A queens delivery - Stories and Text Pastebin

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A queens delivery By fishy9890 on 17th August 2021 12:22:57 AM

by khleolicker@deviantart-
It was midnight when I was summoned to the palace. A terrified looking steward rang my bell until I stumbled, eyes blurred with sleep and unwilling to see, to the door of my small home. He averted his eyes politely at my state of undress, but did not budge from my doorstep.
“The Queen has called for you, Madame.”
I frowned. It was no secret that Queen Ayia had fallen pregnant with the possible heir to the throne. I was a midwife, and a very skilled one, so I was more surprised than puzzled to find the palace requesting my services. Surprised because Ayia not only had the finest doctors in the land at her beck and call, but also half a dozen palace midwives, there for the express purpose of delivering royal babies. I was a foreigner, new to this land, and had brought methods that were unorthodox. I did not believe, as the palace midwives did, that mothers should lie on their backs and have the babies pulled from them with lethal looking metal instruments. I had expressed that view ardently when the palace had been recruiting, and been turned away with snide remarks. My methods may have been popular among the women of the market, who knew my reputation, but the palace had ever been a hostile and unfamiliar place. The steward fidgeted impatiently at my hesitation.
“She bid you come at once, Madame Iliana.”
He stumbled over my unfamiliar name, his tongue unwilling to accept it. I smiled slightly.
“You must let me prepare first. I can hardly go in my nightshift.”
He looked still more uncomfortable.
“Please hurry, madame.”
My footsteps were indeed quick as I raced up the narrow staircase to my bedchamber. Over the loose linen shift that I wore to bed every night, I layered the appropriately long tunic I wore when delivering babies. It was hardly finery worthy of the palace, but this was not the time for vanity. My hair, dark and curly as my gypsy mother’s, was hastily tied behind me, though I could feel curls escaping the lose braid. My hand went blindly to the chest where I kept my supplies. There wasn’t time to take everything, though I would have preferred to given what I knew of the palace’s birthing practices. Instead, I wrapped in a long scarf half a dozen small bottles of various tinctures, a clay pot of almond oil, a smoothly carved listening cone, and my birthing spoons, praying that they would not be necessary. As an afterthought, I added my stock of finely woven cloths, remembering my derision for the fine silks used at the palace.
Scarcely five minutes had passed when I returned to the steward, but he looked on the point of collapse. I did not waste time with questions as he handed me into a carriage and whipped the poor horses until they reached a breakneck speed. We did not go through the ordinary palace entrance. Instead, we skipped by its grand gates and intricately carved exteriors and went through a small door in the wall that I assumed was the servant’s entrance. The steward looked nervously around him as we entered and I suddenly understood that my summons was a great secret. My curiosity increased as he led me on a circuitous route through halls so opulent I could barely refrain from gaping at the silk drapery and redwood furniture, the golden carvings characteristic of Buddhism, the gongs that took up three or four panels.
I tried to keep track of the turns that we took, but our urgent speed prevented me from taking in too much detail. I suspected that this was intentional. Finally, we arrived at a pair of intricately carved doors, through which, I assumed, was the birthing chamber. I was surprised to hear only hushed voices from within. Usually, the cries of a laboring mother were unmistakable. The steward gestured furiously at the door. For a man to enter the chamber would have been sacrilegious. He could not show me inside. I took a brief moment to compose myself, and then entered the room. My first impression was of high ceilings, which were covered in beautifully dyed silks. The room was too big for its purpose in my opinion. Pillows and carpets were scattered across the hardwood floors, occupied by entertainers; musicians, midwives, ladies in waiting, even acrobats and a fortune teller, who cast stones again and again, muttering to herself. Even my deep respect for those wise in the arcane arts of my ancestors did not temper my disapproval. Birth was an intimate and miraculous occasion, not a party. Along a far wall, long silken ropes were suspended from the ceiling along with two hammocks so full of pillows I did not see how a pregnant woman was meant to fit in them. Candles burned on low tables, making the light strange and mysterious. The scent of roasted cow met my nose, as did the sharp tang of spirits.
It took me a moment to find the queen, so lost among her attendants she was. Our eyes met, hers a startling shade of green. She was dressed in royal regalia, so wrapped up in cloth that her belly barely looked distended. Her hair, smooth and black, was tied up in intricate braids around a crown that must have weighed more than a baby. She gave no indication of being in pain, and her voice was smooth and welcoming as she greeted me.
“Hail, midwife. I thank you for coming so late to my chambers.”
I bowed, as was the custom here, and did not approach until she beckoned me closer. The palace midwives, recognizable by their white hands and dully-colored uniforms, scattered like chickens as I approached. I looked curiously at their preparations, which consisted of a copper bowl, several far-too-opulent receiving blankets, and a pot of boiling water in the fireplace. The queen was scrutinizing me with an intensity in her gaze that made me realize why she was the most feared woman in the land.
“You are Iliana, the midwife?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Deliverer of the child Isaac, mother Niya?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth twitched as if she was about to smile.
