Chương 1: Happy Birthday

Human Realm — Sometime in the Middle Ages"You have to push!" Matilda urged, her voice composed yet firm despite the worry glistening in her eyes. She looked over the bed sheet draped across the young woman's knees.

"Okay, love, we have to get this baby out, now." She glanced down at the alarming amount of blood. Matilda kept her face stoic, though the copper tang in the air made her stomach churn. This wasn't right; she had seen enough births to know when the earth was preparing to reclaim what it had given, and tonight, the soil seemed greedy. The sight of so much blood made her breath hitch. Fear rose sharply and immediately; not just for the girl, but for the tiny life still hidden inside her.

After enduring eighteen hours of difficult labor, Lucy was spent. Matilda knew there was little to nothing she could do to alleviate the young woman's suffering. All she could do was stay by her side, but she doubted Lucy registered she was even there in her exhausted delirium. It was in fate's hands now. What would be, would come to pass, regardless of what she did. Another contraction seized Lucy's small frame, her stomach tightening mercilessly.

She cried out struggling to prop herself up for leverage while she pushed. Tears rolled down her face as she fell back.

"Matilda?" her dry mouth croaked.

"I don't think it is ever going to come out." Matilda inhaled deeply. The mingled scents of smoke and drying herbs on the hearth pulled her from the throes of her own exhaustion. She watched as the firelight summoned unseen figures to dance upon the wall; their surreal rhythm oddly comforting. Another contraction struck without warning. Lucy's sudden screams, primal and raw, permeated the stillness of the summer's eve like a blade. The girl's anguish slashed deeper into Matilda's heart.

Her now weary eyes, filling with tears she refused to shed. She wished she could take the pain from her, even for a moment. Instead, she offered the only comfort she had left, a few feeble words meant to coax the girl onward despite her reserves visibly running dry.

"I know, lass," Matilda crooned, her hand steady as she rubbed the girl's calf.

"But ye're almost there. Don't let the fire go out now; keep pushing." She had assisted many mothers over the years. First children were usually the hardest, but this was by far the most difficult birth she had ever attended.

"I can see the head!" she called out in excited relief. Matilda ignored the sharp tang of blood and musky scent of sweat as it mixed with the gush of amniotic fluid to create the unique scent of new life blossoming. The birth process was fragile and fierce, beautiful and messy. It was an ending creating an uncertain beginning.

"Lucy, 'tis nearly over. This next push must come from deep inside." Matilda watched wordlessly as Lucy flopped back onto the pillow. Her hair was plastered to her face, her shift drenched with sweat, defeat shining in her eyes.

"I can't push any harder! Just let me die!" Lucy's desperate cry tore at Matilda's heart.

"Come on, love, ye can't give up now. I know it feels like death be knockin' for ye, but lassie, once ye're holdin' your wee babe, all this nonsense will be forgotten." The contraction seized Lucy's body without mercy. Her belly hardened as she drew in a deep breath. Newly found determination blazed in her eyes. She curled forward, pulling her legs back as far as she could manage. Matilda watched in sympathetic silence as Lucy's jaw tightened, her teeth clenched, and she pushed until she could push no more.

Lucy's eyes locked onto the maroon stain blooming on the sheet. Her gaze snapped to Matilda, wide with panic.

"Keep going, love," Matilda whispered.

"You're fine.

'Tis completely normal," she lied. As the next contraction took hold, the fear in Lucy's eyes ignited into a fierce determination, giving her the strength she needed.

"Like it or not, this baby is coming! Now push!" Matilda commanded, as a small head crowned, followed by a shoulder. With swift, practiced movements, she turned the baby gently while Lucy's exhausted body expelled new life in a rush of fluid and blood. Quickly, Matilda used her fingers to clear mucus from the tiny mouth, then began vigorously rubbing the child with a towel. A strong, hearty cry burst forth before Matilda gently placed the newborn on Lucy's stomach and cut the umbilical cord.

Matilda watched Lucy squint through the dim light, her gaze trying to focus on the shape of her newborn. Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled against the wave of physical and emotional exhaustion.

"Is it alright? Is it a boy or a girl, Matilda?" she whispered huskily, her bottom lip trembling."'Tis a wee lass, Lucy," Matilda replied.

