They used to sing to labouring mothers.
Songs in dialects too old to translate, melodies known by heart if not by memory. Hummed, when the words were forgotten. It was an old custom. Passed down from mother to daughter, midwife to Keeper, over generations. As much a part of Dalish culture as the Gods they prayed to.
When someone's time came, the voices carried on the wind through quiet glades and over rivers. Ethereal and joyous. Sisters, sages, helpers, friends and lovers — they sang for hours, or times through the night and into the next day. A chorus in rounds, in harmony; they kept a rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat through the bloody work of bearing life.
When voices grew raw and eyes too heavy, others would take their place. This way they ensured her hands were never empty. Silence never fell. To leave her with only her own cries as company was to abandon their strongest at her most vulnerable. It was forbidden.
They worked as she worked. Guiding and supporting. Together, with loving arms wrapped round her body. Hands on hips and shoulders. Standing on the dirt in bared feet. Connecting her to the pain, the fear, and triumph felt by all who'd come before. Through tears and laughter they swayed — in circles and waltzes — to rock her gently into motherhood.
It was a tradition kept for more than just its value of emotional support. The songs they sung counted minutes between the waves, and the hours gone by since they'd begun. They masked the lowing cries when pain grew them loud enough to rise above the canopy. It was a show of solidarity, a gift, and the first act as village to cradle the life that emerged. Within that space sleights were forgotten, troubles set aside, and petty squabbles forgiven. No one would walk this path alone.
Though she'd never had a reason to participate, Ellana still held the custom dear. As a purely Dalish rite, removed from Gods and monsters, it remained unblemished. A part of her upbringing not tainted by all she'd come to know of her people's history in her time spent apart from them. The longer she lived in this realm of thrones and kings, the weaker grew her connection to the clans that raised her. Each thread still tying her spirit there was tucked close to her heart, protected by fragile hope — maybe naiveté — that it could not be severed entirely.
She didn't know the birthing songs well enough to join a chorus, were she asked to. And she'd never been asked to. The times there was a chance to learn she chose instead to keep her distance. Cautious, sat on hills and behind tents, hiding in the periphery. Catching glimpses of swollen bodies through gaps in the canvas. She regarded the ritual with a sort of morbid curiosity. Through the eyes of someone whose experience had taught them they would not share in it, and did not want it.
Her bloodline was cursed. It would end with her.
Watching them, she saw it no different from the halla bearing their calves. Women brayed on bended knee, naked and primal, tearing at the ground with their blunted claws. In the aftermath, where beasts fell silent, mother Dalish stood on the bloodied earth and loosed a shout of triumph. Loud, and unashamed. Its echoes ringing in the circle that held them, hands raised to the sky, giving thanks to the unbroken cycle that tied them to their ancestors this day.
They'd smile… and it was mesmerizing. The sun rose only for them that day.
Even in the blood and sweat and sick, there was beauty. Agony turned to psalm. An ecstasy to mark life's beginning and bearing.
Sometimes, in secret, she'd wondered if she wanted it. The pact of family. To be cradled in loving arms and serenaded as she made the journey from maid to matron. When she was young and lonesome she grew jealous of the love the mothers received; of the trust they gave away so easily. Adorned in flowers and oil, they were crowned the centrepiece of sacred ritual, part of ecstatic worship. And in her worst moments she wondered — cruelly — why they deserved it. What fairness was there in watching women barely grown cradle newborns they loved with every ounce of their being when she'd been denied the comfort of her own mother's arms? They were beloved for nothing. All things lived within this cycle.
Even a flea-bit stray could sire a bitch's litter. It did not make them sacred.
But envy sowed a bitter harvest, so she consoled herself with an assurance that she didn't need such attachments. She didn't want that life. It didn't matter. The only family she would ever know died on a cold road. Forgotten, even by her. Neither Keeper's match nor a wandering heart could return that peace to her.
No one would sing for her.
So she would not sing for them.
And instead, made peace with her lot.
For that, I've cursed myself, she thought presently. Fated to labour in silence, alone, for the sin of pride.
Were she more devout, she might say it was punishment for turning away from her Gods. They were too foundational to the Dalish. You cannot leave your creators behind and then ask they hold a place for you in ceremony. The truth of it didn't matter. To deny them meant to live in exile from her people — from all their rituals.
But in her heart she knew dead kings bore no blame.
No divine hand guided this estrangement. She'd held herself at arm's length. This had always been her choice. Chance may have torn her roots from the soil, but it was her own neglect that salted the earth.
And now? Here she was, on the precipice of change, without a chorus to celebrate her. Regret weighing uncomfortably upon her shoulders. She wished she'd nurtured one.
Would it have really been so terrible to sing?
Behind her, Cassandra paced in silence.
Ellana clenched her teeth and pressed a moan into the back of her wrist to muffle the sound. Eyes screwed shut, she tried to visualize the running river off somewhere behind her. Swollen from the storm, carving deltas through the wetlands as it washed her pain away with it. Some half-remembered mantra she'd once heard whispered into someone else's ears.
…What was it they used to say?
But it didn't work, and she soon lost patience with the attempt. Dropping, instead, to hands and knees to rock. Willing her body to find a beat. Sway to music she couldn't quite recall, and did not deserve to hear.
When it was over she gave a sigh of relief and pulled herself to stand with the help of a tree. Noting, with some disgust, how clammy her palms had become in spite of the rainy chill. This work was taking its toll on her. She wiped her hands on her pants.
"That one was less than five minutes from the last," Cassandra noted. She looked tense. Stiff, with her arms folded tight across her chest and a line in her brow that hadn't eased in hours. Everything out of her mouth since Sera's departure had been curt and clipped. It felt a little like punishment, though she knew her better than that, and so swallowed the urge to respond with indignence. "We should consider moving into the caves now. If it continues at this pace, you may soon find you won't be able to move about on your own."
Ellana huffed a breathless, humourless, laugh. "You mean you're not up to carrying me in a basket?"
The quip didn't land. Instead of a smile, Cassandra just bit her cheek.
It had taken them an hour to find the caves at all thanks to their crawling pace. After Sera left on her mount, it proved impossible to boost Ellana up on another, so they'd all decided to continue on foot together. Which was fine… until the walk offered the unexpected side effect of forcing the pains closer together. Transforming erratic (though tolerable) waves into an even, predictable, pattern that hurt much, much, more. Now she barely managed twenty paces between them. Worse, every time she called a stop she had to watch another uneasy glance pass between her colleagues as they quietly, nervously, judged the speed at which this was progressing.