“Do you approve of our preparations here?”
I hesitated, impertinent words pressing on my tongue. She raised an eyebrow.
“Your silence speaks for you, midwife. I quite agree. Would you consent to a brief examination?”
I bowed again.
“Of course, your highness.”
She was not experiencing a pang at the moment, she could not have been, so when I pressed my hands against her stomach, I could feel the baby’s position.
“Your child is in a good posture, your highness.”
“That is good to hear – “
She broke off abruptly and I felt her stomach tense, hard as a rock beneath my hands. To my surprise, she uttered no sound as I removed my hands and looked into her face, which was impassive.
“All of you may go now, I have a competent midwife.”
Her voice was smooth; she betrayed no weakness. I knew the pain she was feeling, having delivered almost three hundred babies in my lifetime, and I knew what it did to most women. She was not most women. When her entourage hesitated, her voice rose imperiously.
“I said, leave. I wish for all of you to be gone from my presence by the time three seconds has passed.”
The scramble that followed was one that I had not seen before, and did not particularly care to see either. Within three seconds, the last midwife had shut the door behind her. I looked back at the queen, and was shocked again. The moment the door had shut, she had collapsed inward, bent around her stomach, face contorted in pain, breathing labored. I took her arm and helped her to lower herself onto the ridiculous pile of cushions behind her. She could not speak, but found my arm and gripped it tightly, gasping. I placed a hand on her abdomen and waited for it to soften, whispering soothing words. When the pain was gone, she looked at me, haughtiness gone from her gaze.
“Get these clothes off of me, please.”
I obeyed, asking the ordinary questions as I unwrapped the seemingly endless number of scarves and shifts.
“How long have you been feeling pain?”
“Four hours, nearly. I meant to send for you and only you, but these idiots saw me wince during the morning walk. They would not even have me remove my crown.”
I smiled gently.
“I would have you remove everything, and unbind your hair entirely.”
“I know of your reputation. You bring children into this world with a gentle touch and a peaceful heart. I saw your interview before the palace doctors.”
I drew the last scarf away from her body, leaving her dressed in a loose silken shift, which clung to her stomach.
“I would prefer to keep this on for the moment,” she said in response to my questioning gaze.
I nodded and asked permission to sit behind her and unbind her hair. She smiled, stroking the top of her stomach with one hand.
“From now on, please treat me as you would any other woman who called for you, Iliana. I will not have this ‘your majesty’ nonsense. It makes me feel as though I cannot merely ask for your help.”
I respected her wishes, and told her so.
“Familiarity between midwife and mother makes this process an easier one.”
She detected my careful wording and frowned as I began to untangle her fine hair from the crown, my fingers gentle.
“But not easy.”
I hesitated. I never lie to my patients unless absolutely necessary, but now I was not sure.
“You are small boned and your baby is near the top of your belly. This is your first child?”
She nodded, then sighed in relief as I lifted the crown from her head.
“I have been told the first child is the hardest.”
I smiled and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder.
“Children are loathe to leave a womb that has been so comforting for them…and with the first child, the womb is loathe to open. It has not yet been loosened by birth.”
She tensed and placed a hand over mine.
“I begin to feel another pain.”
I lifted my hands from her hair, but she shook her head.
“Please…continue. It is soothing.”
She leaned back against me as I continued to loosen and stroke her hair, intricate braids falling one by one down her back. Her breathing was short and intense, both hands pressed against her belly, and her entire body was tight for several moments before she relaxed slowly and could speak again.
“How much longer?”
I freed the last of her hair and stroked it gently away from her face.
“Have your waters yet ruptured?”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid you have a while yet. I have herbs that may speed your labor, but I wish to avoid using them until it becomes urgent.”
Ayia sighed.
“So be it.”
For the next hour, her waves came and went, with little variation in her reaction. I set about improving the room. I stashed away pillows, opened windows, and did my best with the hammocks while Ayia paced the room. She moved like a caged panther and paused when the waves hit to rock back and forth, breathing through them. I was sprinkling rosemary in the water over the fire when she gave a cry behind me. I had sensed that she preferred to labor without a great deal of hovering or touching, but this was a new sound, so I turned. She had been pacing back and forth with both hands pressed into her back. As I watched, she stopped and doubled over, moaning.
“My back…”
I made my way to her side and pressed both hands into her lower back, holding her hips together, as sometimes helps laboring women. As the contraction faded, she bent at the knees and sank to the ground, grasping my hand.
“It feels as though there are knives in my back and my stomach will tear in two.”
I knelt in front of her and placed my hands on her legs, which were trembling.
“This is good. Your child is moving into position; this is what hurts you.”
She sat up and folded her legs beneath her, placing both hands over her belly.
“It feels as though it will last forever.”
I smiled gently.
“This, like all else, will pass. But if you like, I can check your progress.”
