Post by exile on May 15, 2008 19:15:13 GMT -5
“Push!”
Jocasta screamed in agony as she bore down upon the stubborn child in her womb, every muscle in her abdomen strained to the point of exhaustion.
“I can’t… I just can’t push any more!” she cried, breaking off in a fit a sobs.
Three days she had been in labor, three endless, excruciating days, and now the poor woman was all but spent. Jocasta was a vagrant, and a refugee; a stocky girl of half-orc decent who suffered alone except for the Bleakers at her side. She had arrived on the doorstep of the Gatehouse nearly a month gone, ripe with child and looking for a safe place to give birth.
Hadrian had seen her on occasion while he tended the almshouse, but he hadn’t truly met her before today. She had been nearly a week passed her dates when her water finally broke, and the midwives had fought long and hard to deliver her. After two days of fruitless endeavor however, she sat at an unwavering three inches dilated and at last the summons had gone out.
Since that morning, Hadrian had not left Jocasta’s side for a moment, and to her credit neither had his assistant Maeli. It was an unusual relationship that Hadrian and Maeli had established. The aasimar, being only a namer, was by all estimations the subordinate, but Maeli had put aside her rank as factotum for the moment and served without question. Throughout the day an army of aides had crept silently through the room bearing towels, hot water and whatever else Hadrian might demand, but for the most part the three had weathered the hours alone together.
“I can see the crown, Jocasta, you have to push.”
Maeli held the poor woman tightly as she screamed through another heart breaking contraction, applying a cool compress to Jocasta’s forehead with her other hand. The half-orc’s legs were propped up in makeshift stirrups and Hadrian sat between them, exhausted and bloodied. In the cleft before him was a downy patch of dark hair, slick with amniotic fluid. It had been like this for hours, every inch gained followed by another inch lost.
But Hadrian could sense that they were close now, so long as the woman could be encouraged to keep up her stamina or whatever element of it yet remained. Another woman might have long since perished in the effort, but Jocasta had a stubborn streak a mile long, as likely born of her human half as the other. She bore her trials with more stoicism than one could rightfully ask of her. Hadrian stared up at Jocasta over her gravid belly and tried to smile for the wearied woman. Both of them were sweating.
A tentative knock sounded at the door, and Hadrian called for the visitor to enter. A young woman wearing the sign of the Bleak Cabal across her bodice tiptoed into the chamber bearing a stack of clean linens and a steaming kettle.
“Set them down over here, please,” he instructed, and immediately returned his attention to his work.
“You’re almost there, Jocasta, just a few more,” Maeli pleaded. The half-orc nodded silently around gritted teeth and pained breaths. Hadrian adjusted his red-stained grasp on the woman’s labia, easing the taught lips down along the baby’s crown.
“Are you ready, Jocasta? On three. One, two, three, push!”
The woman heaved with all her might, and Hadrian watched the baby’s molded head bulge out from the cleft. ‘This is the one, he thought, breath held expectantly. Jocasta screamed, and wailed, and still she pushed. Little by little the patch of hair grew into a head and then a face. Hadrian reached in around the elongated caput, searching for any sign of a cord about the infant’s neck. Thankfully there was none.
“The head is out, Jocasta, the rest is easy. Ready? One, two, push!”
Slipping a finger in behind the baby’s scapula, he rotated the shoulder down and out from behind the pubic bone, turning the babe into the coronal plane where dimensions were most favorable. Within seconds the abdomen was delivered, followed swiftly by the legs. For a long moment, the slippery neonate in Hadrian’s grasp lay limp and blue, but as the pressures in its virgin lungs adjusted to life outside the womb the baby began to squirm and cry.
“Maeli, take the child,” Hadrian ordered. “No, not like that. Like I showed you, heel of your palm at the neck and the other hand around the ankles with one finger between the legs. Yes like that.”