Once Bull finally sighted the entrance in the cliff-side he jogged ahead to clear it out, leaving Cassandra and Ellana behind. The two of them walked a wide loop, to the river and back again, while they waited for him to signal his success. The remaining mounts were tied nearby with a scatter of feed, content to enjoy the rain from the shelter of a rocky overhang.
It took another half hour before they circled back and spied Bull leaning against the outer wall, cleaning his blade. Covered in ichor, but otherwise unharmed.
"Just spiders," he reported as they approached. "No nests, so they can't have been here long. Probably just came in to take shelter from the storm. The cavern is about twenty feet high, goes back maybe a hundred more before it narrows. Then gets too small for a person to squeeze through. I didn't go all the way into the back, but it looks clear."
"Do you think we can make it comfortable?" asked Cassandra.
"I'm not about to build a home there, but it's not terrible. The air's good — I could feel it moving — we should be able to start a small fire without issue. Put a tent up, maybe set down a few bedrolls, it'll do."
"I'd hate to ruin them," Ellana interjected. Strained. "Maybe instead we can just wait this out? A few hours, a little rest, I'm sure it'll all disappear."
Bull and Cassandra exchanged another one of those looks.
"I'm joking," she added.
They didn't seem to appreciate it.
To Bull, "You should stay out here. Nearby, at least," Cassandra suggested, and he looked relieved to hear it. "If there is any chance something might be drawn to noise or the scent, there should be someone by the entrance to ward them off. Stay close enough that we can hear one another if I call for your help. Normally I would not recommend any position be held only by a single guard, but these are extenuating circumstances."
Bull nodded. "Right. While you get set up inside, I'm going to mark the boundaries of what I can see from the mouth of the cave. Circle back from the river and get a patrol carved out. I'm not too worried about stragglers wandering by, really. We haven't seen any signs of activity in the area, animal or otherwise, it's safe to assume the storm scared them all off. The bigger problem now is that we're in pretty deep and there's no clear path from the road. It'll mean leaving you for a bit, but I'd like to put something out between here and there that'll flag it for Solas when he comes along—" When, not if. She appreciated that. "—Otherwise he's not going to be able to find us."
Their packs were full of odds and ends, there was plenty to use, but ensuring whatever was left there did not read like an invitation added a layer of difficulty. Carvings in tree bark bore too much resemblance to the sort of markings thieves left each other. Linen tied to a branch would tear away too easily if the wind picked up. Anything marked by the Inquisition's sigil was too recognizable. Dalish cairns risked luring in those hoping to drive Elves off the road.
Another pain would start soon. Ellana felt the ache growing in her hips. So, "I'm sure you'll think of something," she assured. And as it swelled she tried not to think of the long hours ahead of her. Her hope was split between getting through this quickly so it would be over and done, or drawing it out long enough to grant Solas the time to make it to her side. Skyhold might as well be an ocean away for all the distance between them.
"We're low on rations as well," Cassandra was saying. "On your way, see if you can find food. Berries, mushrooms, burrows where a trap can be set. Anything edible, bring back here."
"I'll get a pot of water, too." His gaze flicked to Ellana, standing with her forearms pressed to the rock wall and hands clasped above her head as she hummed through the work. "Set a fire so you can boil it. She's going to need it."
They nodded to each other, and he left to start the patrol.
Once Ellana rocked back onto her feet, Cassandra pulled a torch and tinder from her pack, wrapped an arm around her waist, and led them into the cave.
They made it 40 paces this time.
Just shy of where the tunnel began to widen, leading into a larger space. The air was damp. Musty, though not stale, and surprisingly warm. It smelled of stagnant water and rotted vegetation — and it turned her stomach. But Ellana thanked whatever she could think to credit that was her worst complaint. She could barely walk, let alone fight — and Sera rode off with her weapons — a territory dispute with a bear would not end well.
At their peak the pains robbed her of her voice, so she focused on her breathing while Cassandra walked on to scout the antechamber. With her eyes closed she could only just sense the torchlight receding around a corner, then returning a moment later, just as the wave began to pass. When she could look, she found Cassandra standing nearby. Waiting patiently, but wearing a frown.
"What is it?" Ellana asked, a little breathless still. "More spiders?"
She shook her head. "No… it appears we are not the first to take shelter here."
"Bones?"
"A camp."
Ellana raised a curious brow, and was beckoned to follow.
The glow of the torch did not extend far beyond their feet, so they moved slowly. Revealing the room in stages. In the tunnel, moisture on the walls dazzled like a distant star-field while pools of brackish water lay so still it was impossible to distinguish them from pits. A vein of gold locked in quartz lit up as they passed it by, and in wonder Ellana ran her fingertips along the wall beneath it. Following the line through peaks and valleys. It glittered like the paint in Solas' frescos. Gold flakes ground to dust to lend lustre to the Empress' collar and the armour of the Sentinels. He'd gilt the walls with their story; a living record of the Inquisition's greatest feats.
And here one more, she thought, and her fingers fell away.
In the antechamber the ceiling was much higher. Covered in rough, jagged, rock with a small section fallen in where high winds sent a tree crashing through. It left a hole just large enough to allow some fresh air as well as a small, steady, waterfall from the storm. A beam of late-afternoon light shone through, marking the way to a line of stalagmites splitting the room. Hiding a section behind a curtain of rock.
Cassandra pointed in that direction, raising the torch so the shadows grew long. It gave the scene a menacing aura, with zig-zagging rows of razor teeth poised for a bite. "Over there," she said as they approached.
Behind the stony smile was a small, flattened, area raised a few feet off the ground, and on it sat the remnants of an old shelter. Built to be semi-permanent, with walls of baked mud bricks framed by cut branches. A tangle of rotted wood planks leaning against one side implied an extension, added later. The thick canvas that once covered it all disintegrated into fragile scraps. Cairns, bundled sticks, and a wood box marked the borders of the space. Time had reduced it all to shambles. All that survived intact was a fire pit, dug into the floor and lined with round river stones.
There was enough space for several people to have slept alongside each other. Mouldering piles of hay and tattered leather marked what once were beds. Two of them: one for an individual, and one that could easily fit several provided they were Human or smaller.
A few personal items were littered about, too. A basket made of dried, woven, reeds sat on its side, half-buried in a pile of dirt that might have once been food. A stiff leather sack next to that which, on closer inspection, contained meagre supplies. A rusty hunting knife, materials for fletching — reeds and knapped flint — and a handful of coin.
This had passed for a home, once. At least for a little while.
Ellana bent to examine one of the arrows, wincing for the discomfort it caused her. The shaft was dry and brittle with age, and snapped easily between her fingers. "This is old. Ten years gone, maybe more."
"Whoever they were, they appeared to have abandoned it," Cassandra replied, and gave a meaningful look toward a pair of smaller tunnels that led further into the cave.