She agreed and leaned back against some pillows while I warmed some almond oil between my hands and reached between her legs. She winced and shifted; it was not a comfortable experience. I made it as quick as possible, and a good thing too, for she began to feel new pain before I had finished.
“Hurry…please…oh god.”
She clutched at the blanket and moaned. The moment I removed my hand, she rolled onto her side, clutching at her swollen stomach. I stroked the hair off of her face as she cried out, trembling in a way that was characteristic of the transitioning phase.
“My back…please, help…my back!”
The last few words rose in pitch and volume as she rolled from one side to the other. I did as she asked and pressed my hands over the base of her spine, easing some of her pain, and she stopped moving to grip the cloth of my garments. Gradually, she stopped shaking and sat up.
“You are further along than I thought. The baby has not yet descended, but it begins to, and your pelvis is making room.”
She smiled weakly and pushed herself to her feet, finding it more difficult to maneuver than before. I helped her to stand, but the moment she was upright her face changed again and she clutched my shoulder for support.
“So soon? No, no, I can’t do it…I…”
Her voice broke and she doubled over, crying out. Her voice rose and fell; her cries no longer quiet. Instead she moaned and gasped by turns, making several attempts to quiet herself. When it was over, she leaned heavily on my shoulder and let out a long breath.
“They come too fast now…I cannot.”
I rubbed her back in what I hoped was a comforting manner.
“Of course you can. All women have within them the power to bear it, even if it seems impossible.”
She placed one hand on her lower back.
“The pain here does not fade.”
I nodded.
“This is good. You are progressing quickly. Would you prefer to stand or sit?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, it is too much.”
I guided her over to one of the many pillows that littered the floor and helped her to sit, placing my hands over her knees.
“It is not too much. You can do it, I promise. Pitch your voice low and focus on the sound. I will help you as much as I can.”
For the next two waves, she sat cross legged and rocked back and forth, moving her hands over her stomach as if to iron out the muscles and issuing long, low moans. Occasionally her eyes lifted, full of pain, and I met her gaze and whispered soothing words, stroking her hair away from her face. On the third, she began the routine again, then shook her head and broke into a whimper.
“Make it stop…make it stop!”
She rocked for a moment, then her hands curled into fists and she backed away into the wall, legs shaking as she tried to stand. When she could not, she arched her back, clutched her belly, and screamed until she had to draw breath, whereupon she gasped and cried out by turns, entire body trembling. This went on for almost a minute and a half, the longest pain she had had thus far. When it stopped, she closed her eyes, but her legs did not stop shaking; they seemed to be opening of their own accord.
“Would you like me to check again? Do you feel pressure?”
“No…no pressure…just stinging…it hurts so much.”
I gently reached between her legs and felt for a moment, wrenching a moan from the mother.
“That hurts.”
I knew it, but I also knew that everything would hurt her now until the baby was born.
“It is your waters that sting…they will rupture soon, and then things will move very fast.”
“Get me out of this.”
I lifted her shirt over her head, revealing firm, round breasts and a belly so distended it looked almost wrong on such a small woman. She began to feel another contraction and her legs opened. She drew two gasping breaths, then grabbed the pillow behind her and arched her back so that her stomach appeared even larger. I could see the baby moving beneath her skin, forcing her to lean over to one side, face contorted. The water bag bulged between her legs but did not break, and I did not touch her. The next pain came quickly, then the next, and she barely had time to sip the water I put to her lips before it would begin again. Finally, another long one hit, causing her startling eyes to fly open. She told me between screams that it was ripping her apart, that it stung, that she needed it to end, and that her back was going to break. I had heard this before, and so knew what to say, but still winced in sympathy when her voice rose in pitch and her water broke with a gush. To my relief, the fluid was clear. She leaned back against the wall, panting.
“Oh thank god. Thank god…”
She could say no more, but merely gasped until her breathing return to normal. On the next contraction, she bent forward, belly lowering between her legs, and her screams became grunts. I placed a hand on her shoulder as it faded, and when her breathing was calm again, she looked at me for answers.
“The pain has changed. I feel it lower now, and more.”
I rubbed almond oil between my hands, hastening to check her in between contractions.
“Do you feel pressure?”
She nodded.
“Check quickly please.”
I obeyed, but could not finish the exam before the next pain came and she grabbed my free hand, gripping it so hard I feared my bones would break. Impressively, she did not move, save for the trembling in her legs, but instead gasped and cried out, begging me to take my fingers out. I obeyed. The moment I did, she rolled over onto her hands and knees and rocked back and forth, still moaning. When it was over, she didn’t move, just tried to catch her breath. I placed a hand on her back and leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“You are still two centimeters away from where you need to be…when your baby is ready to come you will know. As soon as you want to push, let me know.”
She nodded, but did not speak until she began to feel pain again.
“My back…please…oh god, my back!”
She let out a sob and began to rock again, almost silently. I pressed a hot compress drawn from the rosemary water into her back and heard the low sigh that meant it was working.
“Don’t stop, don’t take it away please.”
I nodded and stroked her hair.
