Luna of Rogues

Part 69 - New Hope

So today is a very special day. Friday 13th, the uploading of the 69th story part *immature sniggering*, the day of my first exam (welsh, urgh) and a very special new character's birthday(incidentally also the day before my sixteenth birthday). To all of you who are also currently suffering through the form of slow torture that is exams, good luck. I'm going on study leave as of Monday, which actually leaves more time to write. Whoo hoo! End of compulsory education!

I don't know what I expected from a birth, but this was not it. There was a fair bit of blood, for a start. The sheets and mattress were splattered with it. According to the expert — Maggie, who was overseeing the whole thing — that was fairly normal, especially with werewolf babies. They were bigger than most, and a great deal harder to push out.

"Ow, crap," Fion whined. "Just get it out already."

"That's your job," I reminded her.

We were crowded around for moral support — all the rogue girls. Tally, Cassidy, Maggie and me.

"Not helpful, Skye," she snapped. "When you've tried pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your vagina, you can make as many sarcastic comments as you like."

Maggie felt her forehead. "Are you in pain, honey?"

Fion rolled her eyes. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and one of her hands clenched mine with bone-breaking strength. "Just a bit."

"You can give her some gas now," the old woman informed us. She was busy doing all the jobs of a midwife, most of which I didn't understand.

Cassidy was closest to the tank and quickly worked out how to attach the face mask. Minutes later, Fion was breathing in deep lungfuls of the stuff. It was commonly known as laughing gas, for no particular reason at all. I had received a few gulps over the years for stitches and never once found it funny.

"I feel like I'm floating above my body." Fion's voice came out in barely more than a whisper. "Is that normal?"

"Very. Don't breathe in too much all at once," I scolded her, confiscating the facemask. It only made things even more overwhelming in large quantities.

I had placed myself at the head of the bed, to be moral support without having to deal with the actual birth part. Outside the door, I could hear the steady pacing of feet. Rhodric or Rhys, or both of them. The rest of the crowd would be at the bottom of the stairs, getting themselves well and truly drunk. It was a rogue tradition to ply the prospective father with alcohol, and in Brandon's obvious absence, Ollie had cheerfully volunteered to lead the effort.

"What are you going to call it?" Tally asked in an attempt to distract Fion.

"Skye, obviously," I said.

Fion actually laughed, although it was a pained sound. "Mm, no. This poor child is getting a fresh start. I'm calling it Aidan or Nia."

"They're good names, sweetie," Maggie said approvingly. "But right now I need you to push, not talk."

So she did. For another forty-five minutes at least, until I was sure whoever was outside the door must have worn a track on the stone floor. Until finally, a little pink bundle of joy made its way into the world. Maggie wrapped the baby in a towel and dealt with the umbilical cord while Fion slumped back, completely exhausted but smiling all the same. She still didn't let go of my hand, which had long since lost all sensation.

"It's a girl," Maggie announced. For the first time, it occurred to me that this baby was actually her great-grandchild. "A little Llewellyn girl."

The child was placed in my sister's lap, and I saw my niece for the first time. She had her father's hazel eyes and a smattering of brown hair that wasn't anywhere close to Fion's vivid shade of ginger. There was a lot of her mother in her face, though. At least, I reckoned so. It was hard to tell when the little girl was so tiny.