"Maybe the spiders moved in earlier than we thought. Scared them off."
"Or perhaps it was the water." Cassandra gestured to a line of sediment that ran along the walls. About a foot off the floor, just below the shelter. "This cavern has a downward slope. With the mouth so near to the river, it wouldn't take much to raise it high enough to run inside. Some weeks of heavy rain, an early melt, and this area could flood. I'm surprised what is left still stands."
"We're lucky it's not underwater now, given the storm," Ellana added with a grimace.
Another wave was coming.
Too quick, she thought, though in truth couldn't possibly know what rhythm her body intended to keep.
She leaned upon the nearest wall and breathed, deep, through her nose. Turning her thoughts inward to the air in her lungs and the movement of pain as it passed through her. This one was more intense than the previous. Creeping up from her thighs, into her hips and spine, it rolled through her body like heavy fog until the whole of her was shrouded in it. Leaving her stretched too thin — too tight. It was all she could do not to howl. The waves had begun to roll together, and the breaks between grow shorter.
It seemed her body had lain in wait for hours. Restless and impatient, plaguing her with ineffective fits and starts while waiting for her acknowledgement: this is happening, get ready. Denial only let her idle so long. Now that she'd faced it, those lost hours rushed in like water from a burst dam. Soon enough she'd have to make herself a nest. Find a spot and stay there.
Standing by the ruined shelter, in this wider space, everything echoed. She could hear every breath that caught in her throat; every pained groan, not quite stifled. The sharp, short, little gasps and hisses of protest.
She hated it.
It was nothing like the lows and hum that rose from the birthing tents. There was no harmony. In her wonder over how anyone managed to dance to this, she found herself wishing the storm outside would worsen. At least then the roar of the rain would drown her out.
While she waited for her reprieve, Cassandra kicked at the ruins. Digging through the detritus in search of clues to the previous occupants. When something piqued her interest, "Look—" she said, before Ellana had reasonably reached a point where she could do so. "—I think there's writing here." She scrubbed the toe of her boot against the wall, loosening the dirt, and pointed at a row of scratches. "There. Carved into the stone."
Instead of answer, Ellana levelled her with a glare for the nerve to ask her anything while she was deep in the throes. Only once it passed, and Cassandra looked suitably chagrined, did she take the time to look herself.
It was near the back of the shelter — almost hidden behind it — and didn't look like anything at first. She turned her head this way and that trying to orient it, ready to shrug it off, before something clicked and it finally made sense. Whatever instrument had been used to make the marks was not chosen for its delicacy, but the looping curves were indisputable.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "that's Elvish."
Cassandra was equally surprised. "Can you read it?"
She frowned. "It's just a list, I think. Titles. Or names." She bent — awkwardly and painfully — and ran her fingers along the curls. Testing the sounds on her tongue. "It's not very clear. I think this one says, 'papae'. Next to it is maybe a date or a year. My fluency in written Elvish isn't great." The last part was added sheepishly. That bruise was still sore; for something so inherent to her being, her history, it had proven difficult to master.
As it turned out, a lifetime of immersion in curses and common nouns wasn't quite enough to instil perfect literacy.
"It all sort of blends together, and the grammar doesn't translate well."
"Your skill surely surpasses mine."
Not much of an accomplishment, she thought, but it still made her smile. "This one, below, it says, 'mamae' followed by her name. Bol…no, Bellath. Sounds Dalish. There's a bit more here I can't make out. Something about Gods or safety. Ama letha. Maybe a prayer for protection."
Solas would know.
It occurred to her then that a month had passed since they'd spoken.
Longer, since the words exchanged were loving.
"I've not known the Dalish to settle this far North in Ferelden — is it typical?"
"Some clans will roam as far up as the shore. Not often — most stick to the South — but it does happen from time to time. That said, they weren't Dalish. A child wrote this."
Cassandra considered that. "Is that so unusual?"
"Clan children don't read or write," she replied, and with considerable effort, rose to her feet. Pausing for breath half-way through. The ache of her labour had settled deep in her bones; all she'd done is change position and her thighs were already trembling. Those piles of rotted hay were beginning to look inviting. "Only — nngh, shit — only if they're in line to become First. Even then, later in life. Late teen or young adult. For a child to have written this means they were literate, which also means they weren't with any clan I've known. Probably not city either. Just travellers."
"Like Solas?"
"Like me," Ellana hedged. "Like my family, before I was adopted by clan Lavellan. I'm not sure where they — where we — were from before they were killed. Not a clan, though. That I'm sure of."
There was a pregnant pause as Cassandra thought on a reply, her gaze flitting about the room. Touching upon everything but Ellana herself. It was a charmingly transparent attempt not to tug at those threads she'd so tantalizingly dangled. There'd been moments like this at the safe house too, when she'd made a tempting mystery. A song hummed, a sentimental smile, long looks out of windows with sadness in her eyes. Moments lost to introspection and melancholy that invited curiosity, while grace asked that no one intrude. Cassandra made herself a shadow to them, then. Standing awkwardly in the periphery, picking at her nails, filing all her questions away for another time.
"You can ask," Ellana allowed, softly.
That reached her, and a little smile curled the corner of her lips. Shy, as if it were improper to be caught wondering. Years now Ellana had spent in the company of Humans and still struggled to understand all the nuance of their social rules. This in particular was a beguiling custom: to seek permission to be curious.
But with it granted, "I've not heard you speak much of them," Cassandra began, carefully, "other than to say they were killed when you were very young. When you mentioned, in the tower, not knowing your name before the one you were given by your Keeper I was… surprised. I did not realize so much had been lost. What do you remember of your time with them, before the clan?"
Ellana glanced at the broken-down shelter — the flint and the basket — and thought of the toys from her memory of their last hours. Whittled, wooden, arrows with spirals on the shaft.
Her fingers twitched.
"Barely anything. I was too young when I lost them. All I have is a few flashes — little things — nothing that could tell me who they were. I remember living in a small home, in a hill. A firepit and chimney. I know we were headed Southward to escape a poor harvest, and passed near enough to where clan Lavellan wintered that year for the hunters to find me. Somewhere where orchards grew. We were very hungry. I know have hair like my mother, eyes like my father, and I know she was—"
There, she found a lump in her throat would allow her no further.
A sudden weight dropped into her stomach, and she was struck dumb by an unexpected grief. It would be the first time she'd speak this aloud — it felt oddly taboo. A memory ceded to trauma; details forgotten when her past was cut away, lest the briars choke her growth in new soil. To speak it crossed a line of salt drawn in her own memory. By her own hand. Breathing life into parts of the loss that had gone a lifetime, unmourned.
