INTERLUDE: NOV 30TH, 1900

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

- CHILDBIRTH

- STILLBIRTH

- DEATH IN CHILDBIRTH

November 30th, 1900

The sky overhead hung low over the horizon, a dusky violet hue as the last rays of the sunset dipped below the curve of the earth as far as she could see it. Like the rich, warm velvet mantle her grandmother had once worn. Lucia lowered her weary gaze from the limitless sky back to the unforgiving dirt and dust beneath her feet and the civilization, a rather small and quaint town, built here from the ground up.

As she continued her trek down the street and into the outskirts of the town, the young woman resisted the urge to just lay down somewhere in a back alley. It was too risky, even if the only valuables she had were hoisted upon her shoulder: her extra clothes, a bit of sewing supplies, and the remnants of Diego's savings.

She ignored the painful tightening of her chest at the thought of him. Grief would not help either of them now. He had gone to a far better place, and she had been left alone to survive. Not just survive, but to protect as well. Grief had no place here, despite its hold upon her heart. She kept her chin lifted, one foot slowly moving after the other as she ambled into the suburban streets. As Lucia made her way down one street, a tiny foot struck against the wall of her stomach - just around her navel. She smoothed her free hand down the rounded front of her stomach, feeling rather than seeing the muscle and skin stretch from the accompanying fetal movement.

For the past month and a half, her precious children had been the one remaining bright spark of hope within her life, regardless of the fact that they had yet to be born. They were proof that, for a time, she had been blessed with the love of their father. They were the fruit of a union born from love. They were all she had left, all except for memories so sweet that they ached on the tip of her tongue and brought painful tears to her eyes. Especially when Lucia considered, remembered in the early hours of the morning after waking, that they would never meet their father, not even their grandparents.

They were lost to her, lost to those who stood with the living. Diego, Mamá, Papa - they had all entered into their eternal repose. Surely, by now they'd been found. Found and put to rest within the cold and hard soil. As she continues reassuringly stroking her stomach, walking and searching for a place of refuge, perhaps an inn of some sort, she couldn't help but be bitter over the ceaseless aching in her back, in the soles of her feet.

Lucia looked down at her stomach, though she could only see the fading maroon fabric of her dress. The same dress she had been wearing that day. Intermixed with the bitterness was shame, self-loathing. She should just be grateful that she was alive, that her babies were alive - and not hanging from a tree or whipped to death or bludgeoned in their own home.

Gruesome, grotesque images of painful demises hovered behind her eyelids. Angry, vulgar and coarse speech rang in her ears with the roaring echo of boots stampeding across polished flooring and flawless carpet. She could barely remember when she had closed them. Even then, she knew that the only reason she had been spared was because Diego had sacrificed himself for her.

An ugly, wet and hoarse cough wrenched its way out of her chest and throat. It left her lungs and throat burning and scratchy, her eyes watering, and her heart pounding a little bit harder than usual. As usual as it could be when she was always fleeing, reaching for safety that always fell mere inches from her reach.

She tightened her threadbare coat around her unsettlingly skinny frame as a chill ran down her spine, branching out through the muscles of her back like tendrils of liquid ice and sparks of fire. The chills had set in a day or so ago. Not quite pain, but still their own individual branch of agony. Silently, she whispered prayers for good health. If she had fallen ill with something, it would be a danger to her children and difficult to treat or recover from without a roof over her head.

Lucia couldn't afford to be sick.

Continuing to stifle her coughs, she skimmed the surrounding areas for any sign of an inn, or any sort of refuge for travelers. There were a few stores on this street, but not much else. If there was an inn here, it was most likely deeper within the town. Perhaps the town square? It wasn't as though she could ask anyone. Most likely, the townspeople were either sound asleep in their beds or preparing to sleep. No one was going to be awake, and the thought was despairing.

In her "delicate" state, as her mother would have put it, it was near impossible to do anything more than light labor. The most basic thing she could offer in return for staying someplace was either money, which was rapidly drying up, or mending clothing. The task was tedious to many, but a necessity to all. The same went for cooking, though most households had a woman to do that already.

She calculated her funds. She didn't know the prices of the inn those ladies in the last town had mentioned, but it was still a decently sized (if not small) amount. Once it was used up though-

Lucia shook her head. Thinking like that was bad for her nerves and the babies. She had managed to earn a small pittance through mending clothing. They paid extra if she did some embroidery. She could manage, even if it meant barely scraping by. Her feet kicked up dust that swirled in the air, landing to rest on her skirt in an indiscernible pattern. Her skirt, once resplendent in it's own right, was fraying at the hems and as worn-out as her coat. A little bit farther into the town now, she paused to take a rest. One hand reached behind her in an attempt to sooth her aching back, and her stomach cramped uncomfortably.

It had been doing so all day. It had been quite bad this morning, but irregular. It stopped quickly. After that first moment of alarm, the possible meaning behind the cramps, it faded into background noise as the day went on. She had barely felt a thing. Now though, it reared its ugly head again. A wave of nausea swelled up with the sudden pain, and she leaned against the sturdy wall of a store, the windows dark and glossy in the low light of the street lamps. A sharp kick to her stomach knocked the breath from her lungs, and she began to stroke her stomach again, trying to stave off her rising anxiety as much as her coughing fit. It couldn't be. It was far too early, only six months, only twenty-six weeks.

That didn't keep Lucia from checking the watch wrapped around her wrist from the time, and taking note of it as the cramping relaxed. The clock read a quarter to eight, 7:45 PM.

