“Prim, come help me support her.”
If she felt the need to push, then she would push.
Prim looked at him with wide eyes, before shaking her head slowly. He would have liked to have gone to her, to have taken her hand in his before leading her to Sanren, assuring her all the while that she would perform quite adequately. Sanren would be the one with much responsibility. He could help to ease the process, but he was mostly there to soothe as best he could, to encourage.
But they had not that time, with Sanren beginning to jerk upon the bed, her cries becoming more insistent as she struggled to find purchase against the cot, to push...
“Prim, now! This is to be a healer! Not walks through the woods collecting plants, but this.”
She startled, much as Lenra had when her mother spoke to her more sharply, and though he felt a moment’s guilt to have directed her in such a manner, it did prompt her into action.
Prim was pale when he glanced up at her, but she tried to hide her expression from him.
She was terrified.
And he could offer her no comfort. At least, not bodily.
“You will be all right,” he assured her.
“I’m not worried about me,” she corrected, her eyes flitting down to Sanren. She did not seem even aware of the two holding her legs, only aware that she was able to now push properly, though Rykkon had to remind her to rest now and again lest she overtax her already expended energies.
Rykkon shook his head and Prim seemed to understand. There was no purpose dwelling on the possibility of death, not in the birthing room. This was a place of life, of one that could bring the deepest of joys.
He had seen mothers in more terrible circumstances—had even lost one when her body was simply too small to accommodate the birth.
He had hope for Sanren, and he hoped Prim could muster some as well.
It lasted longer than he had thought possible, especially given Sanren’s waning strength. The young was a stubborn one, refusing to budge from the confines of her womb, and night darkened before the sac began to emerge, slick and dark as Rykkon prepared himself to tend to the newly born.
With a final cry, Sanren pushed, a gush of blood following the sac, and Rykkon dearly wished that he had trained Prim more so she might help one while he dealt with the other.
But the youngling had to be released from its sac lest it suffocate as the cord fell away from the mother.
Even as Sanren lay bleeding, her eyes wide and pleading before fluttering closed.
Rykkon worked quickly, puncturing the sac and pulling forth a baleful, squirming youngling, its breath coming steadily through unhappy grunts.
It would need to be washed, and he looked over to Prim to see if she might tend to it, but her eyes looked upon the scene with barely disguised horror.
Perhaps it was not his person that would finally disgust her—it was the way of birth, of life. And with a vague wondering, he rather thought she would never allow him to touch her again. Not if it meant this.
He laid the new young in the carefully prepared cradle, knowing that he did it a disservice by not tending to it thoroughly. But he rather thought the new little male would prefer to have a mother than a prompt bath.
“Sanren, your son is born.” He tapped at her cheek, needing her awake.
She did not stir, and he set to work, having to prepare before he fought to rouse her.
The cord slipped from her body, and another ooze of blood accompanied it, glistening and wet upon those woven blankets. He shook his head. A poultice for the area, cloths to stem the bleeding.
And nettlas to restore the blood that had been lost.
He found cloths in the area obviously meant for cooking, a basket of them near a wash-pot. He doubted she would approve of him using them for this, but that was quite all right with him. Her objection would mean that she had lived.
He spread a generous amount of poultice onto a cloth, to soothe, to heal, to stem the blood, before tucking it against her tightly. She did not move, did not object, and that concerned him. “Sanren,” he tried again, pulling out the vial that had awoken her before, pressing it beneath her nose. She groaned and turned away, but her eyes did not open.
But it would be enough for her to swallow, so he took the nettlas and added it to a cup of water, urging her to drink.
“Is she going to be all right?” Prim asked quietly, as he stepped back and returned his attention to the youngling.
He was still grunting his protests at having been abandoned so soon into his existence, and Rykkon hushed him, taking him into the cooking area in search of more water. Prim followed, cautiously, and he noted her wariness about him.
He would have to apologise for that later.
“I have done what I can. The amount of blood is... concerning.”
Prim nodded, her eyes focused on the small body in his arms. He sat upon a bench, dipping another cloth into the cool drinking water, and rubbing the youngling’s face—the small male did not approve, his squawk of protest an admirable one.
“He... he’s healthy?”
Rykkon watched the new male’s skin begin to shift, saddened that his mother was not awake to see it. As in death, the newness of birth showed their true colour, and it was something special to witness the first change.
And his parents had missed it.
“He is well,” he answered her, feeling strangely wistful. And, to his disappointment, somewhat distant from his wife. He should not feel so, not after what they had so recently shared, but it troubled him deeply to see her react so to the birthing process. There was beauty to be found there, despite the pain and the blood. The little body in his arms was evidence enough of that.
Prim came a bit closer, staring down at the youngling, black eyes peering back at her in turn. “He’s...”
“Perfect,” Rykkon stated, more defensively than he had expected. They must seem strange to her, the young of his kind. All ridges and pointed ears, and scalps as bare as the fully grown. But they were precious, and it would pain him deeply to hear her disparage them.