She touched her fingers to her ribs, between her breasts, and felt the breath stutter there. "I know my mother was pregnant when she was killed."
There was little intake of breath — not quite a gasp — as if Cassandra were inches away. Like the quaver in her own voice, sorrow echoed in the cavern. Leading to a silence that stretched on just long enough to become uncomfortable.
Ellana struggled to fill it with words before the sounds of pain did. "That part I didn't remember for a long time. Not until this." Her eyes flicked briefly to Cassandra — but came short of any meaningful connection. "Their last act was to hide me, but they died before they knew if I'd been spared. If they'd run they might have lived. Maybe not my mother… since she moved so much slower at the end." It sounded callous, but that did not change the truth.
"They cared for you very much," Cassandra replied in whisper, and Ellana felt a bitter rise in her throat.
What did it matter, when even her family succumbed to the same fate? Not even royal blood could spare her.
She said, "I wonder sometimes what they'd say if I could speak to them now. How they'd feel about the Inquisition and my part in it. If these sorts of things mattered to them. Having a family, or if they'd care whether I serve the interests of Elves or Humans. Maybe they'd have wisdom to share." When she laughed, it was hollow. "Which is funny, because I'm not terribly invested in what my Keeper thinks."
Cassandra was quiet a long time.
Another pain came and went before she gave her reply.
"I think they would be proud of what you've accomplished in the Inquisition, regardless of whether or not they'd have approved of your leading it." It struck her as a careful way to say it made no difference, and perhaps that was true. "You've done so much more than what was set out for you, and the impact of your actions has had effects throughout Thedas. The heart with which you lead, your devotion to bettering the lives of others, has made you an inspiration to many. An example worth following."
"Not always a good one," Ellana countered — but lightly.
She smiled. "Better than most could hope to be. Few could rise to the challenges you've met. These are difficult times, and the path not always clear. Regardless, you've chosen yours with a surety that I envy. Even in the face of dissent you've stood tall, against barriers of prejudice and politics thrown in your way… You thrive where other leaders have fallen. Carving out a place of honour in history — one I think will be spoken of for many ages to come. I am grateful to serve at your side for it, and while I know you are not Andrastian I hope it means something to hear you have proven more worthy than any I've known to be her Herald. The Maker chose you well."
She was not known for flattery; Cassandra was nothing if not genuine. And though a mantle of admiration felt better fit for someone else, Ellana did her best to accept it graciously. Still, to have the strength of her leadership celebrated in a situation such as this one felt laughably ironic.
There was an attempt to smirk, but it came off more like a lopsided grimace. "If the Maker's hand has truly guided me along this path he must have quite a sense of humour. Of all the people he could have chosen he went with a Dalish Elf, who — while already under enormous scrutiny — managed to pair herself with the most controversial romantic partner, and have their bastard child during her reign."
"It is not a weakness to love and bear its result," said Cassandra quickly, "it is a virtue. Your heart is not so hardened that you couldn't find a light in dark times. Though it may not have been your plan, I believe it will only make you a better leader. Someone from noble background, or celebrated warrior, might seem like a better choice to you… but not having experienced true hardship they cannot bring the same empathy to their role that you can. Adversity has given you a unique perspective, and the downtrodden are happier to follow someone with whom they identify. The Maker demands this same empathy from his followers — anyone who denies your right to lead cannot call themselves devout. True faith requires testing."
This time the smile was genuine. "A test, am I?"
And Cassandra mirrored it. "Of patience, surely." The laughter that followed felt as good to give as to hear. It'd been too long since either enjoyed a real moment of gaiety. "Ballads aren't written for those who walk the path of least resistance. A real leader is capable of taking the harder one, to use the lessons taught in life to open their heart. Not only for the benefit of those who follow them, but also those who denounce them."
The next wave would steal her opportunity for a heartfelt reply. Ellana sucked her teeth, grimaced, and instead managed one last quip before it hit. "If it's being unorthodox that makes me so worthy, I suppose you lucked out. I'm not sure I could be more contrary to the Chantry."
Dryly, "You could be Tevene," Cassandra replied.
The laughter hurt, and so was followed by a curse. Then a cry, when the claws sunk in.
This time the intensity dragged her to the floor immediately.
She dropped to hands and knees to ride it out. Rocking and groaning and hearing the awful sound of her own voice echoing in the chamber. She was past feeling shy about it now, at least; from here on it would only get harder and what few things she could rely upon to ease the burden she had every intention of using. She didn't give a shit about volume anymore.
It must have looked as painful as it felt, as she soon felt Cassandra's hand between her shoulder-blades. Patting, gently — if a little awkwardly — in an attempt to soothe her. The touch was more irritating than comforting, but she still appreciated the sentiment.
When the wave passed she meant to tell her so, but upon raising her eyes she found herself staring into the face of something so unexpected, so ridiculous, that any thought she'd had just… floated away.
Tucked against the side of the shelter, previously unnoticed, was an old guard. It stood with back curled and hackles raised, carved of wood rather than stone, standing maybe two feet at the height of its raised paw. Poised and ready to drive off worser evil. Its lips pulled into a fierce snarl, baring teeth she'd once feared.
Maybe they were Dalish after all, she thought, and started laughing. Softly at first, then louder and harder as she went. Until tears pricked her eyes and her belly bounced enough to draw an irritable protest from within, then a tightening that made her almost regret the fit.
Cassandra looked at her strangely — a little worriedly — then followed her gaze. Raising the torch to cast its light to the back of the structure. But she was all the more lost when it revealed only a small idol leaning up against the crumbling wall.
A wolf, seated on its haunches.
"Of course," Ellana managed, between coughs and fits. "Of course you'd fucking be here."
Cassandra's eyes cut between her and the carving, unsure of what etiquette should ask of her. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar enough with Elven custom to know what this means to you," she said.
Ellana wiped at her eyes, and with a huff replied, "I means I'm wrong. It isn't your gods with the wicked humour — it's mine."
It felt like more than mere coincidence. She didn't put much stock in fate, but she wasn't willing to tempt superstition. This place was marked for her.
It was where she'd stay until the end.
Labouring under the watchful eye of Fen'Harel.
Over the ensuing hours Cassandra tried more than once to move her. To where the floor rose a little higher, where there was less debris, or nearer to the walls where a fire could be built with ease — but she refused to budge. Declaring, when she was able, that she would not leave the spot on which she'd fallen.
This was fine.
They would make do.
Eventually, it forced Cassandra to set a partial camp on the bones of the previous one. Amidst the silt and gravel and the ever-present threat of rising water. A tiny stream had begun to trickle in, running along the entrance tunnel and pooling in the corners with the fall from the ceiling. Cassandra eyed it warily as she lined the floor with woollen blankets.