“Have you thought about how you would like to deliver?”
She laughed a little.
“I did not think I had a choice.”
Slowly, she turned around to face me, placing one hand under her belly as if to help move it. She winced as she moved, as if it cost her effort or pain. I pressed a cool cloth to her forehead to balance the hot one on her back.
“I do not agree with your midwives…I think a mother should bring her baby into the world however she feels comfortable. Flat on the back is seldom easy on mother or child.”
She smiled tiredly and reached up to touch my cheek.
“You are everything I had hoped.”
I felt a surge of affection for this small queen, and protectiveness. It was surprising; I seldom felt such tenderness for a patient. Said tenderness made me wince when she tensed up again and rolled over onto her side, legs closed, then open, then closed again as if she could not help moving them. Her breasts shook along with her legs, and her hands gripped the blanket over her head as she let out high pitched ‘ah’ noises, interspersed with grunts. I could tell she was beginning to push, but fighting it and so I stroked her hair and whispered gently.
“Do not fight your body. Follow its commands and this will go easier.”
Her hand found mine again then, and she held her breath for a moment before she screamed, a sound that, though not unfamiliar, still evoked my silent sympathy.
“Oh god. Oh god.”
Then her sounds were gasping “oh”s and occasional whimpers. Eventually, she let out a long breath or two before the pressure on my hand eased somewhat.
“I think I would like to be upright.”
I smiled.
“Are you ready to push?”
“I feel as though I must.”
“Slowly then.”
I gripped her arm as she rolled onto her back first, then gathered her legs beneath her. I took most of her weight as she stood, looking as though merely the act of moving was unbearably difficult. I did not lessen my grip on her arm as she began to cross the room, still holding the bottom of her stomach. Halfway across, she froze and gripped my shoulders with both hands transferring most of her weight onto me. Her gaze was full of pain before she buried her head on my shoulder. I hooked her arms around my neck and put my arms around her.
“Let your legs go, sink into it. Don’t worry. Breathe.”
I moved my hands gently from her back to her stomach, which was hard against my own. She was sobbing into my shoulder; I felt her breath on my neck.
“It hurts…so much…”
I tightened my grip on her.
“I know. You’re doing wonderfully. You are strong, I promise.”
Her response was a moan, then another gasping sob.
“Make it stop. Please, oh god oh god…help me!”
Eventually it did stop, and she straightened up, still leaning heavily on my shoulder.
“I have to push. It will not go away.”
We made our slow way over to the silken ropes, which dangled faithfully from the ceiling. She grabbed one in each hand, suspending herself between them in a squat. I sat behind her on a birthing stool and let her lean back between my legs.
“Okay, now if you must, push.”
She nodded, and I felt her tense as another wave hit. She took a deep breath, then her sounds were all low grunts. The pain she was feeling was in her movements: the way she arched her back and pressed her head against my breast, the way she clutched at the ropes, muscles as tense as I had ever seen them, and the way her legs shook during the waves. I hooked my arms under hers and held her up, speaking gentle words of encouragement until she began to gasp.
“It’s not stopping…it’s…not…stopping…help — ”
Her voice broke then, cut off by a grunt, then a cry. Then, she released the ropes and gripped my legs instead, trying to push herself up and away.
“It burns! It burns!”
I could barely distinguish the words; they were wrapped in shaky cries. Hastily, I disengaged myself from the mother.
“That is your baby’s head. I must deliver her, can you take my place on the stool?”
She could not speak but nodded, and so I lifted her as gently as I could until she was seated on the polished wood of the stool. Then I knelt in front of her, smiling at what I saw.
“I can see your baby, Ayia. It is almost over.”
She gave a ghost of a smile, then screamed, tilting her head back and pressing both hands against her stomach. I did not touch her, but hastened to prepare the receiving blankets I had been warming by the fire. I could see more of the baby’s head now; it stretched her tissue and bulged just far enough that dark hair was visible.
“It’s ripping me open! It…I can’t! It burns!”
She was still leaning back on the stool, crying out and grunting by turns, as even now, she could not help pushing. At those words, she closed her legs, trying to stop the baby from descending. I grabbed her knees and fought her.
“No, don’t close your legs, Ayia. It will go harder. This is the most difficult part. Let yourself stretch. Breathe.”
She tried, but only succeeded in blowing her breath through clenched teeth, then screaming again, begging me to make it stop. The baby’s head bulged further, as did her distended belly, and she gripped my shoulder in desperation, the other hand on her stomach.
“Pull it out! Pull it out!”
The pleas were uttered in gasping screams, interspersed with sobs. I shook my head.
“You are the only one who can get this baby out now.”
She heard me, bared her teeth in a soundless growl, and pushed in silent bursts for a few minutes. When the contraction faded, she looked at me.
“It burns.”
“I know. It’s good. Your body is stretching.”
Her breathing quickened, then stopped. I saw pressure behind the baby’s head just before her eyes widened and she screamed, legs pressed so hard into the floor that she lifted herself off the stool. The baby’s head popped out, and I hastily felt for the umbilical cord, but Ayia still felt a contraction. She was leaning back, one hand on the birthing stool and the other on her stomach, back arched. She screamed again, then again, asked me to pull it out, then uttered a last broken cry and the baby dropped into my hands with a gush of fluid.