It heightened her urgency in needing to find shelter, and she continued on with renewed strength. Even as she denied the possibility of it, her mind was inundated with thoughts of complications. She would gladly deal with the aching back, the swelling feet, and all the inane cravings in the world if it meant she could carry her babies as close to a full term as possible. The likelihood of their survival right now was-

She gritted her teeth and refused to think another moment on the topic. The gas lamps lining the street cast them in an eerie glow, like something out of the frightening stories from her Gothic novels. It sent her skin crawling with paranoia. You could never know, even in small towns like this one, where a predator could be lurking in dark corners and preparing to strike out at even a pregnant woman. Some people would gladly shoot her in the back for no reason other to amuse themselves. It took a moment to swallow the fear rising in her throat.

The silence was peaceful, she would go as far as to call it serene, as she made her way down the streets, a contrast to her darkening mood. It was far from where she had been born and raised, surely far enough for her and her babies to be safe. A small home, perhaps on the corner of the street and a job - that was all she needed to get by.

Then there was this sudden bursting sensation between her legs, almost as though a bubble had popped. At first, there was no pain. Only the sudden and startling splash of liquid beginning to slide down her legs, darkening the dirt beneath her skirt and turning it to mud. Her abdomen constricted into the most agonizing physical pain she had felt in her life.

A torturous sense of fire sparked through the bones of her pelvis, branching out into her hips, her thighs. She stopped for a moment, unable to repress the instinct to try and curl into herself - to alleviate the pain, the terror, even the slightest bit. Her water had broken. Her water had broken, she was six months pregnant, and for the first time in her life, she was alone. Entirely alone. She struggle to breathe through the sudden pain, inhaling so sharply that it set off a series of dry, hacking coughs.

The time. She need to check the time. Through the pulsating agony, she cracked open an eyelid and looked to the watch again. 7:55. That was...a ten minute span of time between the - this contraction and the previous one.

It took a painstaking minute for the paralyzing sensation to pass. Even then, her body trembled with the aftershock of it. Her sisters hadn't told her it would be like that, so sudden and and intensive it felt as though her insides were being crushed.

In their experiences with labor, the pain, the aching had been very gradual. The real pain had come in when the time came for the baby to be pushed from the womb.

Maybe it had just been the case for her sisters. Maybe they had simply had rather peaceful births, as far as childbirth could be considered peaceful. Either that, or something was wrong.

Desperation struck as she straightened up and began to frantically scan the street, looking for a sign to a doctor perhaps. It was too early for the babies to be born, and too dirty out in the streets for anyone to give birth. Their death, and hers, would be a certainty without medical aid. She knew that much, even if she had little know-how in regards to the terminology, the forces at work in her body even now.

Lucia would not give birth to her children out in the streets and see them die on the ground. She would not. She refused. A trembling hand pressed itself to her stomach, where she could feel one of them pressing against the skin.

"Don't worry. Mama's not going to let anything happen to you." She breathed. She had ten minutes until another contraction hit. She just needed to find somewhere where she could find help, or someone could call for it.

She turned the corner of one street, went down another, and then took a left. Nothing was of use to her, empty storefronts and quiet houses. If all else failed, she would have to knock on someone's door. She ignored the cooling sensation of fluid sticking to her inner legs, her skirt plastered to small sections of her skin by it, certain areas completely soaked through.

Finally, at the end of another street, she caught sight of a decently sized building. A hospital, or a Doctor's office, perhaps? Lucia neared it eagerly. As she neared what looked like an ancient metal gate, her heart sunk as she read the rusted plaque besides it.

Santa Cecilia's Orphanage for Children.

Established 1887.

She broke into a nervous (or was it feverish?) sweat. It was like something from the childhood bedtime stories Mamá used to tell her.

"Tell me a story, Mamá!" Lucia exclaimed, clambering up onto her bed and beneath the heavy quilt given to her by Abuelita. It was embroidered with all the shades and shapes of falling tree leaves.

Mamáwas as beautiful as always, glossy dark hair pulled up into intricate ribbons and came up to Lucia's bed, sitting down on the edge and smoothing the quilt around her hyperactive child.

"Lay your head down, Mija." Mamá remonstrated gently, smiling at her and brushing stray tendrils of hair from Lucia's face. Lucia, in a fashion typical of children, fell back dramatically into her pillows.

Her eyes darted to her mother's face, black pupils shining as brightly as polished coal. "So, story?" She fidgeted beneath the blankets as Mamá stifled a laugh. "Well, what sort of story would you like to hear tonight?"

"Tell me about the origins of the faerie babies! You pinky promised last time."

Mama gave a mischievous smile. "Oh, you'd like to hear about the Changelings." Her eyes gleamed. "Well, as you know from last time, the Faeries had a habit of stealing away particularly beautiful children for themselves - whether it was for revenge, to have them as a servant, or to simply have the child as their own - leaving behind a faerie baby in exchange, with the parents none the wiser."

She reached over to the bedside table and lowered the light of the small gas lamp. It gave the room a delightfully spooky glow, at least to the eyes of a seven year old.

"But as my Mamá, your abuelita, told me...this happened particularly often to newborn orphans." She lowered her voice as if imparting a secret of great importance.

"Why?"

"Because the babies do not have a mother or father, like you do Mija. Sometimes, when a Mamá is very ill during her pregnancy or childbirth, at risk of passing away, she asks the Fae to ensure the baby's survival. In exchange, the faerie will steal the child away."