Ellana refused to move onto those, too. When Cassandra accused her of being difficult on purpose she did not deny it, but it was more than stubborn pique that planted her feet. She couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. The pains were coming faster now and she could only find rest between them by remaining as still as possible. Even just a change of position would trigger aftershocks — waves so strong she could drown in them.
In the dwindling chances for reprieve, she rest her head on folded arms and tried to steal precious moments of sleep, leaning against the wall. Then the rocks. The floor. Even Cassandra herself. It proved near impossible. They'd slept worse places, but finding peace here was by far her greatest challenge. When all attempts failed she spent the lulls in a contemplative silence, studying the wolf while she waited for the next rise.
It was a meditation, and it kept her focused. Before long she'd memorized every chip in the wood. Every knot. The uneven lines carved by imperfect hands. The one eye slightly higher than the other and the foot with a missing claw.
She counted the same fourteen teeth so many times she started to think herself capable of carving the damned thing from memory, if pressed.
As each wave rose she made it an effigy for her anger. For every night she'd laid alone, every hour she wished for freedom, every argument she'd played out again and again and all the questions still unanswered. The hurt, the fear, the loss of control… She gave it all over in growls and in cries. Blood and sweat. Furious, panting, wearing a mirror of its expression: lips curled over clenched teeth.
If she burned, so would it.
As each wave fell she thanked it for the mercy. Grateful for its presence. In the quiet afters it traded her stalwart silence, granting her pleas for strength when she needed more, and suffering her enmity when she thought she could not go on.
It was an anchor — anathema — everything she loved and hated and it made a fitting harbinger of what her own rebellion would gift her.
What better observer was there, than the wolf? Its image guarded the borders of Dalish camps for generations, respected only in fear. Holding vigil in exile, it heard the hopes of her people even while they cursed its name. Asking nothing in return. No festival was held for the devil. No glory for a god, cast out. It did not rise; it endured.
Instead of offerings and prayer, children played games at its shrines. Tests of mettle. Daring each other to inch, slowly, closer to a statue and pay it disrespect to prove their bravery. A tease or taunt. Thrown rocks and pulled faces. Each act more blasphemous than the last. When they suffered no consequence for defiling it, they thought themselves beyond its sight. Safe from his retribution.
For all they'd gotten wrong that part, at least, was true: no beast stalked her steps and she needn't fear the hunt. As it happened, he cared little for sacrilege. No stone could rend his heart.
For that, only a kiss would do.
The thought of it brought her no comfort, now — only a deeper connection to the emptiness in her chest. She needed him here. To feel his breath on her skin and his touch, soft and kind. His hand held tight to hers could keep her safe if she spiralled. But when she tried to find a shade of him in that cracked wooden muzzle it only left her bereft and frustrated. Try as she might, she could not see this as a part of him. Of what she'd let into her life, or this thing they'd created in reckless love.
Just as she could not write her lover into those memories of childish mischief, she could neither make this fit.
Maybe that schism was better left unreconciled. Time had carved the gulf between truth and legend so wide it had created something new entirely. Maybe the path of acceptance was in admitting both could exist, separately. They had long ago become two. One to revere, and one to adore. She could pay honour to the old Gods she'd once worshipped — the ideals of their creation — while acknowledging the complicated origins.
As the pain washed over her once more, she wondered if her prayers to them now were an act of love or blasphemy.
Lost in her meditations she could not say how much time passed. Whether it was minutes or hours between the acts of care Cassandra paid her. One moment she'd open her eyes to see her struggling to dry the wood for a fire, and the next she'd find it blazing while she prepared food. Hours gone.
A cool cloth was applied to her forehead a dozen times, maybe more.
Water sipped regularly from a cup held to her lips.
Her hair twisted off her neck and pinned in place.
A ration offered twice, both times refused.
"You must eat something," Cassandra begged when she declined a third time. "Your body needs food to fuel this work. Without, your labour may stall, and you'll find yourself exhausted long before its end."
At her insistence she managed a few bites of bread and cheese, but was nearly sick with it, and turned away from the rest. Cassandra did not push her further.
She was vaguely aware of Bull drifting in from time to time, though he did not come beyond the mouth of the cave. Out of respect, possibly — but more likely due to his own uneasiness. Field medicine did not typically cover childbirth, and he was no healer anyway.
"How's she doing?" she heard him ask. His voice was soft and unsure. Almost timid. Though she'd never heard that caution before, she was reasonably sure she'd not imagined it.
Cassandra's answer was always the same: "Tired," she'd say. "But progressing."
What they spoke of beyond that was in whispers, and so lost to her.
Once, she looked up and saw stars winking through the break in the ceiling. A constellation she recognized: draconis. Its great wings drawn across the evening sky like a cloak of diamonds. And, what an auspicious beginning, she thought, to be born under the sign of a high dragon. A form reserved for Creators and enemies.
That, too, seemed fitting.
Next to her the Seeker slept on a bedroll, but not so deeply that she did not stir each time she let slip something louder than a whisper. Exhaustion claimed her after a long fight — her hand lay empty and outstretched on the floor between them, fallen away from its grip on her shoulder. Fingers twitching with every gasp. So devoted to her duty that she offered comfort even in her dreams.
It was late — or early — and the night so still she wondered if she hadn't slipped into the Fade with her. Anticipation hung, heady, in the air. An electric silence. As if a crowd had gathered just beyond the periphery, holding their breath in anticipation. Waiting for the grand entrance. This was a stage and she the star.
The Veil is thin here. Can you feel it tingling on your skin?
She raised her marked hand and turned it to and fro. Then clenched it into a fist, pulling from the Fade to call mana to her palm. Lightning answered. Sparking in arcs and forks that stung her skin, but not unpleasantly. When she loosened her grip the spell was dismissed.
It was a curious sensation. Magic flowed too easily, here. The Veil was stretched thin by its burden of history and experience. She could sense the wisps flitting around its ragged edges, making up her audience. Something marvellous and beautiful and terrible was happening. It would leave a scar upon this place that many would come to witness.
She wondered how many were sharing it with her now.
Not spirits, but mothers — in tents and beds and forest glens hundreds of miles away. Rocking through the hours on worn knees just as she did.
Did they see the same sky?
Did the spirits watch them, too?
If she closed her eyes she could see the paths connecting them all. Threads of fate or Fade that spanned the globe. Over seas and under mountains. Tying each to the next, so no one could fall away and be forgotten. They would work together as a group, sharing might where it was needed.
She could feel them.
They would feel her.
