The room smells faintly of antiseptic, tinged with the sweetness of freshly laundered linens. Harsh fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, casting a pale glow on the pale blue walls lined with medical charts. A heart monitor beeps steadily in rhythm with Maryanne's strained breathing, its soft cadence punctuating the murmurs of the nurses.
Maryanne's hospital gown clings damply to her skin, and her hair is plastered with sweat, strands sticking to her forehead. The sterile scent of gloves and disinfectant mingles with the faint, metallic tang of the oxygen mask at her side. A bundle of crisp white sheets waits on the edge of the bed, folded but soon to be crumpled and stained.
IV lines snake from her arm to a bag of clear fluid suspended from a pole, dripping steadily, while the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest reflects both anticipation and exhaustion. The nurses move efficiently around her, murmuring encouragement, adjusting monitors, and checking her vital signs.
Through the wide window, the sun filters softly, though its warmth doesn't quite reach the tension in the room. Maryanne grips the sides of the bed, her knuckles white, and each breath comes with a mix of pain and determination. The air feels thick, expectant, every second stretching as though the world itself is holding its breath for the first cry.
"Give us a big push, now, Maryanne," the doctor says.
Maryanne's hands clench the sides of the bed even tighter, knuckles turning white. Sweat rolls down her temples, and her breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps. The nurses' hands guide her, murmuring calm instructions, their voices steady and grounding.
With a guttural cry, Maryanne bears down, muscles straining, heart pounding. The beeping of the monitor quickens, echoing the rhythm of the room, until—
A new, minor cry cuts through the air, high and wailing. The doctor smiles and lifts the tiny, squirming bundle. "It's a girl!" he announces. Relief and awe wash over everyone as the baby is placed on Maryanne's chest, the warmth immediate, the weight perfect.
Tears stream down Maryanne's face as she cradles Alexia. "Hello, my beautiful girl," she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. "I love you so much. You're going to do great things, my little one. I just know it." She kisses the top of Alexia's damp, soft head, rocking her gently. "You're safe now. Mommy's here. Always."
The room seems to hold its breath around them, the beeping monitors fading into the background as Maryanne simply holds her daughter, love and hope radiating from every word.
The room quiets, the earlier chaos replaced by a soft, drowsy calm. Maryanne, exhausted, sleeps with Alexia still cradled in her arms, her breathing slow and even. Eventually, a nurse gently places the baby in the hospital crib beside the bed, tucking her in with a tiny blanket. Alexia stirs lightly, her little fists curling and uncurling as she adjusts to the stillness.
Outside the soft glow of the room, a presence shimmers—almost imperceptible at first. Then, like a ripple through the air, Gideon appears. His form is faint, luminous, eyes taking in the scene with quiet intensity. He kneels by the crib, studying Alexia with a mixture of curiosity and something warmer, protective.
"She's small… but strong," he murmurs under his breath. His gaze softens, lingering on the tiny face that twitches in sleep. "I'll wait for you, little one," he whispers, voice barely more than a breath. "I'll wait for you to grow up… and when the time comes, I'll be here."
Gideon reaches out, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the world around them, brushing a finger gently against the blanket. For a moment, he simply watches, letting the quiet hum of the hospital, the rhythmic beeping, and the soft breath of sleeping Maryanne fill the space. Then, as silently as he comes, he fades, leaving only the faintest shimmer in the air—like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
Maryanne's sleep is deep, her body still and heavy from the ordeal of childbirth, but her mind drifts into a realm that feels suspended between reality and something far older, far wilder. The soft beeping of the monitors fades, replaced by a rushing wind that whispers through unseen trees, carrying the scent of rain and earth.
A light appears at the edge of her vision, shimmering with stormy silver and gold, flickering like lightning over restless waters. It coalesces into a figure, radiant and untamed, with hair that flows like wild rivers and eyes that hold the power of tempests and the serenity of untouched forests. Virelya, the Goddess of Wild Things and Sacred Storms, stands before her.
"Maryanne," the voice resonates, melodic yet fierce, vibrating like the roar of a storm held in harmony. "Do not fear. You have brought forth a life destined for greatness."
Maryanne's eyes flutter open in the dream, awe washing through her. "Who… who are you?" she whispers, voice trembling.
"I am Virelya," the goddess replies, a wild, radiant smile brushing her lips. "I watch over those born of courage and chaos, those who will dance with storms and face the untamed. Your daughter, Alexia, is one such soul. She carries the spirit of wildness and the strength to command sacred storms. And you, mother, will guide her with love, strength, and courage."
Tears well in Maryanne's eyes as she reaches toward the vision, though her hand passes through the light like mist. "I just… I want her to be safe," she murmurs.
"She will be," Virelya assures her, placing a glowing, storm-charged hand over Maryanne's heart. The warmth and electricity pulse together, like lightning dancing through sunlit wind. "Know this, Maryanne: you are never alone. When the time comes, your paths—and hers—will be guided by forces you cannot yet comprehend."
The goddess's form begins to fade, the wild light softening into a gentle glow. "Sleep now, mother. The dawn will bring new beginnings, and with it, the wild and sacred promise of her destiny."
Maryanne opens her eyes moments later, eyes moist but heart steady, the faint pulse of storm and life lingering like a whisper against her skin. In the crib beside her, Alexia stirs, tiny fists curling and uncurling, as if sensing the lingering presence of the Goddess who has already begun to watch over her.