1. Elora
1
ELORA
“ I f you don’t get your head out of the clouds girl, I will have to cuff you!”
I look up to see Granuail standing with her hands on her hip, shooting me a disapproving glare.
“I’m sorry, G.” I say, setting the book I’m reading on the table next to my chair.
Sighing, Granuail taps her foot against the ground impatiently. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, young lady.”
I giggle as I stand, settling a hand on her arm. “I know, I know, I’m insufferable.”
Granuail gives another exasperated sigh, but a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.
She raised me and had been the only constant in my life since birth. My mother died bringing me into this world, and my father, King Logan, couldn’t be bothered with me.
I was only female after all.
Therefore, I had been left in the care of Granuail, or “G” as I had come to nickname her. She had been my mother, my teacher, and my friend for twenty-two years.
I pick up my book and hold it against my chest, walking slowly towards the window. The light outside was beginning to fade, the last vestiges of light disappearing behind green mountains in the distance.
The library begins to take on an otherworldly glow as the maids start lighting the candles and sconces scattered throughout the giant room.
This place was my refuge.
The only place I could go to get away from the constant naggings and expectation of a princess of Delyra.
I was the middle child of three royal children.
One elder brother Olam, who, at this very moment was welcoming his first-born child into this world.
Another, Ilanie, was six years younger than me, and probably in her chambers by this time.
I was much closer with my brother than I was with my younger sister.
The kingdom of Delyra was small but peaceful. Walled off on three sides by tall, impassible mountains, it was the third kingdom of the descendants of Eden.
The world before this was corrupt, and technology and money ruled and governed all.
The people who lived then were on the brink of destruction by their own hands. Earth was the bargaining tool in a war that spanned millennia, and when the battle was fought and lost, the remaining population of the three kingdoms had been given a second chance.
The price had been their technology.
So long as they gave up all their technological advancements and promised to go back to a simpler way of life, they would be given clemency.
Of course, the ancestors of the three kingdoms agreed, and each made their peace with the entities that governed our world.
Demons.
I shiver.
It was all stories, passed down by the elders that raised us to keep us in line. Granuail had used a story or two to scare me into cooperating numerous times.
I smile at the memory of being huddled up beneath the blanket, nothing but the crackling of the fire to keep me company after one such story.
“Come now, we should get you to the birthing chamber.” Granuail starts, interrupting my nostalgia.
“Olam will want you there when the babe arrives.”
I nod, following Granuail from the library. I’m careful to pull the skirts of the lavender gown I wear from beneath my feet as I right myself. There was only one thing I feared more than the ghost stories of demons haunting Delyra.
Falling.
I wasn’t exactly born well and had brittle bones. “The result of a hard pregnancy,” the physician’s had called it…or something along those lines.
I quickly realized when I was younger that I wasn’t able to do all the things other kids my age did. My attempt at horseback riding had resulted in three broken bones. I was never strong enough to draw the string on a bow.
Therefore, I found my solace in books.
I studied everything I could get my hands on. Languages, art, history, old texts and ancient teachings. I immersed myself in learning of the world before this one, and attempted to uncover more information about the elusive deities that ruled this world.
I quicken my strides to catch up with Granuail.
“How is Ziterra?” I ask.
Granuail clasps her hands in front of her, pursing her lips. She doesn’t respond to me right away.
“G?” I ask, a small tug of fear blossoming in my belly.
She sighs, glancing over at me quickly before looking away.
“The labor has been strenuous.” She pauses before continuing. “Ziterra is tired.”
I look at the ground, the dread blooming outwards.
The rest of the walk is made in silence.
Cries echo through the corridor as Granuail and I approach the door to the birthing chamber. Olam paces outside, his hands in his hair, his grey eyes wide with fear.
I quicken my pace when he finally notices me, and he sighs gratefully as he takes my hands in his. He leans in, kissing me on my cheek. I smile, taking my brother’s disheveled state in.
All the Delyrian people were born with different shades of silver or white hair. The result of being what they called “moon touched.”
Reaching up, Olam runs a hand through his locks before his eyes meet mine. I search his, but only see fear where I normally see strength.
“She’s been in labor far too long, Elora.” He whispers. I nod, squeezing his hand in mine.
“What have the physician’s said?” I ask calmly.
“Not much.”
Olam releases my hands, walking to sit at a stone bench near the wall. I take a deep breath before moving to sit next to him.
“It will be ok.” I say softly, placing a comforting hand on his back.
Olam nods, but I can tell he isn’t convinced.
The door to the birthing chamber opens, and a young maid comes rushing out, dipping hurriedly. “My Lord, her grace is asking for you.”
Olam jumps up, rushing to the door and disappearing inside.
I sigh, placing my hands in my lap as the door closes with a soft thud, leaving me alone in the corridor.
I hated seeing my brother so distraught, and tried as hard as I could to remember everything I had read on traditional birthing rituals. In the time before them, mothers would be hooked up to machines and pumped full of incredible amounts of synthetic medicine to help speed the natural process.
Many times, this resulted in a traumatic experience for both the mother and the child.
Other times mothers would be laid on surgical tables, and the babes cut from their bodies.
I shiver at the thought.
If that were to be attempted now, the mother would die in lieu of the child.
I filter through books and books of texts in my mind, trying to remember anything that could help.
Another cry permeates the silence. A moment later, the chamber door opens again, and two physicians exit.
I know them well.
Lord Dawnell and Lord Finley.
I stand to intercept them, and they bow to greet me.
“My lords.” I say in greeting, dipping slightly in return.