For a time, that gave her hope. A thought she could draw on to gift her the courage to keep her gaze steady. To watch the wolf — feel the dragon — and breathe.
When she next lifted her eyes the stars were gone. Replaced by the lavender glow of a new dawn… and then the thought of having to endure another day began to overwhelm her.
At first that fear was a tiny, fleeting, thing. An itch in her chest — but no more than that. She answered it by tracking the sun's crawl across the sky. Placing a stone at the edge of the shadow cast by the fallen tree, and checking it over and over to gauge the passage of time.
Until Cassandra grew wise to her scheme and kicked it away.
"It is no good to you to count the hours," she warned, "Focus on the present, not what lies ahead, or you'll lose yourself in it."
The advice was sound, but in the moment she hated her for it.
It was something he'd say.
Every hour after was the same. A cloth laid on her forehead. A cup of water. Calloused hands upon her skin. Roaring until her voice gave out. Somewhere along the way she'd shed her clothes, but could not remember when. They were suffocating. Heavy, horrible, and too damned distracting. But even naked she felt smothered.
Soon, she was consumed by that.
There was no break between them anymore. It was relentless. Cruel. Waves crashed against her body again and again with nary the chance for a sigh between them. Breath was stolen from her lungs in ragged cries, her throat worn raw from the effort. Hums to moans to screams — no longer could she sustain herself on a single, held, note. A pain had settled in the very core of her, making every rise and fall feel as though ropes were lashed to her bones. Pulling her apart. She wondered how this could possibly go on when she had grown so tired so many hours ago. Her legs trembled just to hold her own weight. With what few words she could manage to speak, she begged for mercy.
This was a cyclone and she a sinking ship.
Lost, until another strange, fluttering, sensation appeared in her chest. Different from the last. It was gentle at first, but grew more insistent the longer she ignored it. Begging her to move.
At first she mistook it for mana: it was not unlike the rushing feeling that preceded a blast. Or closing a rift. Like a bow at full draw, she was full to bursting. Memories of setting her duvet aflame following something like this made her worry for the state of blankets she kneeled on. She raised her hands to look for signs they'd already betrayed her, but found them unchanged. No fire sprang forth. No soot gathered in her fingerprints. Even the Anchor lay dormant. Whatever this was, it was something entirely new.
It was worse with the next pain.
More insistent. More pressure. Low and deep, a seed beneath her diaphragm. She felt it most on an exhale, as if something were drawing her down, and though it caused her no pain it continued to grow. Building with an intensity that terrified her. Once another pain spread through her middle, into her pelvis, legs, and arms, she felt set adrift. She was collapsing in upon herself.
She wanted to flee.
Run away from this so it would never catch her.
Had she the ability, she might have tried. Turned in helpless circles like a frightened dog, gnawing at her leg to free herself from the vise that held her.
She rocked onto her knees.
Crawled forward.
Turned a half-circle.
Crawled back.
Then swore, loudly, and started all over again.
A process she repeated half a dozen times and found no relief in. Nothing was working. Nothing was moving. Nothing was comfortable. And that fluttering feeling had grown into a storm now.
Though clearly unnerved by the change, Cassandra still offered her hand to hold.
Ellana batted it away — muttering, "No, I don't want— it's not— it isn't…" then shouting, "that's not helping!"
"What do you need?" she asked.
It was a stupid question.
"I don't know."
"What can I do?"
"I don't know!"
She was furious she'd even ask. The gall — the audacity — of expecting her to know a gods-damned thing about what the fuck was happening and what she needed to do about it. The unbelievable nerve.
There was a sudden shift of energy.
A ripple of force radiated through her body from head to toes like the crack of a whip, punctuated by a breathless gasp. That anxious, restless, feeling spiked — sending her heart careening into her throat. She choked.
Something was happening. Something was happening right now.
Before she could manage a second to think on it she was crying out: "I can't do this!"
Cassandra's hands were already on her, holding her by the arms. "Yes you can."
"No!"
She didn't know why she was arguing. What she was arguing. The words just fell from her lips like a river pulled to sea. Clumsy and wild. She was drowning. Desperate to get her head above water long enough to see where she'd fallen in.
Just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
Just one breath.
"It's too much. I can't take it. I need it to stop!" She beat her fists. Tearing at the rocky floor until her fingernails split. "Mythal enaste ma halani — please, please, please…"
The Gods she beseeched couldn't hear her, she knew this, but still she begged for mercy from the shadows of their rule. No one answered the cry. Even the wolf looked past her, now. It was futile; there would be no succour granted from ghosts. No peace in enlightenment. In the moment all she could think was how deeply she yearned for the chance to return to blissful ignorance. When she was devoted and reverent, believing the hands of Creators guided her steps. That a benevolent pantheon could ease her suffering.
Instead, she was alone.
"I cannot do this on my own!"
The hands were on her face now. Soft and sure as they slid along her cheeks. And firmly, "You are not alone," Cassandra told her. With such honest conviction that Ellana was moved to open her eyes and risk a glance beyond the cocoon of fear that held her.
It was all too much, too fast, too frightening — but the world narrowed around the face in front of her. Shining with a sheen of sweat and her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Cassandra glowed in the firelight. A beacon. And though her brow was heavy, there was a softness in her eyes she'd never seen before. A gentleness in her touch that worked to pull her from the chaos.
For the first time, she truly saw how hard the Seeker worked with her through this ordeal. The fading ring of kohl, smudged across her cheekbones, that lent emphasis to the dark circles and deep bags under her eyes. Chapped, pale, lips covered in little crescents of dried blood; marks from her teeth, from nervous chewing. The braid she kept coiled neatly over her head had come loose, the edges frayed and damp, soaked in sweat from the thin, stained, chemise.
"I will not leave you," she was saying, and though her voice was thick with emotion it did not falter. "I know it is hard, and you are tired, but it is almost over. You must stop fighting it. You're so close to the end."
That same sensation rolled through again, and she screamed.
When all the breath had left her lungs and she had nothing left to give, tears fell. She was a wreck: shaking, heaving, laden with weight she could not name. The rocky floor bit into palms pressed hard against it, her head hung low and heavy, and she fell apart. What better judgement had kept her secrets safe crumbled into dust. All the little fears — unspoken, unacknowledged — bubbled their way to the surface and spilled over.
With her heart beating like a drum, she yelled, "What if they are like him? Like me?"
Would he watch them both wither and die while he lived on? Or would they be different from her kind, and instead spend a lifetime hiding their nature? Which was worse, she did not know. This thing they'd done would only bring them pain. He would grieve, and it would be terrible.
