Chapter Twelve

Over the next days, I spend as much time with Eugen as I can, stealing kisses, sharing whispered conversations. The curve of Eugen's belly grows noticeably, but my own belly is a mountain, and the healers hound me endlessly to stay abed, conserving my strength until the twins are ready to be born.

I had worried that Eugen would not be able to endure the demands of the gods, but now I find that it is my own strength I question. My back aches constantly and my lungs seem to have no room to expand, crowded by the divine children I carry.

Now Eugen worries, and tries to hide it, while I wonder how our positions have changed so utterly. From my bed, I watch his expanding belly jealously, resenting the comparative ease with which he bears his burden.

In spite of my bitterness, I can't resist Eugen's presence, and at night when the acolytes and healers are absent, we curl together as best as we are able, kissing and touching, Eugen's hands reverent as he traces the roundness of my belly, the tight, swollen peaks of my nipples. My hands explore in their turn, marveling at how his body seems suited to bearing the gods' young, his stomach curving neatly, his nipples darkened and peaked.

My own body is a distorted mass, the twins fighting for space, their movements keeping me awake at night, even with my love by my side to soothe me.

With him nearby, the long days and nights are not entirely unhappy, but I chafe at my helplessness, my body's betrayal as the twins sap my strength. Other omegas give birth and leave, taken to the nurseries until their children are weaned, but it seems as though my time in the Infirmarium will never end, my body growing endlessly weaker while Eugen tries to comfort me as best he can.

Even knowing that our confinements can vary, even watching Eugen's steadily expanding middle, it comes as a shock on the day when he doubles over with a cry, face contorting and hands clutching his gravid belly as his labor comes upon him.

The healers swiftly move Eugen into another room, where a birthing chair stands ready behind a heavy wooden door. I can only listen helplessly to Eugen's muffled cries as I have listened to so many others, my own belly twisting with a sort of sympathetic pain.

And then the pain is more than sympathetic; the ache in my back sharpens, the muscles of my abdomen twist and convulse, and I scream as a contraction rips through my body.

Healers swarm around me, lifting me from the bed; my legs nearly buckle as a second contraction tightens through me, hard on the heels of the first. They half-carry me to a second birthing room, white-scrubbed and sterile, the wooden birthing chair ready for me.

They guide me into the chair, the wood hard and unforgiving against my swollen flesh. I cling to the arms, panting between contractions, and the Infirmarian kneels between my spread legs, examining me.

"It will be some time before he is open enough for the birth," the man says impassively, rising and washing his hands in a basin held by one of the acolytes. "I must return to the other; summon me if there is need."

The acolyte who stays gives me a pitying look as the Infirmarian and the others leave me to my pain. He wipes my forehead and murmurs meaningless reassurances as I pant through each contraction and listen to the echo of Eugen's cries, until at last there is only silence beyond my walls.

My own birthing seems to stretch on forever, the contractions ripping through me with increasing intensity and frequency. I lose track of time, my world narrowing down to the pain. I am being ripped apart by the creatures inside me, and I fear I have been forgotten in this hard, sterile room.

Finally, though, the Infirmarian returns, his robes crisp and white, as if he has not attended another birthing this day.

"His passage is open," he announces after he kneels again between my spread thighs, probing roughly between my cheeks. I keen with a fresh contraction even as his fingers breach me, and the Infirmarian frowns. "Restrain him."

The acolytes obey, fastening straps around my thighs and ankles, chest and arms, ensuring I can't lash out in my pain. My chest heaves with panic, breath coming in harsh, panting sobs.

"Push," he orders as the next contraction takes me.

I scream, my vision going briefly dark with effort as I arch against the restraints. When the Infirmarian commands me to stop, I collapse, panting, and he examines me again, his fingers roughly probing my straining hole.

"Again," he orders with the next contraction, and I can only follow my body's instinct to obey.

The birthing goes on forever. Sweat runs down my face, mats my hair to my skull, and still the contractions continue.

"The first is crowning," he pronounces. "Push, omega."

I scream, back arching, pushing as hard as I can, dimly aware of the stretch and burn, the agony as my passage is forced wide around the god's child. The Infirmarian's hands press against me, and there's a faint, squalling cry, the sound piercing the haze of exhaustion.

"A boy," the priest pronounces, rising and handing the child to an acolyte, who whisks him away before I can see him.

I keen, sobbing, and go limp in my restraints while the Infirmarian's hard fingers probe my aching stomach. I have barely caught my breath before my belly hardens again, the tightening of my exhausted muscles quickly rising back to pain.

The Infirmarian's hand rests on my distended belly. Even without his command, I can't help but push, my body instinctively seeking relief from the creature still occupying it.

And yet, no matter how I struggle, I seem unable to give birth to the second twin.

Dimly, I'm aware of the Infirmarian's hand pressing against my straining muscles, the painful jab of his fingers as he seeks to judge the child's position within me.

"We expected trouble with the other one," he says in disgust, the words directed to someone just beyond my sight. "But it seems this may be the one too weak for the birth. It's fortunate the other is healthy; he can nurse both litters if it comes to it."

My head falls back against the birthing chair, despair filling me at his words. I can't even take solace in the news that Eugen is well, his child healthy; my body is worn, exhausted, driven nearly past endurance, and it is clear the Infirmarian has no great hopes for my survival, or that of the child still within me.

I want to give up, give in to the exhaustion and rest.

"You will die, omega," the Infirmarian growls, as if reading my mind. "You will die, and spend eternity in the cold hells, punished for the blasphemy of failing to bear the gods' child."

Cold terror floods me. Desperately, I strain, against the bonds of the birthing chair, against the child inside me, against the fate which seems to loom over me, fangs and claws ready to claim my spirit.

The Infirmarian's hands grope between my legs, and I keen, tears streaming down my face, pain and exhaustion and terror combining until I can barely think. I can barely breathe as the contraction crests, all of my strength, all of my will, focused on the simple, vital act of giving birth.

Darkness crowds at the edges of my vision. I'm simultaneously being crushed and torn apart; the world around me dips, sickening, threatening to slip away entirely.

Above my own cries, I hear a thin wail, the protesting shrieks of my firstborn. I redouble my efforts, knowing I must survive for him, for them both.

There's a sudden, tearing agony, and the child slips free, my body releasing it with an agonizing gush of fluids. Darkness rolls over me, the Infirmarian's exultant cry swallowed by the rushing in my ears.