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It was midnight when I was summoned to the palace. A terrified looking steward rang my bell until I stumbled, eyes blurred with sleep and unwilling to see, to the door of my small home. He averted his eyes politely at my state of undress, but did not budge from my doorstep.

“The Queen has called for you, Madame.”

I frowned. It was no secret that Queen Ayia had fallen pregnant with the possible heir to the throne. I was a midwife, and a very skilled one, so I was more surprised than puzzled to find the palace requesting my services. Surprised because Ayia not only had the finest doctors in the land at her beck and call, but also half a dozen palace midwives, there for the express purpose of delivering royal babies. I was a foreigner, new to this land, and had brought methods that were unorthodox. I did not believe, as the palace midwives did, that mothers should lie on their backs and have the babies pulled from them with lethal looking metal instruments. I had expressed that view ardently when the palace had been recruiting, and been turned away with snide remarks. My methods may have been popular among the women of the market, who knew my reputation, but the palace had ever been a hostile and unfamiliar place. The steward fidgeted impatiently at my hesitation. 
           “She bid you come at once, Madame Iliana.”

He stumbled over my unfamiliar name, his tongue unwilling to accept it. I smiled slightly.

“You must let me prepare first. I can hardly go in my nightshift.”

He looked still more uncomfortable.

“Please hurry, madame.”

My footsteps were indeed quick as I raced up the narrow staircase to my bedchamber. Over the loose linen shift that I wore to bed every night, I layered the appropriately long tunic I wore when delivering babies. It was hardly finery worthy of the palace, but this was not the time for vanity. My hair, dark and curly as my gypsy mother’s, was hastily tied behind me, though I could feel curls escaping the lose braid. My hand went blindly to the chest where I kept my supplies. There wasn’t time to take everything, though I would have preferred to given what I knew of the palace’s birthing practices. Instead, I wrapped in a long scarf half a dozen small bottles of various tinctures, a clay pot of almond oil, a smoothly carved listening cone, and my birthing spoons, praying that they would not be necessary. As an afterthought, I added my stock of finely woven cloths, remembering my derision for the fine silks used at the palace.

Scarcely five minutes had passed when I returned to the steward, but he looked on the point of collapse. I did not waste time with questions as he handed me into a carriage and whipped the poor horses until they reached a breakneck speed. We did not go through the ordinary palace entrance. Instead, we skipped by its grand gates and intricately carved exteriors and went through a small door in the wall that I assumed was the servant’s entrance. The steward looked nervously around him as we entered and I suddenly understood that my summons was a great secret. My curiosity increased as he led me on a circuitous route through halls so opulent I could barely refrain from gaping at the silk drapery and redwood furniture, the golden carvings characteristic of Buddhism, the gongs that took up three or four panels.

I tried to keep track of the turns that we took, but our urgent speed prevented me from taking in too much detail. I suspected that this was intentional. Finally, we arrived at a pair of intricately carved doors, through which, I assumed, was the birthing chamber. I was surprised to hear only hushed voices from within. Usually, the cries of a laboring mother were unmistakable. The steward gestured furiously at the door. For a man to enter the chamber would have been sacrilegious. He could not show me inside. I took a brief moment to compose myself, and then entered the room. My first impression was of high ceilings, which were covered in beautifully dyed silks. The room was too big for its purpose in my opinion. Pillows and carpets were scattered across the hardwood floors, occupied by entertainers; musicians, midwives, ladies in waiting, even acrobats and a fortune teller, who cast stones again and again, muttering to herself. Even my deep respect for those wise in the arcane arts of my ancestors did not temper my disapproval. Birth was an intimate and miraculous occasion, not a party. Along a far wall, long silken ropes were suspended from the ceiling along with two hammocks so full of pillows I did not see how a pregnant woman was meant to fit in them. Candles burned on low tables, making the light strange and mysterious. The scent of roasted cow met my nose, as did the sharp tang of spirits.

It took me a moment to find the queen, so lost among her attendants she was. Our eyes met, hers a startling shade of green. She was dressed in royal regalia, so wrapped up in cloth that her belly barely looked distended. Her hair, smooth and black, was tied up in intricate braids around a crown that must have weighed more than a baby. She gave no indication of being in pain, and her voice was smooth and welcoming as she greeted me.

“Hail, midwife. I thank you for coming so late to my chambers.”

I bowed, as was the custom here, and did not approach until she beckoned me closer. The palace midwives, recognizable by their white hands and dully-colored uniforms, scattered like chickens as I approached. I looked curiously at their preparations, which consisted of a copper bowl, several far-too-opulent receiving blankets, and a pot of boiling water in the fireplace. The queen was scrutinizing me with an intensity in her gaze that made me realize why she was the most feared woman in the land.

“You are Iliana, the midwife?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Deliverer of the child Isaac, mother Niya?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth twitched as if she was about to smile.

“Do you approve of our preparations here?”

I hesitated, impertinent words pressing on my tongue. She raised an eyebrow.