"How will I live with that? And if it's all torn down, then what? There's no peace when it's all over! We can't live out our days in some fucking fortress, or a clan… Where are we going to go? There is nowhere made for us. I can't— I can't do this without him. And— and I—"
And one day I may have to.
Somehow, though she couldn't possibly know the struggle, the pain, or the circles they had danced, Cassandra had an answer for her. "I cannot bring him here, and I cannot tell you how things will be in the future, but I do know that for as long as you walk this path you will have us with you. No matter where it leads you. It is not just out of obligation — we are not blind, and don't think you infallible. We believe in you because you are good, and kind, and righteous. I believe in you. Regardless of where you find yourself, you will not be left alone. You are not alone. He may not be here, but he does not need to be for you to succeed. You don't need him to grant you strength. You are already strong. You can do this. You have already… there is just one task left, and then it's done. It will be over. You can rest, and I will be here."
Her hands slipped from Ellana's cheeks, wet with tears, and with care and conviction she named what gripped her: "Push."
So she tipped her head back, and did.
With all the power she could muster, she pushed. And screamed. And begged. Demanded what she was owed until her body finally answered the call. Reaching into a place somewhere inside herself, deep and forgotten, where a well of strength lived. One that had carried her through great loss, overwhelming fear, devastating love… the strength that kept her alive on old roads and snow-covered passes.
Strength that could turn agony to joy.
Balanced on the balls of her feet, with her hands on the ground, she grasped it. Let it fill her lungs and her chest and connect her to the memory of every mother who walked this path before her.
Dalish and Avaar and Qunari and Nevarran and Tevinter and Alammari and Chasind and Elvhen.
All of them at work in their beds, tents, and caves. Across time, language, and culture — every one shared this moment with her. Each with their feet on the earth and the light in their bellies as they screamed in terrible unity.
In that vision of pain and power she felt the whole world change.
Nothing would ever be as important, and she never as strong, and she was in this moment. Naked and vulnerable. Triumphant and beloved.
Outside, a crack of thunder split the sky to herald the coming of something worthy of celebration.
I can do this.
There was blood.
A trickle at first, then a deluge. Around the edges of something that burned her like no fire ever had. Worse than Rage's scorn, the explosion that marked her, dragon's breath, or her heart shattered and mended. Somehow both terrifying and exhilarating, though she feared it might rend her in two.
Then, a gush of warmth and sweet waters. It pooled around her feet and the force of the break rocked her forward on her knees. Cassandra moved behind and touched her fingers to her thighs to reassure her.
I am here, it said, keep going.
Something followed after. Building and growing until she was so full, she burst.
Then there was a rushing of a thing in frantic hurry to get from one place to the next.
It all happened at once. There was no time to try and understand or guide it. It was beyond her now — her body swept away. Working on its own, pushing forward through the pain. With a pop, something slipped passed her fingers, across a different sort of Veil, and emerged as something new.
And then there was only relief.
Weightless, aching, relief.
Another gush followed, hitting the floor with a splatter as, behind her, Cassandra fumbled with a sudden weight. She gasped, and her next breath sounded reedy and pinched, as if she'd been struck a mortal blow. If she were not already on her knees surely she would have fallen there.
In those first, tentative, seconds just before it all changed, she reached between her legs and felt a startling warmth beneath her fingers. Skin, too soft, too slick, and a knobby limb — an elbow or knee — something that was not a part of her and yet made of her heart and soul.
It was a new body: untouched, unknown, except by her own curious fingers and Cassandra's clumsy grip.
That recognition was shocking.
This was a new person.
A new life.
A new…
A wet, gurgling, cry rang out and her heart soared with it. She wanted to shout. She wanted to see but found she could not bring herself to turn around. It was all too intense — too real — and it was happening so fast and…
… somehow her hands were already reaching for the slippery shoulders Cassandra was easing toward her. They were both shaking; she could feel it in the Seeker's strong hands as she moved the weight from one embrace to the next. And all she could think is that she'd never seen her unsteady with a sword, but this is far more terrifying than a dragon.
Breathless and tearful, Ellana asked, "What is it?"
And with a wonder she'd never heard laid so bare Cassandra answered, "It's a baby!"
She managed to turn just enough to fall onto her side, freeing her hands to accept the gift. A wet, wrinkled, squirming, little thing that was all edges. Sharp points and high, tinny, cries. Covered in all the remnants of creation: blood and vernix and whatever else her body made to protected it. Then it opened its tiny mouth and made a sound: a long, sustained, cry. Of triumph or anger. Tiny hands balling into tinier fists for emphasis.
I am here, it said, see me!
And so she did.
It was so small. Even more than she'd imagined it would be. Thin, bird-like, limbs tucked up against a wrinkled body. One hand clutching at their face, little fingers spread across a chubby jaw that lead to a long, pointed, ear. It bent at too sharp an angle for one who'd spent so much time curled in such a small space. Somehow she imagined their ears would be different. Folded or pinched. Instead, they were perfect.
Sentiment escaped her before she'd even finished the thought: "His ears."
Hers were never so lovely. All she wanted to do was touch them. These amazing little things that looked just like him and yet somehow came from her. She drew a finger along the edge and point, following it around the back of their head through fresh, wet, curls of dark hair.
In reply, it gave another mewl. Shorter this time. A grumble instead of a shout. Swollen eyes cracked open and peered up at her curiously. Blinking, squinting, in the soft firelight of a new world. They were dark and deep, and reminded her of the Well of Sorrows.
It occurred to her then that she was holding something meant to be discovered. A quick scan from head to toe confirmed her long-standing suspicions.
"It's a girl!"
A proclamation she made to no one, or perhaps the whole world, all at once. To whatever witnessed this triumph, be it gods and spirits or just the rain. It was wonderful and thrilling and filled her with ecstatic joy.
A bright burst of laughter erupted her chest with a fall of happy tears. This was a secret, but for once a good one. A miracle. Shared with just the two of them, for now.
Looking at her, she saw Cassandra's face stained with dirt and wet with tears that curled under her jaw. Leaving tracks in the grime on her cheeks. Her mouth twisted into a grimace as she tried, and failed, to choke back a sob. When she wiped her eyes it left a streak of blood across her brow.
Ellana had never seen her cry. This was a day of many firsts.
When the shock passed, Cassandra grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up over her head. Folded it in half, then laid it upon the baby as a makeshift wrap. She tucked in the corners around her sides and feet, then wiped her bloody hands on her breastband. Now the only thing she wore with the stained leather pants.
Curiosity and wonder had her inching forward on hands and knees to get a closer look at the bundle. "What's her name?" she whispered, and her voice was reverent.
