The misery of this exhaustive journey seems to have no end...the growing intensity of these breathless contractions threaten my frail resolve. This soul is barely treading the surge, the tide; it bobs without aid in a depth far exceeding me. Eyelids pinch, concealing their color and dislodging fresh tears. 'Push,' that inner guidance urges. Straining, constricting. The pressure is fractionally eased, only to be replaced by a different sort of burn...one that's redirected toward the vulnerable junction beneath my tri-colored, fluid soaked banner. Routinely, the intensity and anguish bleed slower (for seconds rather than minutes) offering false tranquility. So intense is the struggle to remain above said current, my senses hardly register the frantic man alongside. 'Again,' she whispers.
Helpless bewilderment nourishes itself on horrific assumptions; wild accusations gallop onto the scene: what if these efforts are in vain...our cherub...what if there's something wrong? Would death be my reward for this struggle? As if to answer for itself, our unborn babe thrashes; becoming a silent prod that gets me through that next wave...and another... Exhaustion unveils dripping fangs. Quietly, my head slips below those choppy, gurgling waters. “Lena!” The eagle cries...his voice breaks faintly into that bleak, washed out fatigue. 'Nora...' her tone is hushed, baited with softness that couldn't be ignored. Unseen fingers reach for the animosity which lies in slumber. They embrace the passive fury that I've blanketed with hurt and anxiety. 'Don't give in,' she hisses, 'don't you dare let them win.' Molars grind, resenting. Metaphoric rage opens its blood red eyes and snarls at the memory of those toothy, froth laden demons. Scorching exasperation drips into the brine of my suffering. Hope lifts on tattered wings.
A gasp for air and the surface is broken; the next wave has come. Every fiber bears down, limbs extend, 'push!' she shouts! My crown tucks inward, curling toward my breast -- eyes, ears and mouth are locked.
Straining…
Pressure dissolves and that horrible affliction eases almost instantly...salt laden irises peel weakly apart. The lull of relief isn't given a suitable foothold before suggestions of the worst case scenario disrupt my recovery. Though still gasping, struggling, my sweaty crown pushes abruptly from the crushed floor. Neck and shoulders harpoon sideways to rest those nauseated suggestions at ease and/or confirm their heart wrenching assumptions. Movement...Just beyond my legs...weary irises lock upon a shallow, coiled bundle of molten flesh and feather. They fixate on the pale, waving crown...oh my...utter perfection. Nostrils quiver, sampling the humid air instinctually to find the wet, fledged perfume our child. Fatigued, though unwilling to turn aside, my chin dips to the floor, the weight of it and each exhale bends sweet reeds aside. Optics tilt, blinking in their search to find the eagle.
@Noah
