It wasn’t her shattered bones she’d wept over.
And then there were my vines, not long enough to reach, not powerful enough to protect.
All because I don’t enjoy doing things I’m not good at.
Olwen could have saved her, and talented as my sister is, the same blood runs through our veins, the same magic at its core.
I just simply refused to tend to mine. Didn’t care enough to bother.
And then, when Ellie said she wanted to come along with me to the Rip, I didn’t consider it then, either—that I hadn’t practiced long enough to protect her. I’d relied on the skills of Blaise, Lydia, and even Marcus, sick as he is, sure that any of them could best our enemies in a fight.
I hadn’t bothered to train. I’ve had two hundred years to hone my skills, to prepare for this moment, the hour I’d need to protect my family, and I simply never cared to try.
Because I didn’t let myself think about it. Just like I never let myself think about the fact that one day, Ellie will grow old and die. Just like I didn’t let myself think about what would occur if the Rip were opened and the beasts got to Ellie, assuming we’d be long gone before that happened.
All I was thinking was that if I left her behind, I would miss her like I would miss my own eyesight. That I couldn’t stand to be parted from her smile, her melodic voice again. I thought I needed her, and I did. But had I considered what she needed? She wanted to come, and I let myself be convinced so easily, sure that having her and our unborn child by my side would ease my anxieties. Would relieve me from worrying about whether they’d come to harm, because I could lay eyes on her any time I wanted. Hear our baby’s heartbeat as I pressed my head against her belly. See the smile on Ellie’s lips.
But that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it? For some reason, the immediate has always felt so much more real, more concrete, than the future.
But the future has a tendency of coming whether I care to consider it or not, and now I’m reaping the consequences of not taking it more seriously.
Ellie’s sobbing now, the rag in her mouth soaked through, and I can’t stand it. Can’t stand to watch her in so much pain. Can’t stand the helplessness that aches inside me.
“I can see the baby’s head,” Amity says matter-of-factly. Nausea washes over me.
I don’t think I can stand to look, stand to watch our baby die, exposed to the elements too early, before its organs have a chance to properly develop. Will Ellie want to hold our child as it dies? I think probably so, and if she does, I’ll make myself stay, planted beside her. For Ellie.
My head spins, shadows speckling the edges of my vision.
“I think it’s coming,” says Amity, and the blood drains from my face. I feel as though I’m going to pass out.
Amity peers up at me. “You should probably look away.”
I feel weak, ridiculous, but I do as I’m told as Amity delivers my and Ellie’s child.
I’m not sure if it takes minutes or hours, but there’s a moment when the world goes numb.
And then a tiny voice creaks out into the shadows, piercing the darkness, and though it’s the sound of anguish, it’s also the sound of life. A first breath stolen from the air. A life wrangled from the wind by a tiny hand that flails as I make myself look into Amity’s arms.
The child wriggles and writhes, very much alive, though I can hardly let myself breathe, not when I’m unsure when our child will take its last breath.
I find I don’t want to miss that moment, as much as I dread it.
And then Amity’s little voice calls out, as simply as if she were Peck himself, “It’s a baby girl,” and my entire world shatters, then mends itself right up again.
I watch in shock as Amity cuts the cord with her knife, then wipes our little girl off with a terrycloth.
Ellie is weeping, her face a strained mingling of relief and agony as she listens to the sounds of our child’s screaming, tears streaming down her face.
Ellie’s fingers writhe at the air. I can hardly speak, not with the wonder and shock closing off my throat, so I’m grateful when Marcus says quietly, “Amity, Ellie probably wants to hold her baby.”
Even Marcus’s voice is shaking, though he keeps his eyes trained on the forest.
Amity does as she’s told, swaddling the baby—our baby—in her own coat, then shuffles over to Ellie’s side and places our daughter in my beautiful wife’s arms.
Amity has to prop up Ellie’s arms because the paralytic hasn’t completely worked its way out of her system.
Ellie sobs harder, the slightest gasp escaping her lips as she tucks the small, beautiful, squirming little girl into her chest, touching our daughter’s tiny cheek with her thumb.
Our child continues to scream, and I wonder if perhaps I’d be content to listen to that sound for years on end.
Alive.
Our child is alive.
“Can you tell if she’s healthy?” I whisper, hardly able to bring myself to look at Amity. I’m terrified her face will give her away.
The look she gives me instead is more along the lines of, “Do I look like I’ve done this before?,” but she just shrugs.
“She’s screaming, so that means she’s breathing. And she’s bigger than I would have thought she’d be at this point.”
That’s hard to imagine, given how tiny she is, clearly not ready for this world, but intent on staying here anyway.
“The gestation lengths vary from pregnancy to pregnancy,” Ellie says, relief flooding down in the tears that streak paths in the grime on her face. And then Ellie is giggling, hysterically, hiccuping and coughing, and holding our child tight as she screams.
I chance a glance at the wound in Ellie’s side, but Amity is already tending to it, changing the bandages and cleaning it with the salve she had in her satchel.
“The bleeding has slowed a lot. And her blood is bright again—less paralytic.” Though Amity seems to be talking to herself, I figure it’s more for my benefit.