“May I ask what the issue is?” I gesture towards the door of the chamber.
They look at each other quickly, likely trying to decide if they should divulge the information.
Lord Finley finally meets my gaze. I see worry there, and that familiar dread blooms within me.
“Her grace is struggling to fully deliver the child. We believe the babe may be…stuck.”
The dread takes hold, and I let out a shaky breath. The other physician regards me, his eyes beseeching.
“If we cannot find a way to help the child pass, we could lose both the mother and the child.”
They both bow before rushing down the corridor, whispering to each other.
I’m unable to move, and it’s like I’m cemented in place as another cry pierces the silence from the other side of the door.
My sister is struggling, and I’m letting my own fear get in the way of helping where I can…if I can. Willing myself to move, I walk to the door, grasping the latch.
I take a deep breath and push it open, walking inside.
I turn to close the door quietly before steeling myself.
The bed is large and canopied, with white linens draping gracefully at all four corners. Two handmaids rush around the room, and a midwife whispers to Ziterra.
Olam is kneeling at the side of the bed, her hand clasped in his. His eyes are so wide and full of fear. I walk to the other side of the bed, my heart sinking as I behold my sister.
She looks so small laying there in the center of the bed. Her face is gaunt, and a thin layer of sweat covers her skin. The dark circles under her eyes are proof of how exhausted she is.
Ziterra opens her eyes, looking over at me. She smiles weakly, attempting to speak.
I stop her, shaking my head and taking her other hand in mine.
“Save your strength.” I say, squeezing her hand gently.
She nods, laying her head back against the pillow. She takes a deep ragged breath, and my eyes raise to meet Olam’s. We exchange unspoken words, and then I look back down at Ziterra, visually assessing her.
She’s not a tall woman, and she’s not built to bear children. Not in the way I had seen other women both here in the palace and in the village below.
My eyes dip to her narrow hips and waist. If the baby can’t pass the birth canal, the only option is to cut open the mother to retrieve the child, lest they lose both.
An image pops into my mind, and my eyes dart back up to meet Olam’s again.
I gesture to the midwife, and when she approaches me, I lean in, whispering softly.
“Have you tried having her squat?”
The midwife regards me a moment before shaking her head.
“No, we haven’t tried that position yet, but we’ll try anything at this point.”
She walks around me to lean close to Ziterra. “Your grace, would you be willing to try something different?”
Ziterra looks at me with tired eyes before glancing over at Olam. She nods, and the maids and midwife start bustling around the bed, trying to get her up.
Two maids tie linens to the posts at the end of the bed, while the midwife pulls Ziterra up into a seated position. “When you’re ready, get your feet under you, and squat down.” She hands her the end of the linen ties.
“Hold onto these, and bear down, from here.” She pats the upper part of Ziterra’s stomach.
Ziterra winces, groaning as she attempts to get herself into position.
The midwife pulls her skirts up around her knees to crawl into the bed behind her. Once settled, another contraction wracks her body, and her cries fill the room.
“Push!” The midwife instructs, placing a hand against the upper part of her stomach.
Ziterra bears down, gritting her teeth. I watch as her knuckles whiten when she pulls on the linen.
The contraction passes, and Ziterra slumps, attempting to sit down. The midwife supports her from behind, shaking her head.
“No, your grace, you must stay in this position. Let’s wait for another contraction.”
I move backwards to give them space, and Olam starts to pace next to the bed. Ziterra starts to moan, and her moans turn into cries as another contraction wracks her body.
Once it passes, I watch the midwife reach between her thighs. Her eyes widen and she looks at me. I turn my head to the handmaid next to me. “Go fetch the physicians.”
She dips and rushes from the room.
Olam pushes a hand through his hair, moving back next to the bed to whisper loving words of encouragement to Ziterra. I watch him push her sweat dampened hair from her face, leaning in to place kisses against her forehead.
She starts to moan again, the moans long and drawn out as another contraction starts. Crying out, she bears down into the squat, gritting her teeth as she pushes against the midwife’s hand.
“Good!” The midwife says, her voice encouraging.
At that moment Lord Finley and Lord Dawnell rush back into the room, both going to either side of the bed.
Pulling his robes up to crawl onto the bed, Lord Finley situates himself behind Ziterra, reaching a hand between her thighs.
His eyes widen as well, and he instructs Lord Dawnell to grab the forceps.
Ziterra cries out, whining in protest, but the midwife rushes to sooth her. “It’s ok your grace, the babe just needs some help, I promise everything will be ok.”
I watch as they move her to her back again, and two handmaids come in to help hold her legs up to her chest.
I turn then, walking to stand near the wall as they raise her gown.
Another cry permeates the room, and I can hear commotion as the two physician’s work to retrieve the child. Ziterra’s cries turn into a scream of pain, and then nothing.
Silence permeates the space before the loudest of cries wracks a sob from her.
“You did it.” Olam says, his voice thick with emotion.
I turn to watch the room bustle about. The maids rush around, grabbing linens and water before rushing to Ziterra’s side. The midwife wraps the babe before handing it to Lord Finley.
He looks down at the child, and a look of worry crosses his features. Lord Dawnell pulls the swaddling aside, a look of concern etching his features as well.
Olam glances to me, and then to the two physicians. Lord Finly hands the child to Olam, stepping back as Olam cradles the babe awkwardly.
“It’s a boy.” Lord Finley says softly.
Olam pulls back the swaddling, and the dim lighting of the room glints off the most golden head of hair I’d ever seen in my life.
Olam pales, his eyes widening, and Ziterra wails out a cry.