There was a moment's pause, then another bark of laughter. "I… don't have one," Ellana admitted. Hardly embarrassed, the smile she wore was too bright for that. "We'd discussed it a few times but never came to an agreement. I thought we'd have more time! I suppose we'll have to decide that when he gets here."
It didn't really matter. Beauty did not need a name — adoration came regardless. She was lost in her eyes. They'd settle the rest later. For now, all she had to do was stay like this. Run her fingers over every curve and point and commit them all to memory. Explore every miraculous part, from the dimples on her knuckles to the tiny curled toes.
Ellana tugged Cassandra's shirt a little tighter around the baby, gently moving the cord aside to keep it from pulling. She could feel the pulse where it laid against her hip, and knew enough to leave it be until that stopped. Birthing hallas weren't so different from people after all, and limited knowledge she'd gained catching calves instilled in her some instincts for how to care for herself.
She needed water. A blanket. Rest. The baby held close at her breast.
Cassandra was already on it. Pulling up the one blanket that had remained unsullied, and brushing it clean of dirt and stones. Satisfied, she wrapped it around Ellana's shoulders and folded its edges over each other, tight like a cloak. For care, more than necessity: it was warm and comfortable here.
It was perfect.
A skin of water was offered, and Ellana drank from it greedily. With her appetite returned she was also able to eat one of the few remaining rations. Finishing it in seconds.
All the while Cassandra offered sage advice. "If you can, let her nurse. It will strengthen the pains, and may be uncomfortable, but will also hasten the delivery of the afterbirth."
That part she recalled from the animals, too.
In one hand she held her breast and with the other moved the little mouth closer to it, following the bobbing chin until both aligned and she could gently push them together. It took a few tries, but eventually she managed to achieve a latch… and a moment later the little eyes began to close. Content.
A comfortable silence fell. She could not say how long it stretched. Lost in blissful high, she wanted to climb mountains just to scream her joy. Show everyone what love had created. Little fingers wrapped round her thumb had her reeling. Breathless in awe. She raised the hand to her lips and kissed it again and again. Revelling in the soft, sweet, smell of perfect skin.
Cassandra ran her fingers along the curve of the baby's nose. Watching the dark eyes peer at her, too. "She looks like Solas," she noted.
It was in the high cheeks and the crease in her chin. The puffy, downturned, mouth with rosebud lips.
Ellana smiled. "She does."
What a marvellous surprise, that a baby would look like their parent… somehow even the most ordinary miracles thrilled her.
A half hour passed, maybe more, spent nuzzled together as the babe took shallow sips from her breast. The afterpains grew uncomfortable, as Cassandra warned her, and soon she faced the dilemma of needing to move and not wanting to. Though the thought of giving the bundle over was near unbearable, eventually she was forced to in order to find herself a better seat.
For her part, Cassandra was just as eager to take her, and just as lost when she was placed back in her arms. The babe squawked and frowned, but did not carry on too much. Especially once Cassandra began to run a finger down the bridge of her nose. Exploring the plush of her cheeks and the curve of her jaw.
Smiling, she remarked, "She does have your hair, though," and the joke drew a sputtering laugh Ellana regret immediately for the lance of pain it caused.
For several minutes more she shifted and hissed, trying to find herself a proper spot. She must have turned a circle half a dozen times before finding herself on hands and knees again.
Cassandra watched her. The smile fading to pensive frown. "Is the pain worse?"
"Mhm," Ellana managed.
"Soon, then." She leaned close to pinch the cord between her fingers, counting seconds, then, "There is no longer a pulse," she reported. "It is safe to cut her free. It may make it easier to bear."
"No," Ellana said quickly. "I— ahh, fenedhis —I don't want to do that yet. Please."
There were few traditions she still held dear. That one felt important.
Cassandra nodded and said no more. Scooting forward, instead, until she sat in arm's reach with the baby cradled to her chest. She eyed her warily, and soon Ellana began to feel like a watched pot.
After another few moments passed without progress, she could tell by Cassandra's deepening frown that she thought it was taking too long. She held a hand above the swell of Ellana's middle — "May I?" — and at her nod, gently placed it there and pushed. Hard.
It hurt, and she was not shy about telling her so.
"It should not be so high, still," Cassandra said after a time. But cautiously, so not to frighten her. And while Ellana appreciated the candour her heart still leapt to her throat. She'd seen women meet a bloody end. She knew the risks. "We may need to hasten its delivery to ensure you do not bleed too heavily."
Ellana nodded, but no sooner did she open her mouth to reply than came another rush of fluid. Blood. Far more than she knew there should be. Enough to soak through the blanket beneath her, running in little rivers from the corners.
It's not so bad, she reasoned with herself, there are things we can do to turn the tide.
Like those clever tinctures the midwife made her for just such an occasion. All lost, left behind in the ruins of a burnt-out desk beneath a tonne of rubble.
To herself she repeated the midwife's words back then: shepherd's purse and amrita vein. Angelica, in case the afterbirth is shy.
Cassandra averted her eyes, thinking, and in that drawn expression Ellana could see her flipping through the pages of the text she'd read over and over during their stay at the safe house. Though Bull had chided her for carelessness, she was grateful for the foresight.
When she spoke again her voice was harder. This was an order. "Though it may hurt to do so, you must check to see if the afterbirth has detached. Then, push, and tug gently on the cord. Not too hard, or it may tear if it has not yet separated. The baby will help control the bleeding and keep the next pains productive. Hold her to you."
"Alright," she agreed, then touched her fingers to the cord and began to follow it up. All the while repeating to herself, "Shepherd's purse, amrita vein, angelica."
These were common plants, surely they grew near here.
They could find them. Grind them into a poultice. Make a replacement dose.
"Shepherd's purse, amrita vein, angelica."
Inside, she was terribly sore — even the gentle touch of her own fingers made her body tighten. Triggering another wave of afterpains. It seemed no matter how carefully she proceeded this would be unpleasant.
"Shepherd's purse, amrita vein, angelica."
The rubbery feel of the cord spurred an old memory of assisting the birth of a late calf with her Keeper. The mother halla suffered a held afterbirth just like this, and nearly died. Bleeding out, slowly, while she held the fragile body of the newborn and begged the Creators for mercy. Deshanna was firm, and strong, and did not allow her to waste time on fear. 'Find where the cord meets it,' she'd ordered, 'and if it lies low push her stomach hard. Help it along, or she'll succumb.'
Find where they meet. Help it along.
"Shepherd's purse, amrita vein, angelica. Shepherd's purse, am—"
What she found there was not what she expected.
As understanding dawned, "Oh fuck," she whispered. All the breath left her lungs in a rush. The colour drained from her cheeks.
Cassandra held the baby tighter. "What is it?"
"It's a foot."