“Your silence speaks for you, midwife. I quite agree. Would you consent to a brief examination?”

I bowed again.

“Of course, your highness.”

She was not experiencing a pang at the moment, she could not have been, so when I pressed my hands against her stomach, I could feel the baby’s position.

“Your child is in a good posture, your highness.”

“That is good to hear – “

She broke off abruptly and I felt her stomach tense, hard as a rock beneath my hands. To my surprise, she uttered no sound as I removed my hands and looked into her face, which was impassive.

“All of you may go now, I have a competent midwife.”

Her voice was smooth; she betrayed no weakness. I knew the pain she was feeling, having delivered almost three hundred babies in my lifetime, and I knew what it did to most women. She was not most women. When her entourage hesitated, her voice rose imperiously.

“I said, leave. I wish for all of you to be gone from my presence by the time three seconds has passed.”

The scramble that followed was one that I had not seen before, and did not particularly care to see either. Within three seconds, the last midwife had shut the door behind her. I looked back at the queen, and was shocked again. The moment the door had shut, she had collapsed inward, bent around her stomach, face contorted in pain, breathing labored. I took her arm and helped her to lower herself onto the ridiculous pile of cushions behind her. She could not speak, but found my arm and gripped it tightly, gasping. I placed a hand on her abdomen and waited for it to soften, whispering soothing words. When the pain was gone, she looked at me, haughtiness gone from her gaze.

“Get these clothes off of me, please.”

I obeyed, asking the ordinary questions as I unwrapped the seemingly endless number of scarves and shifts.

“How long have you been feeling pain?”

“Four hours, nearly. I meant to send for you and only you, but these idiots saw me wince during the morning walk. They would not even have me remove my crown.”

I smiled gently.

“I would have you remove everything, and unbind your hair entirely.”

“I know of your reputation. You bring children into this world with a gentle touch and a peaceful heart. I saw your interview before the palace doctors.”

I drew the last scarf away from her body, leaving her dressed in a loose silken shift, which clung to her stomach.

“I would prefer to keep this on for the moment,” she said in response to my questioning gaze.

I nodded and asked permission to sit behind her and unbind her hair. She smiled, stroking the top of her stomach with one hand.

“From now on, please treat me as you would any other woman who called for you, Iliana. I will not have this ‘your majesty’ nonsense. It makes me feel as though I cannot merely ask for your help.”

I respected her wishes, and told her so.

“Familiarity between midwife and mother makes this process an easier one.”

She detected my careful wording and frowned as I began to untangle her fine hair from the crown, my fingers gentle.

“But not easy.”

I hesitated. I never lie to my patients unless absolutely necessary, but now I was not sure.

“You are small boned and your baby is near the top of your belly. This is your first child?”

She nodded, then sighed in relief as I lifted the crown from her head.

“I have been told the first child is the hardest.”

I smiled and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder.

“Children are loathe to leave a womb that has been so comforting for them…and with the first child, the womb is loathe to open. It has not yet been loosened by birth.”

She tensed and placed a hand over mine.

“I begin to feel another pain.”

I lifted my hands from her hair, but she shook her head.

“Please…continue. It is soothing.”

She leaned back against me as I continued to loosen and stroke her hair, intricate braids falling one by one down her back. Her breathing was short and intense, both hands pressed against her belly, and her entire body was tight for several moments before she relaxed slowly and could speak again.

“How much longer?”

I freed the last of her hair and stroked it gently away from her face.

“Have your waters yet ruptured?”

She shook her head.

“I’m afraid you have a while yet. I have herbs that may speed your labor, but I wish to avoid using them until it becomes urgent.”

Ayia sighed.

“So be it.”

For the next hour, her waves came and went, with little variation in her reaction. I set about improving the room. I stashed away pillows, opened windows, and did my best with the hammocks while Ayia paced the room. She moved like a caged panther and paused when the waves hit to rock back and forth, breathing through them. I was sprinkling rosemary in the water over the fire when she gave a cry behind me. I had sensed that she preferred to labor without a great deal of hovering or touching, but this was a new sound, so I turned. She had been pacing back and forth with both hands pressed into her back. As I watched, she stopped and doubled over, moaning.

“My back…”

I made my way to her side and pressed both hands into her lower back, holding her hips together, as sometimes helps laboring women. As the contraction faded, she bent at the knees and sank to the ground, grasping my hand.

“It feels as though there are knives in my back and my stomach will tear in two.”

I knelt in front of her and placed my hands on her legs, which were trembling.

“This is good. Your child is moving into position; this is what hurts you.”

She sat up and folded her legs beneath her, placing both hands over her belly.

“It feels as though it will last forever.”

I smiled gently.

“This, like all else, will pass. But if you like, I can check your progress.”

She agreed and leaned back against some pillows while I warmed some almond oil between my hands and reached between her legs. She winced and shifted; it was not a comfortable experience. I made it as quick as possible, and a good thing too, for she began to feel new pain before I had finished.

“Hurry…please…oh god.”