"To some, being raised by a Faerie is a better than consigning their children to an orphanage, and there are so many babies and children there that the Fae can easily switch them with their own."

A child born to a woman who dies in childbirth, especially ones left to an orphanage, are stolen away by the faeries and swapped for a changeling, a Faerie child believed too weak to survive. A foolish childhood tale, yet it rose to the forefront of her mind for the first time in years the moment her eyes fell upon that sign. The bold metal lettering was rusted and darkened with age. It was, in a single word, ominous.

However, she didn't have time to be picky. As she walked past the gate and up the front step, there was another crippling contraction. She staggered forward, leaning against the wall with a heavy thud.

Her breathing was heavy as she strained to keep herself from simply sitting down and curling up. She couldn't. Not yet. Surely there shouldn't be this much pain, at least not so soon? Terror slowly began to set it. This was really happening. She was in labor, and there was no Mamá to talk her through it, no Diego here to hold her hand after forcing his way past the midwife - and if he had been here, he would have done so, and she would have been at home with him and not miles and miles away from the sight of a gruesome massacre.

It was rare, very rare for children to survive a premature birth. They were so small, so frail, and there had always been horror stories of them being horribly deformed in face or body - or of the baby needing to be crushed and removed from the mother's body in an attempt to save at least one of their lives, even if the baby was most likely already deceased at that point. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, even though Lucia reprimanded herself in the back of her mind. This was no time for tears. As the contraction faded, she took another glimpse at the watch.

8:05.

She lifted a fist and began to beat at the front door. Please, she thought, someone please answer. After a minute or so, she heard the creaking of the floorboards behind the door as someone approached.

The door opened to reveal the silhouette of a stern faced woman, her body angular and skinny, gray hair pulled tightly back into a nondescript bun. Her dress was feather-duster gray. Her expression had been initially one of disdain, though it grew to one of immense surprise as she looked over Lucia. "Can you help me?" She queried, her voice cracked and desperate and she could only imagine what a disheveled mess she looked like in that moment.

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes unnaturally bright, and her body was shuddering from head to toe with the chills. Her hair fell loose, swiftly bound braids unraveling, strands slipping down into her face. One hand was cradling her clearly swollen stomach. If she weren't so terrified, she'd have been mortified that anyone saw her in this state. The woman pursed her lips and took Lucia's arm to assist her inside. "You'd best come in now." As they marched in, the woman raised her voice in a shout that could have shaken the heavens themselves.

"Luisa! Come here!"

A few moments later, from the corner of the room where a staircase led up to the second story of the building, a young woman just slightly older than her came down.

"Yes, Matron?"

If she was surprised by Lucia's presence, she didn't show it in the slightest. There wasn't even a batting of the eyes. The woman, the head of the orphanage it seemed, spoke with sharp and concise tones. "Prepare a bed in the spare room for her, and fetch a basin of cool water and some rags. Her skin's hot to the touch. I need to fetch the midwife and the doctor." The Matron indicated to her to lead Lucia away, and turned on her heel without another word. She strode swiftly to the door, pulled down a coat, and disappeared from view within the next second.

"This way-" The girl paused for a moment, eyes settling on the gleaming ring around Lucia's finger, "This way, señora." She gently grasped Lucia's arm, leading down a hallway. Glancing back for just a moment, Lucia heard the pitter-pattering of smaller bare feet on wood. Looking up to the landing of the stairs, she saw dozens of tiny faces peering at her curiously, only to hastily run off back to their rooms once realizing they had been caught.

Luisa, the nursemaid of the orphanage, left her briefly in a fairly empty room. There were bed mattresses without sheets, bare of occupants. A small table, a few chairs. To one wall, there was a row of baby cribs and bassinets. A nursery for younger children, Lucia supposed. A pleasant glow filled the room, emanating from the oil lamp on the table. Before turning to fetch fresh sheets for a bed, as well as the water basin the Matron had called for, she had Lucia sit on one of the chairs with a pillow behind her back. A small blanket had been thrown over her lap. She leaned back, trying to relax through the growing aches afflicting her body.

Despite what the Matron had said about her skin feeling hot to the touch, Lucia felt positively freezing. She couldn't keep her teeth from chattering unless she clenched her mouth shut hard enough for it to hurt. She wasn't ready to give birth yet, physically and mentally. She knew that a baby remained in the mother's stomach for nine months and that, though twins were born a bit prematurely in comparison, six months was not enough time for an unborn child to develop. Furthermore, regardless of how careful she had been, the visits to local doctors and midwives in every town she had been at, she was ill. For a woman to fall ill during a pregnancy, during labor - surely the children she carried in her womb must be effected too.

That was...most certainly why the doctor had been called for, as well as the midwife. As far as Lucia's rudimentary understanding of child labor went, in accordance to what her sisters had taught her, doctor's typically didn't see to a woman in labor or the delivery of a baby. That was the role of the midwife, a woman who has already given birth and seen to the birth of other infants. Even if they didn't have the fancy tools and terminology of a doctor, it was they who had pushed out a baby themselves and most knowledgeable on the matter.

