Chapter Ninety-Eight
The surges rocked my entire body, setting every muscle trembling.
Althea took me to my chamber but, following my request, had gone in search of Iphinone.
She had barely left when another surge struck, this time strong enough to drop me to my knees, though I fought the desire to scream.
I knew that if I screamed, Althea would hear and rush back without Iphinone, and I needed my friend with me.
Even the most cynical could not deny this was the gods’ gift, bringing her to me the same day that my child was to be born.
As I waited, I knelt on all fours and recalled what Thalassa had told me when I birthed my first child.
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to crouch with my back pressed against the cold, damp brick of the walls.
With my eyes closed, I allowed the pain to ripple through me, pain that was near constant.
My jaw clenched and my nails dug so hard into my palms I believe I had drawn blood when a foot kicked outward from my belly.
I gasped, praying the pain would be short-lived, but I was offered no such respite.
Tears stung my eyes, and every nerve in my body seared as if they had been set alight.
If this was the power that the unborn child of a god could possess, I could barely imagine how formidable an she would grow to become.
I knew with the next surge that it would not be long and that my child would enter the world with only me present to witness her arrival, but despite the pain, I did not fear the moment.
Ares had promised me healthy daughters, and I knew that was what I would receive.
This was not pain, I tried to tell myself.
This was rebirth. Love. A transformation I must go through in order to become what I longed to be.
I placed my hands down between my legs and felt the flood of water drench my palms. A moment later, soft bone touched my fingers.
She eased out of my body and into my hands, so smoothly and silently that my heart stopped beating. Healthy babies cried when they were born, did they not? That was what I had been led to believe.
“No…gods, no…” I whispered as I pulled her up into my hands, fearing the same fate had befallen my second child as my first. She was far larger than my first daughter, over twice her size, and no pale blue tint colored her skin.
Her cheeks were pink, and when her eyes met mine, they were wide and blinking.
As my heart flooded with wonder, her little lips pursed, then widened with her first taste of the air.
“My daughter,” I whispered.
Time may have passed far quicker in the presence of my new spouse, but in that moment, it stopped.
I did not care if it was day or night, if armies were fighting or women and men falling in love.
I cared only for this child in my hands.
This newborn baby with plump pillars for thighs and arms, her scent as sweet as blossom.
And I was grateful no others had been present to share this moment.
For our entire lives, my daughter and I would be surrounded by family, by women.
Those few seconds of bare skin pressed against bare skin were ours and ours alone.
I was still there, gazing into her eyes, when the door swung open.
“You have done it?” Althea covered her mouth as tears filled her eyes. For a moment, she simply stood there, as transfixed by the child as I was. Then, without a word, she tiptoed across the chamber and knelt down on the ground beside me, placing a hand gently on the newborn’s head. “She is here?”
“She is.”
“And how are you feeling? You are not in pain?”
It was a question meant in solidarity and compassion, yet I struggled to form an answer.
How were words enough to convey the emotions that ran through me?
Just like how the word green barely touched on the spectrum of colors possible, the words love and happiness did not suffice to describe how I felt holding my daughter.
“There is nothing so perfect in all the world as a child, yet untouched by the hand of man.”
That voice alone was enough to unleash a torrent of emotion, a swell of grief and gratitude that interwove so deeply I could not hope to tell them apart. My eyes filled with tears. Tears of grief and love. Of gratitude and guilt.
“Iphinone.”
She stepped in slowly. Her grace was the same as always, though her hair showed the first streaks of gray, and her skin had creased around her eyes.
“Would you like to hold her?” I said.
It pained me to be separated from my child before I had offered her a first feed, but it was a temporary separation and one of my choosing. Unlike Iphinone and Aina’s.
Althea stood up and made room for Iphinone to crouch down beside me and place her hand on my daughter’s head. I held her out, but Iphinone shook her head.
“There is time enough for that.”
Stray tears rolled down my cheeks.
“You are staying?”
“For a short while.” She smiled at me briefly before turning her attention back to my child. “Tell me, have you thought of a name for her?”
When I had been married to Morsimus, I had considered hundreds of names for the children we might have had, only to realize such thoughts were a cruel waste of time.
When Cleon’s child had grown within me, I had allowed myself only glimpses of her future, but when that future had been stolen from me, I had refused to contemplate such a matter again.
But this time, I had not even been given the time to consider what her name would be.
Surely the daughter of an immortal deserved the greatest consideration of all?
Iphinone’s hand clenched mine, and those same eyes she shared with her daughter stared back at me. I knew there was only one name this child would possess.
“Hippolyte.” I said her name quietly at first, only to feel the strength of it on my tongue. It was a name that would be spoken for generations. Centuries even. A name worthy of the daughter of a god. “Her name will be Hippolyte, if you agree?”
Tears streamed down Iphinone’s cheeks, though she made no move to wipe them away. Instead, she bowed down and kissed the child’s head, then spoke her name’s meaning for us all to hear.
“Hippolyte. Ready the horses.”