She clutched at the blanket and moaned. The moment I removed my hand, she rolled onto her side, clutching at her swollen stomach. I stroked the hair off of her face as she cried out, trembling in a way that was characteristic of the transitioning phase.

“My back…please, help…my back!”

The last few words rose in pitch and volume as she rolled from one side to the other. I did as she asked and pressed my hands over the base of her spine, easing some of her pain, and she stopped moving to grip the cloth of my garments. Gradually, she stopped shaking and sat up.

“You are further along than I thought. The baby has not yet descended, but it begins to, and your pelvis is making room.”

She smiled weakly and pushed herself to her feet, finding it more difficult to maneuver than before. I helped her to stand, but the moment she was upright her face changed again and she clutched my shoulder for support.

“So soon? No, no, I can’t do it…I…”

Her voice broke and she doubled over, crying out.  Her voice rose and fell; her cries no longer quiet. Instead she moaned and gasped by turns, making several attempts to quiet herself. When it was over, she leaned heavily on my shoulder and let out a long breath.

“They come too fast now…I cannot.”

I rubbed her back in what I hoped was a comforting manner.

“Of course you can. All women have within them the power to bear it, even if it seems impossible.”

She placed one hand on her lower back.

“The pain here does not fade.”

I nodded.

“This is good. You are progressing quickly. Would you prefer to stand or sit?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, it is too much.”

I guided her over to one of the many pillows that littered the floor and helped her to sit, placing my hands over her knees.

“It is not too much. You can do it, I promise. Pitch your voice low and focus on the sound. I will help you as much as I can.”

For the next two waves, she sat cross legged and rocked back and forth, moving her hands over her stomach as if to iron out the muscles and issuing long, low moans. Occasionally her eyes lifted, full of pain, and I met her gaze and whispered soothing words, stroking her hair away from her face. On the third, she began the routine again, then shook her head and broke into a whimper.

“Make it stop…make it stop!”

She rocked for a moment, then her hands curled into fists and she backed away into the wall, legs shaking as she tried to stand. When she could not, she arched her back, clutched her belly, and screamed until she had to draw breath, whereupon she gasped and cried out by turns, entire body trembling. This went on for almost a minute and a half, the longest pain she had had thus far. When it stopped, she closed her eyes, but her legs did not stop shaking; they seemed to be opening of their own accord.

“Would you like me to check again? Do you feel pressure?”

“No…no pressure…just stinging…it hurts so much.”

I gently reached between her legs and felt for a moment, wrenching a moan from the mother.

“That hurts.”

I knew it, but I also knew that everything would hurt her now until the baby was born.

“It is your waters that sting…they will rupture soon, and then things will move very fast.”

“Get me out of this.”

I lifted her shirt over her head, revealing firm, round breasts and a belly so distended it looked almost wrong on such a small woman. She began to feel another contraction and her legs opened. She drew two gasping breaths, then grabbed the pillow behind her and arched her back so that her stomach appeared even larger. I could see the baby moving beneath her skin, forcing her to lean over to one side, face contorted. The water bag bulged between her legs but did not break, and I did not touch her. The next pain came quickly, then the next, and she barely had time to sip the water I put to her lips before it would begin again. Finally, another long one hit, causing her startling eyes to fly open. She told me between screams that it was ripping her apart, that it stung, that she needed it to end, and that her back was going to break. I had heard this before, and so knew what to say, but still winced in sympathy when her voice rose in pitch and her water broke with a gush. To my relief, the fluid was clear. She leaned back against the wall, panting.

“Oh thank god. Thank god…”

She could say no more, but merely gasped until her breathing return to normal. On the next contraction, she bent forward, belly lowering between her legs, and her screams became grunts. I placed a hand on her shoulder as it faded, and when her breathing was calm again, she looked at me for answers.

“The pain has changed. I feel it lower now, and more.”

I rubbed almond oil between my hands, hastening to check her in between contractions.

“Do you feel pressure?”

She nodded.

“Check quickly please.”

I obeyed, but could not finish the exam before the next pain came and she grabbed my free hand, gripping it so hard I feared my bones would break. Impressively, she did not move, save for the trembling in her legs, but instead gasped and cried out, begging me to take my fingers out. I obeyed. The moment I did, she rolled over onto her hands and knees and rocked back and forth, still moaning. When it was over, she didn’t move, just tried to catch her breath. I placed a hand on her back and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“You are still two centimeters away from where you need to be…when your baby is ready to come you will know. As soon as you want to push, let me know.”

She nodded, but did not speak until she began to feel pain again.

“My back…please…oh god, my back!”

She let out a sob and began to rock again, almost silently. I pressed a hot compress drawn from the rosemary water into her back and heard the low sigh that meant it was working.

“Don’t stop, don’t take it away please.”

I nodded and stroked her hair.

“Have you thought about how you would like to deliver?”

She laughed a little.

“I did not think I had a choice.”

Slowly, she turned around to face me, placing one hand under her belly as if to help move it. She winced as she moved, as if it cost her effort or pain. I pressed a cool cloth to her forehead to balance the hot one on her back.