As she had recalled earlier, a doctor was only called for when it was feared the mother and child would die, or if the household was particularly wealthy and wished no expense spared for the safe delivery of a child. She had read of horrible things a doctor would need to do, the last efforts to save a mother or child - or at least separate the child from the womb to be buried separately. If the mother was dying, or perhaps had already died from prolonged labor, it was the job of the doctor to cut into her abdomen - through the wall of her womb itself - to remove the baby. If the baby had died in the birth canal, from getting stuck or some other complication, then the doctor would have a plethora of tools at their disposal to save the mother's life. One such device was the crush the head of the fetus. Another was sharpened, as to slowly break the fetus into pieces and extract them from the birth canal. Even then, many mothers still died from the procedures.

If the Matron truly was fetching the midwife and the doctor, then Lucia's situation was as grim as the grave itself. If it came down to it...who would the doctor try to save? Her babies, who would almost certainly die anyway - or Lucia herself? Bitterly, she realized that they would most likely attempt to save her. Ill as she was, she was a grown woman and far more easily treatable than any half-formed infant. Besides that, they'd be able to charge her for her services. Nothing was free in this world. Everything was done for payment of some sort.

In that moment, Lucia would gladly give her life if that meant her children would live. She did not want to die, if solely so that she could raise her children themselves, tell them about their Papa and grandparents. But if it came down to her own life or theirs? She would choose them, without remorse, without hesitation - and almost without fear.

There was the sound of the door opening, and soon enough Luisa entered the room, balancing a basin of water atop a pile of folded sheets and rags. Her hair had been tugged back into a single braid that reached the bottom of her shoulder blades. Setting the basin down on the table, she turned to Lucia as she began unfolding ad shaking out the sheets. "I'll have this bed made up for you in not much more than a minute, Senora." And as she had said, her movements were swift and practiced. It was impressive. Enough so that Lucia wondered how many pregnant woman before her had given birth here in their moment of desperation. Where were they and their children now?

Luisa gently grasped her by the arm and had Lucia stand from the chair. As they made their way across the short distance from the chair to the bedside, another crippling contraction, far sooner than the others had been, twisted her insides like a gouging knife. The pain was so intensive she could hardly breath, hunching over Luisa's arm. The watch read 8:11. The nursemaid gave her a sympathetic look, and helped her to the bed. "Senora, once we get to the bed, it would be best for you to strip down to your chemise." Upon receiving a rather blank stare from Lucia, who knew very little of the process of childbirth itself other than 'push out a baby' because her sisters had never gotten the chance to explain further, she elaborated. "It will be more comfortable for you, as well as make the delivery easier."

Lucia, after a hesitant moment, nodded. "I...may need your help with that, Senora Luisa."

It took another minute, but soon enough Lucia was left in nothing but her chemise and nestled on the bed with several towels spread beneath her legs in preparation for the delivery. The nursemaid, while pulling over the table with the water basin on it, spoke to Lucia softly as if not to startle her. "If I may ask, Senora, your name? When did your water break? How far along in your pregnancy are you?" Casting a look at Lucia's stomach, estimating its size, she also added at the end, "How many children are you carrying?" Her tone was courteous, but the words still made the expectant mother flush.

It took Lucia a moment to respond. There was a resounding dull ache throughout her entire lower body now, and despite how cold she felt, Luisa had insisted on placing a cloth soaked in water upon her forehead. "I- My name is Lucia. I'm twenty-six weeks along in my pregnancy. The previous doctors and midwives told me that there are two children. My water broke at 7:55." Luisa paused in her notation of the detailing. "Twenty-six weeks..." she murmured under breath. This poor girl, she remarked in the back of her mind. No surname either. An orphan, possibly. Then something else struck her, in regards to the Senora's contractions. She peered at Lucia with an odd expression. "Can you tell me the timings of your other contractions?"

"I...I think the first contraction was at 7:45, before my water had broken. This morning I had felt some cramping, but nothing like that. Then there was another around 7:55 when my water broke, and another at 8:05 or 8:06 just before I came in. Then, just now I had one..." As she spoke, she continued to stifle the urge to cough up whatever was in her chest. The bed she was lying in still smelt faintly of dust, regardless of the nursemaid's best efforts to make it presentable. Her struggle was a losing battle however, and the fit only began to abate once Luisa came over and helped adjust Lucia so that she was sitting propped up by the pillows even higher than before.

From where she laid down, Lucia could take in almost everything of the sparsely filled room. What she could not see immediately was visible within seconds of turning her head to the left or right as necessary. After settling Lucia with a glass of water, Luisa returned to her notations. Doing the math in her head, it was rather alarming to note how quickly the contractions were closing in on each other. If she truly had been in labor for not more than half an hour, her contractions shouldn't have gone from ten minute intervals to six so quickly. This information was troubling, and Lucia could see it on the woman's face even if she didn't know why.

She went back to stroking her hand with her stomach. She could feel her babies movie, see her skin stretch when they pressed against the sides of her stomach. "Senora Elisa, may I ask why you are concerned with my contractions?" Her voice sounded frail and meek to her disgruntlement. Made it sound like she wouldn't be able to handle the potential response. She shifted her position a little, sinking into the pillows as she tried to make herself even the smallest bit more comfortable. Luisa, for her part, made an admirable effort to hide the way her posture stiffened at the question.

With a gentle but strained smile on her face, she responded calmly. "It's just a small concern, senora. Your contractions seem to be getting closer together far sooner than they usually do for most pregnancies. The doctor and midwife will know more of the matter than me, I'm afraid." That was what she said, instead of specifying why that was a concern. But her hesitation gave away the rouse. She knew more than she was letting on, most likely out of some misguided attempt to keep Lucia from feeling too much stress. A few minutes passed in delicate silence.