“I was going to say cute,” Prim corrected, though her expression was rather rueful. Rykkon looked at her carefully. The disgust she had shown at the birth was missing, which suggested she spoke truly in her assessment of the young. But there was a sadness there that was strange to him. “Why doesn’t he cry?”
Rykkon began the bath again, this time wiping the cloth over a strong leg, which kicked and swatted at the cloth with determination. If Sakmet had been present, Rykkon would have directed him to heat the water, to bathe the youngling himself as he learned each of the small features that composed his son.
But the warrior was not present, and Rykkon was too weary to tend the fires himself.
“My people do not cry,” he reminded her.
“Oh. The babies... the ones at camp, I mean, they were always crying.” She peered at him a little closer, her eyes narrowing. “Do they... do they always come in that...” she did not seem to know the word, so she made a vague gesture over the youngling’s frame.
“Of course. The sac eases the way for the mother.” He grimaced. “But this one was not particularly effective, I think.”
He paused. “Do your... your babies, do they come a different way?”
Prim shrugged, relaxing a little as she seemed to grow more comfortable. He wondered which aspect in particular distressed her—the process itself, or the strangeness of it all. But he had already posed a query, and it would be rude to pepper her with inquiries.
“I’ve never seen a baby born before. My mother... she had a couple miscarriages after me, but that was all.”
Rykkon bowed his head. “To lose the unborn is a sadness,” he noted solemnly.
Prim looked at him a while and he wondered what she sought. “She cried about it. The last one... she was pretty far along when she lost him.”
Rykkon watched her carefully. “Yet you did not cry.”
Prim stiffened, he
r lips thinning, before she looked away from both males. “I didn’t want them growing up like I did. But I... I didn’t wish for them to die.”
Rykkon sighed deeply. He knew they had been taught differently on the subject of young, but he hoped she was coming to appreciate that things were different here. That the little male in his arms would grow strong, be well cared for and tutored until he was old enough to learn his trade.
He then would choose a mate, and the cycle would continue anew.
“It scares me,” she admitted quietly, her eyes uncertain as she looked at him—almost as if she feared to divulge her worries. “All of this. Motherhood, and childbirth, and... wondering if I’ll be good enough. And you sit there all perfect, knowing exactly what to do and I...” she shrugged again, this time with her arms coming to twine about herself, an embrace that he had yet to offer her.
“I am not perfect,” he reminded her, as if such was even necessary. “I cannot even assure this little one that he will have a mother come morning.”
Prim shook her head. “You do not see how capable you look when you are at work. When you know precisely what to offer from that pouch of yours, how to bathe and hold that baby. And I... I feel so... inadequate next to you. And that’s a new feeling for me. My life might have been a difficult one, but it was familiar and I knew what to do and how to do it.”
Rykkon did not know quite how to answer her—not when she was being so ridiculous. “You will learn,” he finally settled on. “I felt much as you do when apprenticing under my father. You did well, helping me, and you will continue to grow in capability as things progress.”
Prim gave him a dubious look. “Or,” he offered, “if you would prefer, you may remain at home. I will not force you into anything, as you well know. You need not learn my trade if you would prefer not to.”
“I want to learn,” she informed him, looking at him steadily. “But I need you to be patient with me when sometimes I find it... difficult.”
He nodded gravely at that. “I apologise for being stern. A healer does not always have the luxury of hesitation.”
“I understand that. Just... this was a lot.”
Rykkon would not contest that, but there was something she might still learn that was perhaps not quite so difficult. “Here. You shall hold him.”
Her eyes widened, and she looked ready to run from him. But he was already pressing nearer, though he kept careful hold of the little male until Prim reflexively grasped him. “I do not...”
“Hush,” he told her, pleased with the way she was looking at her charge, careful and mindful of his newness.
Prim held him while Rykkon finished the youngling’s bath and found another cloth, wrapping it between his legs and around his backside in case any fluids should emerge. He would have to eat soon, and if Sanren did not awaken, another milking mother would have to be summoned.
Prim eventually began to soften, and she spoke in low tones as she explored some of the same features she had so recently inspected on her mate.
One was now thankfully covered, but he watched it all with some amusement as she touched the pointed ear, and saw how his flesh melded to mimic the colour of her own.
“He’s amazing,” she whispered, her tone somewhat startled.
“He is,” Rykkon agreed, always finding the new lives to be so. He had not been permitted to attend one for so long, and a longing began for one of his own.
A part of Prim.
Mixed with a part of him.
It was a pleasing thought. And though she might fear it, might worry that she would prove inadequate as a mother, he held no such concerns.
Not when she looked at the little one in her arms with such wonder, when she smiled at him with wryly as her finger was seized and promptly chewed upon.
No, he held no such concern. Not with her.
“You will be fine,” he assured her, not for the first time that day. But this time, she seemed to believe him, at least a little.
He returned to the main room to check on Sanren. She slept, her breathing deep and even—a reasonably good sign. There was little else he could do for her, but he would stay, would watch over her as she rested, and hope that perhaps soon the village would all be well and he could spend an entire day and night with his wife.
Perhaps exploring.
Soon.