"Okay love, I need you to push again for me," She said while she delivered the placenta. After a cursory examination, she dropped it into the bucket beside the bed with a wet plop. Matilda pulled back the large towel she had placed between Lucy's legs to be sure the bleeding had slowed, then replaced it with a fresh one.

"You rest, love. You've earned it," she said as she stood up from the bed. With practiced ease, she scooped up the infant and nestled the bundle in the crook of her arm.

"Let me see her," Lucy whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers.

"You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with the wee lass once the both of you are cleaned up and presentable," Matilda said softly, offering a tired smile instead of the laughter that wanted to escape from sheer relief.

"Once I finish with her, we'll get you all cleaned up and into some dry clothes. Then you can fawn over your new babe all night, if you'd like." With the baby still safely cradled in her arm, she approached the hearth. She picked up a large cloth with her free hand, then grabbed the kettle. Matilda squinted, scanning the room. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"Ah, there ye be," she muttered, spotting the wash basin hiding amongst the shadows of the flickering light. She ambled over to the table, baby in one arm and the kettle in her free hand. Steam curled upward like early morning mist drifting across a pond. She poured slowly, adding the hot to the cold water waiting in the basin.

"We'll get you and the babe all cleaned up in a jiff," she said jovially, laying the baby in the makeshift cradle. She swirled the contents of the wash basin, adding hot water until she became satisfied with the water temperature. She smiled down at the baby.

"Just right," she whispered, testing the water one last time with her inner wrist. She gently unwrapped the infant, inspecting the tiny fingers and toes, counting each one. She picked up the small washcloth she had set aside earlier and began gently wiping the child down.

"Ten fingers and ten toes," she called out, rinsing the cloth."'Tis messy being born, isn't it, little one?" she said, smiling at the wide-eyed child.

"Don't you worry about anything, Sweet Pea. I'll get you all pretty so you can meet your mamma." She fully unwrapped the baby, preparing to give her a more thorough bath. Her experienced hands gently cradled the infant over the basin and began rinsing the remnants of birth from her hair. Matilda's heart gave a sickening thud against her ribs. She froze, the damp cloth hovering over the infant's temple. Please let my eyes be failing me, she thought, dread curling through her like smoke.

She was not afraid of the child. She was afraid of what the world would do to them all. Surely it was a trick of the flickering lantern, a shadow cast by the herbs hanging from the rafters. She wiped the skin again, her movements slow and deliberate, praying for her old eyes to be wrong.

"All that is good and holy," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"May the saints guard our doors this night." It can't be. Oh please lord, deliver us from evil, she thought, wiping harder as if she could wash the offensiveness away. She glanced from the baby to Lucy, who had drifted off to sleep. She cradled the baby, moving closer to the lantern. She needed a better look, she had to be sure. She gasped. There is nothing wrong with you, little one, but those of small minds and even smaller hearts will want to put an end to ye.

she thought, her throat tightening as she looked into eyes bluer than a midsummer sky at high noon. The sin lies in the eyes that will judge you. There was no mistaking what she had seen; the child's ears tapered to sharp, delicate points that no human lineage could claim.

"Lucy, what have you done," she whispered, her voice cracking as she clutched the bundle closer. It was not an accusation. It was a plea born of fear, a desperate cry for a girl who had no idea how much danger she was in. Matilda had heard the stories on her rare trips to the village, but had never lent them much credence. They mostly came from old women who had nothing better to do than gossip. In every instance, the lass was unwed and had refused to name the child's sire.

Could this have been why Lucy had kept the sire of her babe a secret? Did he perchance suffer from a similar malformation? Each tale spoke of pointed ears, malformations twisting them into something truly grotesque. Twisted spines, extra limbs, sometimes with no limbs at all. The stories varied by the speaker, but each retelling painted a vivid picture of a child more demonic than human. Matilda's hands trembled as she looked down at the infant in her arms, then glanced over at Lucy with sympathy.

Her fear, however, was not rooted in some superstitious nonsense. She had been delivering babies for decades, she knew that sometimes, with no help from the devil or the lord they were not always put together right. What chilled her to her very core was knowing exactly what the villagers would do if they learned of this babe. They would send the witch‑finders without hesitation. Ignorance was a hungry beast in this village, and it devoured anything that did not fit neatly into its narrow view of the world.