Every once in a while, another contraction hits. Between wiping down Lucia's face with the soaking rags and offering her hand to squeeze while waiting for the pain to pass, Luisa diligently notes the timing of each one.

Lucia remembered something. From her adolescence, when her aunt had died, in childbirth. Her Tio had mentioned to her father something about the labor proceeding too fast, that the midwife had said there wasn't enough time for the birth canal to stretch itself. That there had been tearing accompanied by too much blood loss. Thinking on it now, it sounded...excruciating. As excruciating as it was similar to her own situation. The only difference being that her aunt had carried her child to a full term, and the baby had survived.

A tickle in her throat became a scratch, and she started coughing again. It was an ugly, wet cough accompanied with a thick film of mucus that came up her throat and into her mouth. Grotesque though it was, she spat it out into the nearby waste can Luisa had brought in at some point. She wouldn't swallow it down just to have her children fall ill from it. If they hadn't already fallen ill. If she was sick now, would that illness be instilled in them at birth? A darker, more insidious thought whispered that it would be a miracle for them to survive the birth at all.

A quarter of an hour had passed since Lucia had arrived at the orphanage. Suddenly, three minutes after her last contraction, there was the sound of footsteps on the threshold of the room. Then... a young boy's voice filled the air. "So this is the pregnant lady Mama's supposed to see." He bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment before making beeline to Lucia's bedside. The child was young, very young. He couldn't be much more than four years old. His cheeks were round with baby fat, and his dark hair had been combed back neatly. His clothes were fairly common in the streets though. Not wealthy, but his parents certainly must have been well off. From what he said, it sounded like-

"Ernesto! What are you doing here? I told you to go to bed." A woman exclaimed. Of average height, she had a cheery complexion and wore the garb of a midwife. The boy, Ernesto, turned to her with an all-to-innocent wide eyed expression. "I wanted to know what Mama does." He said it so certainly, as though there was no doubt behind the reasoning of his actions. Lucia, on her end, was wondering how a four year old could sneak out of the house without getting caught. Clever little things, weren't they?

The most she had done was steal desserts from the kitchen. She continued watching with a bewildered expression. The midwife furrowed her brows at her wayward son. "You already know what I do. I help other mothers deliver their babies safely." Her tone was exasperated, but the ever stubborn four year old furrowed his brows and scowled right back at her. "I don't know how you help other mamas deliver babies though." His mother's scowl deepened. "Ernesto de la Cruz, you are far too young to know how a baby is delivered! Come on now, out you go."

She swept her son up, gave Lucia an apologetic passing glance, and left the room with him in her arms just as the doctor came in. Little Ernesto waved his tiny hand at her in farewell, causing her to snort with amusement. It had been a brief reprieve from the odd and uncomfortable pressure that was building up in her pelvis, and the fluttering movements of her unborn children. The Matron, the last of the party to enter, introduces Lucia to the doctor.

"Senora, this is the local doctor - Senor Gabriel Rivera." The man in question was impeccably groomed, wore a pair of handsome spectacles on the bridge of his nose, and carried a dark leather medical bag with him. He takes her hand in his gloved one and gives it a firm shake. His smile is soft and reassuring. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Senora. Your name?"

"Lucia."

While waiting for Senora de la Cruz to return, Senora Luisa handed over her documentation of Lucia's previous contractions as she left to go see to the children of the orphanage. Senor Rivera's brows rose, and he glanced at her briefly in concern, before putting the paper down and moving on. Senor Rivera did a brief physical examination of Lucia to determine her health, as well as her illness. He had opened up his medical bag, which was its own treasure trove of odd and spectacular looking tools, and pulled from it a thermometer and a stethoscope.'

First, he had taken her temperature. A slight fever of 101 F, 48 C. The corners of his lips twitched downwards at that. Running a fever was never good, but especially not for a pregnant woman. The examination paused briefly with the advent of another contraction (8:29), before he continued on.

Leaning forwards, he pressed the metal end of his stethoscope to her front. He told her to breathe deeply, in and out a few times, before moving to another location and repeating the process. Once over her heart, and once for each of her lungs. Once she breathed in too deeply, and broke into a series of harsh coughing. Thankfully, it had been after he pulled away. He asked her a few questions, on whether she had felt any chills (yes), fatigue (yes), or nausea (also yes). Carefully writing down his findings, it seemed as though he was pinpointing her illness through her symptoms.

Senor Rivera set down his pen and rubbed at his eyes for a moment, before turning to face Lucia. Looking her in the eyes, he was very quiet as he told her the diagnosis. "Your heartbeat is strong, Senora Lucia. It is your lungs that cause me concern. The flow of air in and out of them sounds abnormal, as though it has been obstructed. From your symptoms as well, I believe you have caught pneumonia."

Her heart sank into her stomach. Pneumonia, though not quite as deadly as it had been, was still lethal. Recovery took weeks, and medicine cost money she didn't have on hand...she wasn't even sure if the money she did have you be enough to cover the expense of calling the midwife and doctor. She didn't dare hope for the Matron to cover it. Furthermore, her children-

"What is the effect it will have on my children? I don't believe much can be done about it now, when I am in labor."

Senor Rivera frowned at the question, though not because of it. "Unfortunately, there's not much I can do to ascertain the health of your children before birth. When a pregnant mother falls ill prior to labor, the child will not be born with the same malady, but may quickly get infected by it afterwards. Sometimes, they won't show symptoms until days or weeks later. The most I can do now is listen to their heartbeats with my stethoscope and see how quickly their hearts beat."