Even if he had to stopper his ears to keep out the sounds of their knockings.
“How can I tell if he likes me?” Prim asked, the curtain obstructing his view of what the youngling might be doing to make her ask such a thing.
He smiled, shifting Sanren slightly so he could remove the worst of the soiled blankets. Better a barren cot than for her to rest in the evidence of the birth.
“If he found you displeasing, he would be much more vocal about it.” He did not know if that was strictly true, but it seemed reasonable enough.
And he had yet to have been told that she was different, undesirable as a member of the village, so he had no reason at all to mistrust the female currently holding him.
With Sanren properly situated once more, Rykkon thought to search the home for more bedding, lest she become cold.
Only for the door to suddenly opened, Sakmet’s furious eyes landing upon him.
“Healer,” he stated lowly, the lack of welcome in his tone readily apparent.
And before Rykkon could offer explanation—or perhaps more truthfully a chastisement for not having summoned him sooner—he saw Sakmet’s attention shift over his shoulder.
To take in the view of Prim holding his newly born son.
And Rykkon saw murder in his eyes.
18. Heal
“Sakmet,” Rykkon acknowledged, both a greeting and a warning. He angled his body so as to intercept Sakmet’s view of Prim and the youngling, an action not missed by the enraged male judging from the spark in his eyes and the clenching of his fists.
“Give him to me,” Sakmet instructed, his tone allowing no option of refusal. “She has no right to touch him.”
Rykkon would have argued that it was unwise to begin the introductions to his son while in such a temper, but if Sakmet was holding the youngling, he could not risk attacking with a blade.
And despite his attitude, Rykkon did not wish to see harm come to anyone this night. He may most thoroughly object to Sakmet’s opinion of Prim, to his refusal to allow Lenra to fetch a healer for her mother, yet even then he would not attempt to keep a father from his offspring.
Rykkon said nothing in return, only turning so he could quickly fetch the youngling from Prim and slowly approach Sakmet. The male’s eyes sent a resentful glare toward Prim, but he made no move to attack, his attention eventually shifting to the wriggling bundle in his arms.
“You were correct,” Rykkon confirmed his earlier assumption at the youngling being male. “He is strong and healthy.”
Sakmet grunted, accepting him into one arm, obviously well practised in holding young. Satisfied that he was supported properly, Rykkon made to pull away, only to feel a long, painful slice against his forearm.
He released no pained sound, too surprised at Sakmet’s actions to offer protest, knowing well that he would risk no retribution while he still held his newest offspring. His blood bubbled forth at a surprising speed, and Rykkon stepped back, noting Prim’s eyes as they widened at the injury.
Sakmet’s voice was hard, his expression equally so. “You had no business here. You bring only trouble.” He moved further into the room, moving closer to Sanren’s side. Rykkon gestured for Prim to come to him, even as he pressed against the wound. It was relatively shallow, made by a short blade. He had suffered worse, but still, it would require treatment. And he feared what should occur if Sakmet put the youngling down. Their retreat would have to be swift, and he would not be separated from his wife even by a short space of a room’s length—especially not when he was injured.
“She was in distress,” Rykkon insisted, gritting his teeth through the throbbing of h
is arm. He knew the argument to be pointless, Sakmet obviously having reached his own conclusion as to his wife’s welfare. But knowing now how quick Sakmet was to exact punishment for perceived wrongs, he worried for the male’s daughter. “Lenra was right to come for me. Her strength was failing and I fear for what would have occurred should I not have helped her.”
Sakmet’s eyes narrowed. “She is strong. You simply try to justify your presence when it is a taint upon my house.”
Rykkon closed his eyes briefly, fighting for calm. His arm was only growing more painful, the blood seeping between his fingers as he held the wound firmly. It would need to be cleansed, and bound—possibly sewn. The angle would be awkward since he would be forced to use his less dominant hand, but it could be done. He doubted that Prim would be willing to do it—sewing flesh was a gruesome business. “Do not be angry with your daughter. She was frightened and thought she was doing rightly.”
“She should have come for me,” he bit out furiously, his grip on the youngling causing him to squawk in protest. Sakmet instantly shifted his hold, his expression showing some measure of regret, though it hardened again quickly enough as he glanced at Rykkon once more. “You will leave now. Do not think to come to me for payment. I have nothing for you here.”
Such was not their way—Rykkon would even have the backing of the elders should he return to demand some measure of compensation for his trade. In addition, Sakmet had injured their healer, an offence that would not sit well within the village. But now was not the time to argue, bleeding as he was and with Prim looking so uncertain. And, for now, there was little he needed, and he would be gratified enough for Sanren to live and Prim to do so also.
Even if a part of him rankled at the injustice, at yet another example of how his people dishonoured him.
“She needs rest, Sakmet. And much of it. Watch her closely and if she does not wake...” his entreaty that the male send of him was close upon his tongue, but he knew it would be foolish to speak of it. Sakmet was obviously proud, and not to be contradicted. Rykkon could only hope that his care of his mate would override his arrogance, lest he find himself with two offspring and no wife to tend them.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 23