Handing off the babe, he reached for his tray of implements and selected a silk tie. Hadrian tied the knots on the umbilical cord by touch and rote; it was a skill he had learned years before. Reaching for a pair of scissors, he cut the length in between and released the newborn into Maeli’s care. Pausing to wipe the sweat and blood from his face with a fresh towel, he wound the length of the umbilical cord about his hand and began to apply gentle downward traction. His other hand remained on Jocasta’s abdomen, preventing the uterus from inverting.
The cord lengthened by fractions of inches, but slowly the placenta released its hold on Jocasta. With a final heave it was out, and Hadrian quickly inspected it to ensure all the cotyledons had passed. Satisfied that none of the conceptus had been retained, he cleansed the blood from Jocasta’s birth canal with a towel and divided the quivering flesh. She had sustained a deep tear that extended into the muscle in the birthing process and it would have to be closed.
His Art could staunch the flow of blood, but to knit the flesh properly, especially flesh so badly distorted, he would do best to close by hand. Reaching for a suture, he drew the edges of the tear into apposition and began to sew with practiced, rhythmic motions. After her long ordeal, Jocasta was oblivious to the pain. When the last knot was thrown, Hadrian sat back to invoke the blessing of his patron and father.
“Allfather,” he intoned. “Take and protect this woman, bear her through pain, and hasten her convalescence.” As the last of his words departed Hadrian’s lips, a soft white light suffused the tortured Jocasta and the trickle of blood ceased altogether. Hadrian took a moment to inspect his handiwork. It was impossible to tell now that a tear had ever occurred.
Sitting back, he allowed himself a tired sigh which quickly evolved into a yawn. At the head of the bed, Jocasta cradled her newborn infant now warmly swaddled by Maeli. The babe was sleeping after its own private ordeal.
Maeli laid a compassionate hand on Hadrian’s shoulder. “Go to your chambers and sleep,” she cajoled. “I will clean up here.”
Hadrian nodded wearily and rose from his seat. His face was drawn and his robes and his arms were covered in blood and birthing fluids. “The babe is to be watched around the clock for the next three days. Seventy-two hours without the protection of its mother’s membranes is a long time. Send for me at once if the infant looks unwell.”
Bathing his hands in warm water, the aasimar scrubbed away what blood he could and made for the door.
Jocasta screamed in agony as she bore down upon the stubborn child in her womb, every muscle in her abdomen strained to the point of exhaustion.
“I can’t… I just can’t push any more!” she cried, breaking off in a fit a sobs.
Three days she had been in labor, three endless, excruciating days, and now the poor woman was all but spent. Jocasta was a vagrant, and a refugee; a stocky girl of half-orc decent who suffered alone except for the Bleakers at her side. She had arrived on the doorstep of the Gatehouse nearly a month gone, ripe with child and looking for a safe place to give birth.
Hadrian had seen her on occasion while he tended the almshouse, but he hadn’t truly met her before today. She had been nearly a week passed her dates when her water finally broke, and the midwives had fought long and hard to deliver her. After two days of fruitless endeavor however, she sat at an unwavering three inches dilated and at last the summons had gone out.
Since that morning, Hadrian had not left Jocasta’s side for a moment, and to her credit neither had his assistant Maeli. It was an unusual relationship that Hadrian and Maeli had established. The aasimar, being only a namer, was by all estimations the subordinate, but Maeli had put aside her rank as factotum for the moment and served without question. Throughout the day an army of aides had crept silently through the room bearing towels, hot water and whatever else Hadrian might demand, but for the most part the three had weathered the hours alone together.
“I can see the crown, Jocasta, you have to push.”
Maeli held the poor woman tightly as she screamed through another heart breaking contraction, applying a cool compress to Jocasta’s forehead with her other hand. The half-orc’s legs were propped up in makeshift stirrups and Hadrian sat between them, exhausted and bloodied. In the cleft before him was a downy patch of dark hair, slick with amniotic fluid. It had been like this for hours, every inch gained followed by another inch lost.
But Hadrian could sense that they were close now, so long as the woman could be encouraged to keep up her stamina or whatever element of it yet remained. Another woman might have long since perished in the effort, but Jocasta had a stubborn streak a mile long, as likely born of her human half as the other. She bore her trials with more stoicism than one could rightfully ask of her. Hadrian stared up at Jocasta over her gravid belly and tried to smile for the wearied woman. Both of them were sweating.