"How would you know, by listening to their hearts, if something was wrong?"

"By counting their heart rate, Senora. A low heart rate, in other words a slow heartbeat, may mean that they are in distress of some kind." A weary voice spoke from the doorway. Senora de la Cruz had returned, seeming a bit worse for wear. "I'm sorry, but I had get Ernesto settled in one of the spare rooms to keep him from getting underfoot." Senor Rivera's chuckled, and Lucia's lips twitched at the corners a bit. "That child's always been a handful, hermana." He stood, and handed over his notes, as well as Luisa's.

Lucia watched them, interested in one particular point. "Hermana?" Looking between the two, there was no physical resemblance for either one of them, though that wasn't entirely uncommon among siblings. While Senora de la Cruz skimmed the pages, Senor Rivera humored the question - perhaps to put her at ease after his diagnosis. She was probably wearing her anxiety on her face. Newborns struggled to fight even the most basic illness. A premature newborn would barely stand a chance. The doctor smiled over at Lucia. "She isn't my sister in blood, but in spirit. We've worked together long enough to have formed a symbiotic emotional bond."

Senora de la Cruz snorted at him, and smacked the papers into his chest in the same manner a sister would smack her brother on the shoulder, playfully. "Ignore him, dearie." She neared the bedside. "Now tell me, is this your first pregnancy?"

Unnoticed by the others, Ernesto peeked into the room from behind the door, glancing from a bed in the corner to his mother. After she had left him, he followed her back to the room with the pregnant lady. He wanted to know what Mama was doing and how and not even Mama would be able to stop him! Having taken off his shoes to prevent them from making a sound, he snuck over to the bed in his socks and crawled beneath it. He'd wait until things started getting busy, and then Mama and Tio Gabriel would be unable to make him leave. Maybe they would even let him help!

He wanted to see the babies too.

As Senora de la Cruz explained, she would need to raise Lucia's chemise above her stomach. It would allow more accurate findings in regards to finding the positioning of both babies through palpation, as well as allow her to peer...between Lucia's legs to see how dilated her cervix was. She would put on gloves, and use her fingers as a measurement. The cervix, if Lucia recalled correctly from previous doctors and midwives, was the entrance to her womb. Like the birth canal, it would need to stretch for the babies to pass through. If it couldn't...The memory of her aunt's funeral came to mind as a prime example of what could happen.

From what the Senora could determine, Baby A was in a head down position. They were A because they were the closest to her cervix, and head down meant their head would come out first. In other words, a 'vertex' position. Her second baby was feet first, the opposite of their sibling. A 'breech' position. The different terminology tended to make Lucia's head spin, so this was where her medical know-how ended. Another contraction at 8:35.

It left Lucia with her fingers digging so tightly into the sheets that she thought she might have heard them rip.

Senora de la Cruz, after determining the position, went over to the table where Senor Rivera had laid out some gloves for her. She slid them on with practiced ease which spoke of experience. As she came around to the foot of the bed, she looked to Lucia. "Senora Lucia, I will now examine your cervix. It may feel a bit strange, but please refrain from moving." It did feel a little strange, having someone's fingers up her most private areas, but it wasn't painful the same way the contractions were. Oddly enough, that provided Lucia with a strange sort of relief. She wasn't in more pain on top of pain on top of illness.

Senora de la Cruz drew back. Her expression had darkened. "Six centimeters." She told the doctor, who was still in the room but had turned away to afford Lucia some privacy. As he had mentioned earlier, he quite frequently attended to woman in labor in Santa Cecilia despite how unusual it was, but as he didn't wish to make her uncomfortable, he had resigned himself to organizing the tools Senora de la Cruz may need for delivery. At her words, as if a cue, he turned and looked at her with a similarly grim face.

"What's wrong?" Lucia queried, gaze darting between the two had both made an effort to be cheery around her, keep her spirits up, when all three of them knew of the poor likelihood of success in regards to the birth of children. Neither of them made an attempt to dissuade her of the notion. Senora de la Cruz turned to her, and her voice was soft. "The dilation of your cervix is progressing too rapidly. From what I understand of your written testimony, you went into active labor - your water broke and contractions occurred at regular repeated times - barely more than a half hour ago. Your body, the cervix and the birth canal, don't have time to stretch and prepare for the passage of your children as it would in a normal labor, which lasts far longer. Childbirth occurs at ten centimeters of dilation. You are at six."

"So if I were to give birth as I am now?"

"It may lead to the tearing of your cervix or the birth canal. That can lead to bleeding, postpartum hemorrhaging." She paused for a moment, and the severity in her voice was startling, though not unexpected. "If the bleeding can not be stopped, you will die. It is not a certainty to occur, but it is likely and a risk. Also, I would like for Gabriel to check on the babies." She nodded her head towards Senor Rivera. "Rapid contractions can compress the cord babies in the womb use to breath, which may cause fetal distress. With how quickly yours have come in during such a short span of time..."

