Elsa can feel it getting near; even without consciously pushing, her body begins bearing down anyway. It's ready, and the babies are ready.
She isn't.
But it's going to be okay, with Anna there. Whenever the midwife instructs her to push, Anna's there squeezing her hand. She speaks, murmuring soft encouragements that lodge in Elsa's chest and stay there. Everything feels fragmented, short periods of pure consciousness interspersed with instinct.
It's impossible to tell pain from relief. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Until it doesn't, and a soft wailing fills the room.