Who | |
What |
Sara gives birth. One lives, one dies. |
When |
It is midmorning of the seventh day of the twelfth month of the second turn of the 12th pass. |
Where |
Infirmary |
OOC Date |
Infirmary
Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.
It was almost like being back in Harper Hall. Fewer people, of course, but that just meant fewer egos. Those who seemed to think that women had no place in the craft rarely lasted here, and eventually were scorned into silence by others. The freedom of knowledge was exhilarating, as even with their petty bickerings, the crafts gave freely of one another. Students products were richer and more detailed, the emotion more raw as they had more experience to pull upon.
Even the weather was more like the comforts of home. Humidity caused havoc on the instruments and Sara spent a great deal of time soothing the wood back into its proper forms, allowing the sweetness of their voices to sing out. The only downer was the Harpsichord.
It sat, in the Harper Section, unplayed. The growing of her belly had made it almost impossible for Sara to complete the repairs and it weighed upon her daily.
Finally, it was too much. That instrument was a piece of her soul, one of the few remnants of a past that was so far gone. A link to Edsel and from him to her parents and brothers. It simply wasn’t right for it to sit broken. A few willing hands had been gathered and pushed into service. Not just those from the harpers, but among the metal and woodsmiths; people willing to work under Sara’s exacting gaze and perfectionist demands. The needles had to be sharp, the strings just the right thickness. It wasn’t enough for the wood to be smooth, it had to be velvet soft.
Behind all of this industry the healers had sat, had warned. She needed to be resting, to be careful. It was too close, but not close enough, just enough of the wrong type of movement….
It was a moment of celebration. If everything passed her careful inspection the Harpsichord would be done and protected for years against further damage if carefully maintained. Crouching downwards to inspect the work under the harpsichord was something that Sara had done without incident for weeks. But this time, as her knees bend something goes wrong. Pain lances through her and rather than the careful bending she falls, the hands of those around her just barely catching her before she crumbles completely to the ground. The work comes to an abrupt halt as Sara’s world pulls from the past into the present.
They carry her the short distance from the harper complex to the healer’s. The hands which assisted her before now assist in a different way as her the pain causes breath to come in short and laboured gasps. Far away she knows what is going on, the healers had mentioned it. But now it is more real, more in the present than ever before.
The voices of the healers were a blur above her. Something about blood and the baby. It’s too hard to focus on their words, and they swim about Sara in a dizzying array as fast as her favorite dance tune. Hints of Toss the Feathers run through her head, the pace building minute by minute.
Was it suppose to hurt this badly? The thought comes sharply into focus. The cloud seems to clear long enough to focus on what was happening. The baby. It comes early, too early? What day is it? Did it matter? Encouraging words float from the healers lips, trying to get her to pay attention to the one thing that mattered right now. The bleeding couldn’t be stopped till the child was born.
Stubborn to her core Sara pushes, finally, as the demands of the healers weigh upon her. Each slightly weaker than the last. Strength seeps outwards, as she fades moment by moment.
Time didn’t matter here, just following the demands of those around her. She had wanted this moment, had ignored all the warnings for it.
She clings to life, pushing until it comes, to be caught up into the arms of the healer. The darkness that had been held at bay creeps upwards again but Sara cannot give in. Not yet. She strains to hear, to listen.
Where was the cry?
Wasn’t it suppose to cry?
She fights the darkness, fights to open her eyes to look to see what is wrong. But it is too much. Too hard. The darkness envelops her, and the cry is never heard. She never hears the sharp smack of hand against skin, the bubbling sound, followed by the sharpest and most piercing of cries.
One of the healers takes the baby, a girl with a mop of dark curly hair, and begins to clean it as the others gather around Sara. They work, but it comes apparent only too soon that she is gone. All that is left behind is a husk of the oldtime harper, and the baby.
“Edlsesa,” The healer cleaning the baby wraps it tightly and turns back to learn what the others have already known. There was to be no happy hand off to the new mother. Both birth and death danced in this room each to claim a victory.