Zoe rushes to the hospital when she receives news that Bethany is in labor. The moon is full on this night, just as it was the night Agatha was born.
---
“Stay wid me, Zo’.” Connor’s calm voice wafted through the air in between her screams of pain and anguish.
“Staying…with you…is what…” she screamed and exhaled sharply through the contraction “…is what got me into this mess in the first place!”
She grabbed Connor’s hand and squeezed hard enough to hear bones crack.
“Oh, honey…I’m so…” she screamed as another contraction racked her body. “I’ll heal that later, honey. I’m so sorry.”
Rends stifled a laugh as he stepped forward.
“Hey, Connor. Why don’t you let me step in here? I am a doctor after all.”
“No. You. Are. – Oh! For the love of Gaia!!!”
That was the last thing she remembered before her memory went black.
---
Bethany is breathing in quick, pained gasps when Zoe arrives. Aguja stands by with a barrel of fresh rainwater and two piles of tattered cloth, one fairly clean and the other darkly stained.
The soon to be mother is loosely wrapped in something that looks like a horse harness, reinforced with crude metal locks and straps, probably repurposed prison restraints. The room is lit by a pungent buffalo chip fire burning in one corner.
The woman lets out a grunting scream as burst of bloody fluid rushes out of her, some of it spraying as far as the opposite wall. Aguja ducks back, evading the worst of it, but Magdalene doesn’t react except to hold her sister's leg as flecks of blood streak her cheek. The bleeding is substantial, and Zoe can already tell that something is wrong.
“How long has she been bleeding like this?” Zoe asks as she grabs for some of the clean cloths.
“Too long,” Magdalene responds, her eyes narrowed at Aguja.
The restrained woman gives a low moan, gritting her teeth. Her eyes snap open and she looks up at the ceiling. Aguja does her best to staunch the flow, praying to God through the intercessory totems for strength and healing. Aguja is more skilled than could be expected of a backwater self-taught medicine woman, but she is no doctor. Sister Magdalene, herself pregnant, resolutely helps in whatever way she can.
The pain grows, and Bethany begins to lose focus. Aguja speaks up.
“I advise we use the muzzle, as difficulty in birth can result in the mother being overcome by pain and rage.”
Zoe shook her head. “No. The restraints will cause more harm to both the mother and the baby. There are other ways to save her from herself.”
She began quietly chanting to the Mother, requesting that she calm the savage beast attempting to tear this young mother apart. The contractions continue steadily, painful drumbeats that mark the slow passage of time. The night has worn on, and the baby is nearly ready.
Well after midnight, Bethany screams loudly, seizes, and falls limp.
“No, no, no, no, Bethany. Stay with me.” Magdalene yells.
Her womb continues to writhe, signally to Zoe that the child is still alive…for now.
“We have to get the baby out of her. It’s killing her from the inside.” Zoe added.
Zoe utilizes the touch of the Mother to keep Bethany alive but unconscious.
She heats her spirit knife to sanitize the blade. Rends may not believe in germs, but she’d rather be safe just in case. The Theurge knew she would have to work fast for the sake of both mother and child.
“What are you doing?” Aguja exclaimed.
“Getting the baby out of her. If her body won’t help us, then we have to take matters into our own hands. You may want to secure those bonds just in case she wakes up.”
Aguja springs into action, tightening the muzzle and harness. Zoe breathes slowly and deeply as she recalls the anatomy books she studied at O’Toole’s. She touches the warm tip of the knife to a place along the lower abdomen and is about to cut when four sharp protrusions poke through from inside the womb.
“Easy there, Baby. Mama Zoe’s gonna get you out.”
Zoe lifts up another quick prayer to the Mother to keep the child from tearing free on its own. She presses the claws back into the womb and quickly makes the incision, not sure what to expect next.
A dark limb emerges, slowly at first, and then stretching free almost of its own accord. It is lean and covered with fine damp hair, the tips of the tiny fingers ending in long nails. Slick dark hair, splayed coltish limbs, tiny sharp pearlescent teeth and eyes tightly sealed against the searing light. The child is born wearing the war-form, and it gives vent to a defiant primal scream.
Home 