Lucia gave her approval quickly and threw mortification from the window. Her babies were more important than the tattered remnants of her dignity. The doctor murmured the heart-rates of both infants aloud, which was noted by Senora de la Cruz. Baby A's heart rate was slower than it should have been, and it was a concern. Baby B, at least, was stable. As he finished the examination, there was another contraction, 8:41. At the table, Senora de la Cruz had set out some blankets for the babies, scissors to cut the umbilical cord, as well as a pair of forceps in necessary. On account of the premature labor, she did not think it likely but laid them out all the same. Senor Rivera had asked for another table to be brought in as well, and began lying out tools of his own. Surgical tools, he explained. He did not need to explain for what. She knew what for.

There was a swift urgency in their movements that had not been there before. She pretended not to know why.

As though they were preparing for the worst possible outcome. She did not want to acknowledge why...

When the next contraction came at 8:43, Lucia knew why.

She couldn't stop herself from crying out anymore. Her back arched. Her lips parted in a silent scream.

Every two minutes there was a contraction. Then, it went to every minute. Eventually there was almost no reprieve at all.

By 8:55 PM, Lucia was fully dilated. There was pressure built up in her abdomen to the point of being almost agonizing. She was sweating like a pig put up to roast, her chemise plastered against her skin. She wondered if Diego would have called her beautiful even now. Senora de la Cruz had moved between her legs, preparing to catch the firstborn baby. "Senora, on the next contraction, you need to push the baby! Breathe, and push. Do you understand?" Senor Rivera placed a cold cloth on her head. "S-si..." She hissed through clenched teeth.

The next contraction bore down on her with all the delicacy of a speeding train gone of its track. "Push!" Senor de la Cruz demanded. Her body jerked and she pushed, moving her muscles in ways she hadn't known they could with all the survival instincts inscribed within her body. She fought the urge to dry heave, but it didn't stop the tears from burning tracks down her cheeks. This was awful, pain in another new way. The contraction briefly melted into a few brief seconds of nothingness, and in the moment it took her to take in a breath, another hit. Another push.

She was so cold now, it was even colder than before. But her stomach, her legs, her thighs - they all burned. As she pushed, there was almost the sensation of a grater being dragged around her insides, and on the next push she screamed even louder. There was a swear from somewhere next to her, the sensation of something wet trickling from between her legs, and so much more pain- she choked on her own thoughts, stumbling over them as though trying to relearn how to walk.

Forcing her eyes open, her chest heaved and she saw nothing but a blanket of red spilling out from between her legs, dying the towels beneath her the same crimson hue and seeping through to the sheets - another contraction. Push. The oil lamp threw looming shadows upon the wall, as though they were reaching towards her with outstretched arms, or perhaps the babies carried within her. Or maybe it was just the lack of oxygen. Contraction. Push.

"They're crowning! Keep pushing, senora!"

So she did. She kept pushing even though it felt like someone was driving needles into her flesh, picking apart the stitches that made up her seams with inhumane brutality. Her eyes squeezed themselves shut again, and she knew only pain as her body gave itself over to its instincts and urges. Her mind told her to pay attention while her body said take a hike. There was another call to push, and then a moment of a peace as something slipped from the close confinement of the birth canal.

"Check on the other child!" Senora de la Cruz snapped at Senor Rivera. She was already wrapping a tiny little thing into a blanket, clamping and cutting down on a pale-bluish cord that attached it to Lucia herself. Senor Rivera pressed his stethoscope to her stomach as quickly as possible after cautiously pressing his palms over her stomach, determining where Twin B was. Which meant...in the bundle of blankets, that was Twin A?

They hadn't cried.

Blood kept dripping from between her legs, and the pain wouldn't stop and her firstborn baby hadn't cried.

Lucia turned her head to follow Senora de la Cruz, who had wiped the child's face, cleared the airway of fluids. They still did not cry. Even from the bed, she could see the blue tinge to their lips, the slight markings around their throat and the cord that had been wrapped around it, lying discarded in the wastecan. Her heart screamed out its denial even as her mind came to the only logical conclusion.

Stillbirth.

"Girl or boy?"

Her voice is hoarse from screaming. "Senora Lucia-" Her expression didn't change, and neither did the question. "Girl or boy?" she breathed. Still cradling the infant, Senora de la Cruz neared her bedside. "It's a girl, Senora." Lucia's expression shifted darkly. Her child was not an it. She lifted up her trembling arms, reaching for her baby. "I want to hold her."

"Senora, it-"

"My daughter, my Lucille is not an it. Regardless of whether or not she is a stillbirth. Let. Me. Hold. Her."

Senora de la Cruz looks to Senor Rivera, who nods his head to Lucia. Tentatively, she passes the bundle into Lucia's waiting arms. Then, Senor Rivera draws her away to speak on the matter of something. Lucia leans back upon the pillows, and presses her fingers to Lucille's forehead. She looks as though she could be sleeping. She has all her fingers, and most likely all her toes. If it weren't for the blue lips, those bruises around her little neck, she'd be-

She'd be alive, wouldn't she?

Gently, Lucia pressed a kiss to the cool forehead of her baby who never had a chance to live outside the womb. As she does so, Senor Rivera walks to her side and draws her attention. She doesn't look up, but inclines her head to the side as a sign of listening. "Senora Lucia, you have a choice to make. To make it simple, Twin B has shifted into a transverse position and is unable to pass through the birth canal. The damage already done to the cervix and birth canal is severe, and even if Twin B could be born through the birth canal, it would worsen your injuries." It went unsaid that the additional blood loss could easily lead to death, if she wasn't already at risk.

