Rheda, the widow of Tamar, did not die a beautiful death.
When her contractions started, her baby had not turned in the womb. The midwife and her assistants righted that soon enough in spite of her screams, but then came the blood – so much of it, spewing from between her thighs and running in warm rivulets over her flesh to soak the earthen floor. One of the assistants was forced to leave the house and vomit. The midwife couldn't blame her; this was the worst birthing she'd attended in years.
From noon until dusk they waited with Rheda, but the child only grew more stubborn and the mother steadily weakened. At sunset, the midwife instructed her assistants to go about the house opening and closing cupboard doors, locking and unlocking chests and tying and untying knots in their gowns. A few of them looked askance at her but nontheless did as she asked – these old customs, intended to assist the opening of the womb, had long been considered outdated, but it was clear to all that Rheda was fading fast. Her screams had dwindled to mere moans, soft and pitiful; salted tracks on her cheeks marked the course of tears that had hours since ceased to flow.
Night fell. The heat of the room was sweltering. The midwife's woollen gown itched at her underarms, and when she shifted she felt dampness there. One of her assistants yawned and received a sharp word of remonstrance – and then suddenly Rheda screamed again.
"Skita!" cursed one of the assistants as the girl bucked in pain. "It moves!"
"Aye, and so should you, if you know what's good for you!" snapped the midwife. "Look to your duties; ready the hot water and salt!" She knelt down in front of Rheda, who was now emitting panicked gasps. "Hush, now, child," she crooned, bracing weakened legs against her own body. "Not long to go. You hold on, now, there's a good girl." And so on, soothing nonsense that meant nothing, for she knew that Rheda's chances of making it through this birth alive were slim. Too much blood had already been lost, and more would follow when the baby arrived. Keeping up her chatter, she carefully slipped her arm inside the girl and felt inside the silken wetness for the infant's head.
"How does it go?" asked the anxious assistant supporting Rheda's head.
The midwife shook her head, her face creased in concentration – then touched what she had been seeking and smiled. She withdrew her arm and took the girl's hand. "Rheda?"
Rheda's eyes flickered open and struggled to focus.
"Rheda, I can feel your child. It is almost here, but you must help it."
"I can't," she whispered.
"Try, Rheda. Push."
So she groaned and struggled, and little by little the child moved – and then with a final shriek from Rheda, a tiny girl rushed out into the midwife's waiting hands. Deftly she cleared the child's mouth of mucus and heard it utter its first rasping breath, a sound that never ceased to fill her with joy, then tied and cut the umbilical cord.
"Your daughter, Rheda," she said, holding the child to the young woman's face – but Rheda was too far gone to see or care. Blood and slime still poured from within her, and her face was pale and clammy.
"Oh, skita," she murmured. "Oh, skita, how it hurts." Then – "Tamar!" And her face contorted into a gruesome rictus and her body spasmed, and then she was still.
*
In silence the midwife and her older assistants performed the traditional birthing rituals on the child – the bathing of the lips and throat in hot water to ensure the infant would grow up to speak properly, and the dribbling of honey on the palate, to encourage appetite. The younger girls she had sent outside, wishing none of them to see the terrible look on Rheda's dead face.
"It's an ugly little thing," one of the women commented, examining the baby. "Scrawny."
"Maybe, but I know someone who'll cherish it nontheless," replied the midwife with a ghost of a smile.
It was late, so once they had done all they could for Rheda the midwife encouraged her assistants to go home to their families. She had a visit to make, and she wished to go alone.
*
Berthe was putting her son Haddan to bed when she heard the knock on her door.
"Just a moment!" she called, and turned back to the young boy snuggled on the pallet beside her. "Goodnight, my love," she murmured, kissed his tousled curls, and got to her feet. "Now, try to go to sleep."
When she opened the door and saw the midwife cradling a mewling white bundle in her arms, her heart leapt – but no, it couldn't be.
"Good evening, Berthe," smiled the midwife.
"And the same to you, Udela. What brings you here at this hour?"
"Do you not remember my promise?"
Berthe felt her throat tighten in anticipation, but did not yet allow herself to give in to delight. The last few days had brought so much grief that she hardly dared hope for a respite. "Of course, I-"
"And I take it you're still producing milk?"
"Yes..."
"Then all is well," said Udela, and held out Rheda's child. "Here. A perfect baby girl. Her mother died giving birth to her."
Breathless with joy, Berthe took the infant, holding her as carefully as if she had been made of glass. "And the father?"
"Killed on patrol by orcs."
"Does she have a name?"
Udela shook her head. "There was no time to name her – the mother barely lived to bring her into the world." She gave an involuntary shiver as she recalled Rheda's death mask. "I must go, Berthe – am I right in thinking you'll take her?
It couldn't be true, thought Berthe, gazing at the infant. "Yes – yes."
"Good. I'll be back in a day or two to make sure nothing is wrong."
"Udela?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you," Berthe whispered.
A/N: "Skita" is Old Norse for "shit"; Tolkien used Old English to represent Rohirric in his work, as he used modern English to represent Westron. The Old English word for "shit" is actually "scitte," which would be a derivative of "skita," but I took the liberty of deciding that "skita" sounded better in context.