Liu ath na, juu ta ne guile no—
I’m told to push again.
I bear down, tears slipping free as my afterbirth slides out with a warm gush that doesn’t stop, like pulling the plug on a sink … or gently releasing a soul.
I try not to dwell on the thought. To mull over the fact that it feels as though my body is trying to chase my daughter to her end.
She’s staying, even if I’m going. I’ll breathe my final breath into her and make it so.
Eeah to ail. Eeah to ail.
Han dui garl, igath da se se marth …
Cloths are stuffed between my legs, each pulled away heavy with blood and slopped in a bucket, hauled free of the suite. Tinctures are forced down my throat and rubbed on my abdomen before a maid pushes on my belly, massaging my womb in a way that would make me cry out in pain were my daughter’s continued silence not flaying me to death. Slowly.
Precisely.
Still, I continue to rub her back. Pat her firmly.
Sing to her.
Still, I refuse to abandon hope, clinging to it with every bit of my fading strength.
Eeah to ail. Eeah to ail.
Han dui garl, igath dain to ne …
Everything judders.
There’s the shrill sound of scratching stone as Slátra digs her claws into the eaves, finding purchase on a part of the palace not built for perching dragons. A churn of luminous movement, and one of the maids fails to stifle her squeal when Slátra blindly threads her massive head through the balcony doorway—just barely able to fit.
The room fills with the brisk chill that radiates off her hide.
She pushes forward, exposing some of her neck, cramming the space with her immense presence. All but two of my maids cower against the far wall.
The next verse is hard to force past my thickening throat.
Lio lo na, lo na …
I look into Slátra’s milky eyes, thankful for her presence.
Thankful that I don’t have to do this on my own.
Duali do, shooth ait nui la …
She sniffs the air, blunt snuffing as I rub.
Pat.
Sing.
Despite her blindness, I feel through the heavy thump of our shared heart just how much she smells.
Senses.
Feels.
She makes a low keening sound that echoes my own agony. Ever so gently, she nuzzles the back of my daughter’s head, whining. A soft probe for her to breathe.
