Fools, these Mortals

Ophelia Chapter Eighteen

Every face blurred into one, given enough time. The same bland features of pain and weeping womanly sorrow. They all asked the same questions. Worn the same fruitless, laborious expression. Screams lacked any identity. Souls met the same fate. I had grown out of the habit of asking their names. It didn't matter. They didn't matter. They were a vessel to populate our master's numbers. The children born by either blood or soil were cherished and treated well, yet it had been too long since a human child thrived in Illyria, like I had. Wanting for nothing. Now it was my duty to ensure the safeguarding of the newest infant to be born in Illyria, whether mortal or else, but especially human. I was the closest thing to a midwife at the castle. Only I provided any comfort to the mother. The room was prepared to Lady Desdemona's orders, even in her absence. Dark, thick curtains blocked out the light. Sparse white candle flames bought the only light to see. The light was for the benefit of me and the mother that were present, not for our audience. Windows were shut and the soil bed was prepared. It was just a matter of waiting for the mother to lay down and push her child into the world. Breathing or not, the baby may live to see the last of this night.

The expectant mother was already experiencing the contractions since the midday, but historically, fate was against her. Shaking my head to not think on the matter, I refocused on my hands. Meticulously laying out the few tools along the bed that would assist me in the birth. The woman was standing against one of the room pillars, her legs trembling from her core's pressure. Her contractions were worsening. I had instructed her to alert me to when she was having one, and mentally I counted a fresh number. Each set, I counted less and less. Soon, a baby's cry would fill the candlelight room. At least I could pray that it would.

Already the vampire lords and ladies had gracefully glided into the room. There wasn't an empty seat left. Choosing to either stand or sit in the seats provided, the vampires formed a semi-circle around the birthing bed, craning their necks for a better view. So much blood would be spilt this night and they wanted to breathe what they couldn't have. A woman's blood was forbidden for vampires, unless consented, a rarity. The birth night was the closest a vampire was to come into contact with a mortal woman's blood. From past births, their faces almost instantly morphed into their sharpened angles, they paled quicker and each breath they took of the heavy air resulted in pools of drool. Arched brows, bared fangs, flashing eyes. It was only natural in the presence of such quantity, especially that of new life. The front seats were reserved for the royal family. The closer the seats to them, the higher one's position at court. It was a social food chain theatre.

The birthing room was quickly filling, and all eyes feasted on the bloated belly of the woman, the source of their hunter's instincts. The ultimate symbol of their temptation to sin, and only Sycorax's wrath in their afterlife assured of the woman's safety. Her moans of pain were starting to hitch with her panicked breathing as she saw how many vampires were in the room. She'd need to control her nerves if she was to survive the night. None of the human men bothered to even witness the births. Most were likely playing their gambling games at the Pits, not that they would be of any help. Though, another set of hands would be useful. Even if it was to hold the woman's hand. Sustainer Iago would sometimes linger at the corner of the room. He always brought the soil and stayed longer than most until the women's struggles grew too much to bear for him to watch. Though Iago may not acknowledge it, I knew there was some glimmer of good in him, if Iago was given opportunity to prove it. But I couldn't face delivering this baby alone. My mentality had been rattled since last night. There was too much pressure to bear. Walking carefully to the woman as not to startle her, I placed my hands on her belly and firmly felt where the baby was. Ice staked my chest, but I couldn't tell the mother the truth she needed, let alone lie to her face. The baby hadn't turned inside her belly and was in the wrong position, practically a death sentence. And I refused to butcher her abdomen. My consciousness couldn't take that strain to bear forever.