“I do not agree with your midwives…I think a mother should bring her baby into the world however she feels comfortable. Flat on the back is seldom easy on mother or child.”

She smiled tiredly and reached up to touch my cheek.

“You are everything I had hoped.”

I felt a surge of affection for this small queen, and protectiveness. It was surprising; I seldom felt such tenderness for a patient. Said tenderness made me wince when she tensed up again and rolled over onto her side, legs closed, then open, then closed again as if she could not help moving them. Her breasts shook along with her legs, and her hands gripped the blanket over her head as she let out high pitched ‘ah’ noises, interspersed with grunts. I could tell she was beginning to push, but fighting it and so I stroked her hair and whispered gently.

“Do not fight your body. Follow its commands and this will go easier.”

Her hand found mine again then, and she held her breath for a moment before she screamed, a sound that, though not unfamiliar, still evoked my silent sympathy.

“Oh god. Oh god.”

Then her sounds were gasping “oh”s and occasional whimpers. Eventually, she let out a long breath or two before the pressure on my hand eased somewhat.

“I think I would like to be upright.”

I smiled.

“Are you ready to push?”

“I feel as though I must.”

“Slowly then.”

I gripped her arm as she rolled onto her back first, then gathered her legs beneath her. I took most of her weight as she stood, looking as though merely the act of moving was unbearably difficult. I did not lessen my grip on her arm as she began to cross the room, still holding the bottom of her stomach. Halfway across, she froze and gripped my shoulders with both hands transferring most of her weight onto me. Her gaze was full of pain before she buried her head on my shoulder. I hooked her arms around my neck and put my arms around her.

“Let your legs go, sink into it. Don’t worry. Breathe.”

I moved my hands gently from her back to her stomach, which was hard against my own. She was sobbing into my shoulder; I felt her breath on my neck.

“It hurts…so much…”

I tightened my grip on her.

“I know. You’re doing wonderfully. You are strong, I promise.”

Her response was a moan, then another gasping sob.

“Make it stop. Please, oh god oh god…help me!”

Eventually it did stop, and she straightened up, still leaning heavily on my shoulder.

“I have to push. It will not go away.”

We made our slow way over to the silken ropes, which dangled faithfully from the ceiling. She grabbed one in each hand, suspending herself between them in a squat. I sat behind her on a birthing stool and let her lean back between my legs.

“Okay, now if you must, push.”

She nodded, and I felt her tense as another wave hit. She took a deep breath, then her sounds were all low grunts. The pain she was feeling was in her movements: the way she arched her back and pressed her head against my breast, the way she clutched at the ropes, muscles as tense as I had ever seen them, and the way her legs shook during the waves. I hooked my arms under hers and held her up, speaking gentle words of encouragement until she began to gasp.

“It’s not stopping…it’s…not…stopping…help — ”

Her voice broke then, cut off by a grunt, then a cry. Then, she released the ropes and gripped my legs instead, trying to push herself up and away.

“It burns! It burns!”

I could barely distinguish the words; they were wrapped in shaky cries. Hastily, I disengaged myself from the mother.

“That is your baby’s head. I must deliver her, can you take my place on the stool?”

She could not speak but nodded, and so I lifted her as gently as I could until she was seated on the polished wood of the stool. Then I knelt in front of her, smiling at what I saw.

“I can see your baby, Ayia. It is almost over.”

She gave a ghost of a smile, then screamed, tilting her head back and pressing both hands against her stomach. I did not touch her, but hastened to prepare the receiving blankets I had been warming by the fire. I could see more of the baby’s head now; it stretched her tissue and bulged just far enough that dark hair was visible.

“It’s ripping me open! It…I can’t! It burns!”

She was still leaning back on the stool, crying out and grunting by turns, as even now, she could not help pushing. At those words, she closed her legs, trying to stop the baby from descending. I grabbed her knees and fought her.

“No, don’t close your legs, Ayia. It will go harder. This is the most difficult part. Let yourself stretch. Breathe.”

She tried, but only succeeded in blowing her breath through clenched teeth, then screaming again, begging me to make it stop. The baby’s head bulged further, as did her distended belly, and she gripped my shoulder in desperation, the other hand on her stomach.

“Pull it out! Pull it out!”

The pleas were uttered in gasping screams, interspersed with sobs. I shook my head.

“You are the only one who can get this baby out now.”

She heard me, bared her teeth in a soundless growl, and pushed in silent bursts for a few minutes. When the contraction faded, she looked at me.

“It burns.”

“I know. It’s good. Your body is stretching.”

Her breathing quickened, then stopped. I saw pressure behind the baby’s head just before her eyes widened and she screamed, legs pressed so hard into the floor that she lifted herself off the stool. The baby’s head popped out, and I hastily felt for the umbilical cord, but Ayia still felt a contraction. She was leaning back, one hand on the birthing stool and the other on her stomach, back arched. She screamed again, then again, asked me to pull it out, then uttered a last broken cry and the baby dropped into my hands with a gush of fluid.