A tentative knock sounded at the door, and Hadrian called for the visitor to enter. A young woman wearing the sign of the Bleak Cabal across her bodice tiptoed into the chamber bearing a stack of clean linens and a steaming kettle.
“Set them down over here, please,” he instructed, and immediately returned his attention to his work.
“You’re almost there, Jocasta, just a few more,” Maeli pleaded. The half-orc nodded silently around gritted teeth and pained breaths. Hadrian adjusted his red-stained grasp on the woman’s labia, easing the taught lips down along the baby’s crown.
“Are you ready, Jocasta? On three. One, two, three, push!”
The woman heaved with all her might, and Hadrian watched the baby’s molded head bulge out from the cleft. ‘This is the one, he thought, breath held expectantly. Jocasta screamed, and wailed, and still she pushed. Little by little the patch of hair grew into a head and then a face. Hadrian reached in around the elongated caput, searching for any sign of a cord about the infant’s neck. Thankfully there was none.
“The head is out, Jocasta, the rest is easy. Ready? One, two, push!”
Slipping a finger in behind the baby’s scapula, he rotated the shoulder down and out from behind the pubic bone, turning the babe into the coronal plane where dimensions were most favorable. Within seconds the abdomen was delivered, followed swiftly by the legs. For a long moment, the slippery neonate in Hadrian’s grasp lay limp and blue, but as the pressures in its virgin lungs adjusted to life outside the womb the baby began to squirm and cry.
“Maeli, take the child,” Hadrian ordered. “No, not like that. Like I showed you, heel of your palm at the neck and the other hand around the ankles with one finger between the legs. Yes like that.”
Handing off the babe, he reached for his tray of implements and selected a silk tie. Hadrian tied the knots on the umbilical cord by touch and rote; it was a skill he had learned years before. Reaching for a pair of scissors, he cut the length in between and released the newborn into Maeli’s care. Pausing to wipe the sweat and blood from his face with a fresh towel, he wound the length of the umbilical cord about his hand and began to apply gentle downward traction. His other hand remained on Jocasta’s abdomen, preventing the uterus from inverting.
The cord lengthened by fractions of inches, but slowly the placenta released its hold on Jocasta. With a final heave it was out, and Hadrian quickly inspected it to ensure all the cotyledons had passed. Satisfied that none of the conceptus had been retained, he cleansed the blood from Jocasta’s birth canal with a towel and divided the quivering flesh. She had sustained a deep tear that extended into the muscle in the birthing process and it would have to be closed.
His Art could staunch the flow of blood, but to knit the flesh properly, especially flesh so badly distorted, he would do best to close by hand. Reaching for a suture, he drew the edges of the tear into apposition and began to sew with practiced, rhythmic motions. After her long ordeal, Jocasta was oblivious to the pain. When the last knot was thrown, Hadrian sat back to invoke the blessing of his patron and father.
“Allfather,” he intoned. “Take and protect this woman, bear her through pain, and hasten her convalescence.” As the last of his words departed Hadrian’s lips, a soft white light suffused the tortured Jocasta and the trickle of blood ceased altogether. Hadrian took a moment to inspect his handiwork. It was impossible to tell now that a tear had ever occurred.
Sitting back, he allowed himself a tired sigh which quickly evolved into a yawn. At the head of the bed, Jocasta cradled her newborn infant now warmly swaddled by Maeli. The babe was sleeping after its own private ordeal.
Maeli laid a compassionate hand on Hadrian’s shoulder. “Go to your chambers and sleep,” she cajoled. “I will clean up here.”
Hadrian nodded wearily and rose from his seat. His face was drawn and his robes and his arms were covered in blood and birthing fluids. “The babe is to be watched around the clock for the next three days. Seventy-two hours without the protection of its mother’s membranes is a long time. Send for me at once if the infant looks unwell.”
Bathing his hands in warm water, the aasimar scrubbed away what blood he could and made for the door.