"What else?" Despite not lifting her gaze from Lucille, she was all ears. It may be too late for one of them, maybe two, but that also meant there was still a chance for at least one of them to survive. At least one of them... "Twin B was showing signs of fetal distress. There is procedure we can perform, swifter than waiting for them to reposition and less risky in regards to the development of a nuchal cord. The cesarean section. However, the blood loss on your end would be substantial and it will involve-"

Lucia looked up at him then. "Will it save their life even if it costs me mine?" She wouldn't hesitate. Not for a second. Not for her baby. Senor Rivera's face was grim when he spoke after collecting his thoughts. "I can not give you a certain answer. But it's the best option we have. However, we have to move quickly. We can't offer you medication either. With your current state, putting you under means-"

You might not wakeup...

"We're wasting time. I don't care what pain it causes me. Save my baby."

With the blood she had already lost, the fact that they were proposing a cesarean section, Lucia knew what they were trying to avoid putting into words. She was dying. She could feel it, beyond the endless cold that had set itself into her bones. The air felt too thin, and she was lightheaded for all the air she breathed in. But there was still the barest fragment of hope, and that was the child still cradled within her womb. If at least they were able to survive, that joy would sustain her soul to the edge of eternity. She would die either way tonight. But she still asked.

"I won't live to see the morning, will I?"

Silence was her only answer.

Lucia kept her mouth clamped shut over the rag Senora de la Cruz had given her. The pain was horrible, even worse than the contractions had been. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, gaze locked upon her abdomen, the steady hands that cut through skin and muscle to reach her uterus. The cloying scent of iron hung heavy in the air, relentless and thick as a wool blanket. She could taste it on her tongue. Lucille had been returned to her bassinet, out of reach now.

Senor Rivera's face was almost tranquil with solemnity, cutting into her womb with well-practiced precision. He folded back the flap of skin obscuring his goal from view, and she watched with a detached sense of almost disgust as his hands dipped into her womb and retrieved her second baby, Twin B, who was as tiny and wrinkled as Lucille had been. It's evident, even without direction, that she is a girl.

The cord is wrapped around her neck too. Her lips are tinged blue, though she lacks the duskiness of her elder sister's face. It is then, that a child's voice fills the room again. The boy from before, Ernesto, has come up to the edge of the bed. He is pale with fright, eyes darting down to Lucia's opened abdominal cavity and then back to the baby. "She's not breathing."

There's too much going on for any of the three adults to configure in their minds just how long he had been there, the why, because Lucia's second daughter isn't breathing and her breath is faltering and there's blood everywhere-

Senor Rivera hands Twin B off to Senora de la Cruz the moment the umbilical cord has been snipped and unraveled from her throat. Immediately after that, he begins stitched Lucia's stomach closed, returning everything to where it needed to be. In the meantime, Senora de la Cruz moved to stimulate the uterus in an attempt to close up the torn walls, and turns to her bewildered son.

"Ernesto, I don't have time to explain this to you. I need you to clean her airways to help her breathe." She handed him a squishing, round object that reminded him of a perfume bottle's squeeze bulb. Then she told him to bring the end of the bulb to her nose, her mouth, and squeeze it to suck up the liquid inside. For once, he did as he told without needing a lecture. His mother spun on her heel, turning back to Lucia, and began to staunch the bleeding.

After a minute of relative silence and swift movements, the sound of fabric sliding and scissors snipping the end of a thread, Lucia's heart begins to sink as her vision dances with the encroaching darkness. There is no cry from the baby, no breath - and her heart continues to fall until it feels as though it will sink straight into the ground. Then... a shrill scream breaks the air. Within Ernesto's arms, the baby girl's face scrunches up as she begins to wail, to breathe. Tears of joy fell down her cheeks.

She was alive. Her baby, alive.

"Let me hold her."

The sheets were still soaked in blood, Lucia's vision was still darkening at the edges, shrinking and shrinking with each passing second, but her living daughter was here, in her arms. Tears slipped from her eyes, but they were no longer out of pain. It was joy. One of them lived. One of them would get to live, would get to fall in love and have her own children, live and love and enjoy life. The wailing infant had calmed briefly, in her mother's embrace. Firstly, it was to suckle at her breast. After that, she had simply relaxed in her mother's grasp. From the blinking of her eyes though, she was very much awake. Her lids fluttered though, almost as though she was straining to stay awake.

"My pretty baby girl. I love you so much, but it seems like I won't be able to stay with you. Neither will your big sister. You're going to have to grown up strong, but know that even if we aren't with you, we are watching over you and praying for you to be well. You will get to grow up, fall in love, and live. Not just for yourself, but for us as well. Your Papa loves you so much, and so does Mama and Lucille. We'll all be waiting for you, so don't you dare hurry to catch up to us. I do want some grandchildren."

She stroked the baby's head. "Live, my dear. That's all I can ask for. Live and dare to love, dream, and hope."

She pressed their foreheads together, breath growing weaker. "Senora Lucia, her name?" Senor Rivera's voice was muffled, as though reaching her ears through water. Her eyes slid shut, the last thing she looks at being her daughter's face. She hummed lightly as the last vestiges of her heartbeat trailed off into silence.

"Helene."

Surprise.

For clarification, Helene is not with her maternal family in the land of the dead because they are not from Santa Cecilia, therefore they reside in a different area of the land of the dead, and furthermore - Helene is not documented under the family name. She is documented under her married name, which her family has no way of knowing considering she was raised in the orphanage.

Lucia never gave her last name (maiden or marriage) which leaves very little in Identifying her on Helene's end either.