Darian
The morning light poured through the tall windows of the clinic, stretching across the cold stone floors and dust motes, setting them alight like tiny, dancing embers. The familiar smell of herbs, antiseptic, and warm linens greeted me, comforting in its predictability. It was a scent that had grown to feel like home, even though I had been away from the palace more than I had been within its walls over the last several days. Four full days without seeing Darian—four days since that impossible kiss in the library—and yet, there was no time for longing here. Life demanded my hands, my mind, my full presence.
I began my day in the first delivery chamber, a small, warm room lined with shelves of rolled linens, tinctures, and carefully labeled jars of herbs. The mother—a young woman no older than seventeen—was gripping the edge of the bed, sweat beading on her brow. Her knuckles were white from strain, and her breathing came in sharp, desperate bursts. I knelt beside her, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder, then moving to cradle her lower back.
"Breathe with me," I whispered, keeping my voice steady and soothing. "Slow… slow… now again. You are stronger than you know. I am with you."
Each contraction made her flinch, but I guided her through the rhythm, counting the seconds between them, encouraging each breath. Minutes felt like hours, yet I remained calm, a steady anchor in the storm of her pain. Finally, the air shifted, and a loud, heart-wrenching wail filled the chamber—a boy, tiny, pink, and perfect, drawing his first breath into the world. Relief surged through me as I carefully wrapped him in a linen swaddle, checking his pulse and breathing, ensuring the mother's gaze met his. Her tears streaked her cheeks as she whispered, "He's… he's alive…" I smiled softly, brushing damp strands from her forehead. "Yes, you did it," I corrected gently. "You brought him into the world. I only helped guide your strength."
Barely ten minutes passed before I was ushered into the next chamber. This mother was younger still, trembling from exhaustion, having labored almost an entire day. Her cries were desperate, and I focused on steadying her hands, adjusting the position of her pillows, and whispering encouragement. I placed my hands on her back, guiding her through the rhythm, counting softly as she pushed. Her body, despite its fatigue, rose to the challenge, and soon a girl's tiny wail filled the room. I swaddled her carefully, pressing a gentle kiss to her soft head before handing her to the mother. Watching the relief flood the mother's face, the way her eyes softened at the sight of her child, I felt my own chest swell. The weight of life, the raw intimacy of it, pressed into my palms and into my very being.
Lunch passed unnoticed. I had barely touched the warm bread and tea set aside for me, my hands already prepared for the third labor of the day. This mother was older, her body familiar with childbirth yet wary and exhausted. She had labored before, and every small movement was cautious, every push measured. My role here was subtler, more delicate—I monitored her pulse, the baby's position, the warmth of the room, and the placement of her legs. I encouraged her to trust her body, guiding her through each wave of pain. And then, with a final, monumental effort, a boy was born. His cry was sharp, insistent, a proclamation of life, and I wrapped him in fresh linen, checking his tiny fists and fluttering eyelids. Relief and pride washed over me in equal measure.
Between deliveries, I checked on other patients in the clinic. A maid who had slipped on the palace stairs, a young girl with a twisted ankle, minor scrapes from the market—my hands were never idle. I cleaned wounds with cold water and herbal antiseptic, dressed them with precision, and applied salves. But my heart always returned to the delivery rooms, to the women in labor, to the miracle of life pressed into my hands, demanding vigilance, care, and presence.
By late afternoon, I finally allowed myself a pause. My hands were red from repeated washing, my nails trimmed and scrubbed from hours of work. I sat by the window, drying them with a coarse linen towel. Sunlight glinted off the faint sheen of sweat on my forehead and the damp strands of hair clinging to my neck. I exhaled, a soft, tired laugh escaping me. The quiet of the moment, the scent of herbs and warm linens surrounding me, was grounding. Yet, even in this brief respite, my thoughts strayed inevitably to him.
Darian. The memory of his hand at my waist, the fire in his gaze, the intimacy of our kiss haunted me. I imagined his reaction if he could see me now—the fierce pride, the admiration, perhaps even the surprise. Would he recognize the depth of passion and purpose in me that had nothing to do with royalty? That had everything to do with life itself? My pulse quickened at the thought. I had lived these days in a blur of labor and care, yet a single thought of him could undo hours of concentration, replacing exhaustion with longing.
A gentle cough drew my attention to the door. I looked up to see a young nurse gesturing toward another mother in early labor, arrived from the village. I rose, my feet aching, my hands still damp from washing, and straightened my apron. My heart lifted not from rest, but from purpose. Each mother, each child, was a life entrusted to me, and I carried that responsibility as solemnly as any crown. I guided the mother through her first contractions, showing her how to breathe, how to ground herself, how to draw strength from the rhythm of the body and the quiet encouragement of my voice.
As the day wore on, each labor, each new life, became a meditation. The babies cried, the mothers wept, and I moved between them with precision, presence, and compassion. My hands were never idle, my voice always gentle but firm. In these moments, the world narrowed to warmth, life, and the miraculous rise of tiny lungs and hearts against the odds. And yet, even in this sanctuary of birth and care, the memory of his lips brushing mine lingered.
The final delivery of the day left me spent, but elated. A tiny girl, wailing and red-faced, rested in her mother's arms. I brushed damp hair from the mother's forehead, whispered reassurances, and adjusted the swaddle around the child. My hands shook slightly from exhaustion, but my heart was full. These rooms, these mothers, these newborns—they had become my world, a world of purpose and profound intimacy.
As I cleaned my hands at the basin, scrubbing away the last traces of blood and herbs, I paused to look at my reflection in the window's glass. My cheeks were flushed, my hair damp and curling at the nape of my neck. I laughed softly, a sound of pure, unrestrained release. And in that moment, I imagined him—Darian—walking into this room, seeing me as I was now: alive, whole, capable, and utterly present in my purpose. I could feel his gaze, warm and approving, as though he understood every ounce of who I was, every hand pressed to life, every soft murmur of encouragement whispered to mothers in labor.
I wanted to tell him everything, and I would. One day soon, I promised myself, I would show him these hands, these hours, these lives I had touched, and he would know how fiercely I loved the work, how completely I had found myself here. My pulse quickened at the thought, my chest warmed with longing, and yet I returned to my apron, to the next task, to the rhythm of life that demanded me.
The day ended with the soft cries of the newborns echoing in the quieting halls, mothers resting, and the clinic slowly emptying of its bustle. I finally allowed myself a moment to stretch, to breathe, and to feel the weight of the last days settle upon me. Exhausted, yes—but alive, purposeful, and burning with a quiet, unspoken fire that pulsed in tandem with the life I had brought forth.
And somewhere, in the corners of my mind, I knew Darian would return. I could feel it in the quiet spaces, in the rhythm of my heart, in the whisper of the wind through the window. And when he did, I would tell him everything—about the cries, the warmth, the tiny limbs, and the mothers' gratitude. I would tell him how it felt to hold life in my hands and guide it safely into the world. And maybe, just maybe, he would finally understand the fire that had been growing quietly within me, and see me not only as his queen, but as someone who had learned to create life itself, with her own hands, her own courage, and her own heart.