one of them, needing something to anchor me as another contraction builds. His skin is hot against my palm, demon-warm, and I cling to him as the pain crests.

"Push now," Ada instructs. "Hard as you can."

I bear down with what little strength remains. The pressure building between my legs is unbearable, a burning stretch that tears a primal sound from my throat. Through half-lidded eyes, I see Rolfo's face, the stunned wonder there.

"The head is crowning," Ada announces. "One more push, Aurelie."

But my body feels hollow, emptied of all reserves. My grip on Rolfo's hand loosens as darkness edges my vision.

"Stay with us," Rolfo growls, squeezing my fingers. His other hand brushes sweat-soaked hair from my forehead with surprising tenderness. "Don't you dare fade now."

Something in his tone rouses me—not just concern, but an unexpected fierceness, as if my survival matters to him personally. I drag in a ragged breath and summon the last dregs of my strength.

"Now!" Ada commands.

I push with everything I have left, a strangled cry tearing from my raw throat. The pressure peaks, then suddenly releases in a rush of fluid and sensation. A tiny, indignant wail fills the room.

"A girl," Ada says, her voice thick with emotion. "A perfect little girl."

I collapse against the pillows, consciousness flickering like a candle flame in the wind. Through the gray haze, I see Ada working efficiently, wrapping my daughter—my daughter just like I had thought—in a clean cloth.

"Rolfo," Ada says, nodding toward something beside the bed. "Cut the cord."

His hands are trembling as he takes the knife Ada offers. Despite his intimidating size and warrior's build, he handles the task with unexpected delicacy, severing the physical connection between my body and my child's.

"She's so small," he murmurs, staring at the squalling bundle Ada now cradles.

I want to reach for her, but my arms feel leaden, my entire body hollow and spent. Still, a fierce, protective love surges through me as Ada places my daughter on my chest. She's impossibly tiny, her skin mottled and red, face scrunched in furious protest at being thrust into this cold, bright world.

But she's beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

"Sephy," I whisper, my voice thread-thin but determined. My finger traces the curve of her cheek, marveling at the silky softness of her skin. "Her name is Serephine."

Rolfo leans closer, his silver eyes fixed on the tiny infant. "Serephine," he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.

"A good name," Ada says, still working between my legs to deliver the afterbirth. "Strong."

Sephy's cries soften as I hold her against my skin. Her tiny fist uncurls, five perfect fingers splayed against my bare chest. In this moment, despite the exhaustion dragging at me, despite knowing Kaelith still hunts us both, I feel a fierce joy unlike anything I've known before.

"Hello, little one," I whisper, pressing my lips to her downy head with its wisps of silvery-blonde hair. "We made it."

The room falls quiet except for Sephy's occasional newborn sounds—those small, vulnerable whimpers and sighs that somehow fill the entire space. I'm drifting between consciousness and something deeper, my body utterly spent. Every muscle aches, every breath requires effort, but I fight to keep my eyes open, unwilling to miss a single moment with my daughter.

"You should sleep," Ada says, her hands still moving efficiently as she cleans up. "Your body needs rest to recover."

I want to argue, but exhaustion makes my thoughts fuzzy, disconnected. Before I can form a response, I see Ada gesture to Rolfo.

"Rolfo step back while I clean Aurelie up a bit," she says.

Panic flutters in my chest. "No, I can?—"

"You can barely keep your eyes open," Ada cuts me off, her tone kind but firm. "Just for a moment. She'll be right here."

Reluctantly, I watch as he takes a step back, still looking so hesitant in the way he holds her that

"Like this," Ada murmurs, showing Rolfo how to support Sephy's head as she transfers my daughter to his massive hands.

He takes her with such hesitation that I almost laugh despite my exhaustion. This fierce demon warrior—a man who probably has more blood on his hands than I want to imagine—looks positively terrified of this tiny, helpless infant.

"I'll break her," he mutters, his silver eyes wide with concern.

"You won't," Ada assures him, adjusting his grip. "There. See? She fits perfectly."

And somehow, she does. Sephy looks impossibly small cradled against Rolfo's broad chest, her entire body not much bigger than his palms. He holds her stiffly at first, muscles tense as if bracing for an attack rather than holding a newborn.

"Relax your arms a little," Ada instructs as she turns back to me with a damp cloth. "Babies can sense tension."

While Ada helps me clean up, changing the soiled sheets beneath me with practiced efficiency, I watch Rolfo with my daughter. Gradually, the rigid set of his shoulders eases. His expression transforms from one of guarded wariness to something I can't quite name—wonder, perhaps, or awe.

Sephy squirms slightly in his grasp, her tiny face scrunching. For a moment, panic flashes across his features.

"What did I do?" he asks, looking between Ada and me.

"Nothing," I murmur, my voice hoarse. "That's just what babies do."

His attention returns to Sephy, studying her with an intensity that would be unnerving if it weren't so gentle. His rough fingertip traces the curve of her cheek with such delicacy it makes my heart clench.

"She has a mark," he says softly. "Here." His finger hovers over her chest, not quite touching.

"What kind of mark?" I try to sit up, ignoring the protest of my aching body.

"Stay still," Ada chides, pressing a hand to my shoulder. "I'll look in a moment."

But Rolfo is already shaking his head. "It's not bad. Just a birthmark. Crescent shape." His lips twitch into what might almost be a smile. "Like a moon."

Relief washes through me, followed quickly by a fresh wave of exhaustion. Ada finishes her ministrations, helping me into a clean dress she must have brought before stepping back.

"There. That should feel better."

It does, marginally. I still feel as though I've been trampled by a herd of rono, but at least I'm clean. My eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, but I fight to stay awake, unwilling to take my gaze from my daughter.

Rolfo cradles Sephy awkwardly, staring at the infant as if she might disappear. I watch him, barely able to keep my eyes open. His silver eyes soften in a way I wouldn't have thought possible for such a hardened warrior. There's a tenderness there, a vulnerability that seems at odds with everything else about him.

Slowly, he moves closer to the bed, careful not to jostle Sephy. "She should be with her mother," he says, his deep voice rumbling softly.

He sets Sephy in my arms with surprising care, helping me adjust the blankets around her tiny form. Our hands brush during the transfer, and the unexpected warmth of his skin against mine sends a jolt through my exhausted body. For a brief moment, his fingers linger over mine, steadying them as I cradle Sephy's head.

He doesn't speak—he doesn't have to. The gentle pressure of his hand, the soft silver of his eyes, communicate more than words could. There's a promise there, unspoken but clear.

"Thank you," I whisper, unsure if I'm thanking him for returning Sephy to me or for something larger, something neither of us has put into words.

Rolfo nods, retreating a step from the bedside. His eyes remain fixed on Sephy, something protective hardening his features.

"She has your eyes," he observes quietly. "Shape, at least. Color's different."

I glance down at Sephy, whose eyes have briefly fluttered open—that newborn, unfocused gaze taking in nothing but sensing everything. "Pale violet," I murmur. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Means she's special," Ada comments from across the room where she's sorting through her herbs. "Children with unusual eyes often are."

Rolfo's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at Ada's words, but his expression remains gentle when he looks back at Sephy. "Get some rest," he says to me. "We'll be here."

We. Such a simple word, yet it floods me with an emotion I can't name—something between relief and terror. I've been alone for so long, carrying this burden by myself, that the thought of having someone else to share it seems almost too much to hope for.