One glimpse of those ears and they would call for pitch and wood before the sun had even risen. If they were caught here, in her cottage, she would find herself standing beside them on the pyre for harboring them. In Matilda's experience she found that ignorance bred fear, and superstitions bred heartache. There was nothing wrong with the child. It was not born of evil, or of sin. It was innocent, as pure and holy as the angels above, despite there not being a ring on the lassie's finger.

She knew Lucy did not collude with otherworldly forces or communed with Satan. She was just a lass who found herself on the wrong side of love. It didn't mean she was not worthy of grace, dignity or respect. It did not make her tainted or tarnished. Judge not lest ye be judged is one of the scriptures they often forgot, especially when casting that first stone. She looked over at the fire dancing in the hearth, a shiver running up her spine.

They certainly weren't practicing what the good book preaches, especially when they threw that torch on the pyre. She glanced at Lucy, her heart sinking. She had to protect her, even if Lucy wouldn't protect herself. Her chest ached with the weight of the choice forming in her mind, a choice she wished with all her soul she did not have to make. The witch-finder, relentless in his quest for a confession, would torture poor Lucy. The brutality would continue until the pain drove her mad.

She would be knocking on Heaven's door when she confessed. They always confessed in the end. She would tell them that she met with the Autumnal Elves late one eve. She would swear on the good book, that the elves had sired the child, not the devil. It would be those words. Her words. Used against her to seal her fate and justify their heinous actions. They would drag her from the jail to the village center, where she would be tied to a stake, atop a mountain made of pitch-soaked wood.

There would be no mercy, only a slow and agonizing death. They would quote scripture while committing the most ungodly of sins. The villagers would all stand by and watch as the fire devoured her, believing in the salvation only the flames could provide. Once the fire reached its pinnacle, and Lucy's screams had ceased, they would throw the baby on like cordwood. Matilda was ripped from her thoughts as Lucy began to stir.

"Let me see my daughter!" Lucy's voice, though weak, carried a fierce demand that rattled Matilda's resolve. She knew what must be done.

"Tis best you don't lay your eyes on the unfortunate creature. She will bring us nothing but trouble," Matilda said, looking down at the now sleeping bundle in her arms.

"Give me my daughter!" Lucy hissed.

"I don't care what the wee lass looks like. She is mine, and I want to see her." Matilda covered the sleeping baby's face with the towel.

"No lass, trust me. It's better this way," she said, heading for the door. Her throat burned with the words she could not allow herself to say. She knew what needed to be done, no matter how much it withered her soul to do it. She could not save the wee lass from the world of men, but she could save Lucy from the torture of the witch-finders and the agony of the flame.

By taking the child, she was removing the evidence of a supposed sin, even if it meant carrying the weight of this betrayal for the rest of her life.

"Matilda!" Lucy screamed.

"Bring me my baby!" Matilda could not respond. To speak would shatter her resolve. Lucy watched helplessly as Matilda quickly walked to the door with the baby in her arms. Tears cascaded down the new mother's cheeks as the realization dawned. Matilda intended to leave.

"Where are you taking her?" Lucy demanded, struggling to rise from the bed.

"You rest," Matilda called over her shoulder.

"Soon this will all be but a vague memory. I'm doing this for you. Remember that." She sighed, unlatching the door.

"No!" Lucy cried hysterically.

"You can't, you can't take her, bring her back!" Lucy pleaded helplessly from the bed. Matilda looked mournfully at the new mother."'Tis for the best, dear Lucy.

'Tis what is best for you as well as the wee lass," she said, closing and latching the door behind her.

"Matilda! Come baaack!" The scream hit Matilda like a physical blow, vibrating through the heavy wood of the door. She leaned her forehead against the rough timber for a single, agonizing second, her eyes squeezed shut against the hot sting of tears. She knew those words would haunt her for the rest of her days; they would be the last thing she heard before she slept and the first thing she remembered when she woke.

If only there was another way, she would have taken it, but the smell of the fire in the hearth reminded her too much of the pyres the villagers were so eager to build for those they did not understand.