The Birth

The room was chaos. The once cozy, intimate chamber had become a battlefield of rushing servants and panicked orders. The physician was barking orders, Lilia was helping the Duchess to the bed, and the sound of servants scurrying about was deafening. But amidst the frenzy, Celeste stood frozen in place, her mind spinning, trying to piece together what was happening.

Her mother—her mother—was about to die. The birth was coming too soon, and Celeste could see it in the physician's wide, horrified eyes.

The room seemed to shrink around her, and her breath came in short, desperate bursts. Her small, fragile hands were trembling as she gripped the edge of the bed. Her body—Elira's body—was weak, small, and ill-prepared to handle something as dangerous as childbirth, especially a premature one.

She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready for anything.

But she had to try. She had no choice.

The panic surged again, louder this time, and Celeste's voice broke through the storm of confusion. "Please, let me help," she begged, her voice high-pitched and unsteady as she looked up at the physician.

The man, who had been assessing the Duchess's condition, paused. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

"You?" he asked incredulously, his voice steeped in disbelief. "But you're a child—what can you possibly do?"

"I can help! I know what to do!" Celeste's words tumbled out in a frantic rush. She had to make them understand. She had to do something.

"I'm a doctor," she added in a voice that was too shaky, too desperate to sound convincing. But there was no time. "I have experience. Please, let me help. I know how to handle this!"

The physician was stunned. The room fell silent for a brief moment as everyone turned to look at her, their expressions a mixture of confusion and horror. Lilia stood frozen at the foot of the bed, her face pale. The servants exchanged worried glances.

"Are you mad?" the physician demanded, his voice rising. "You're a mere child! You've no experience with childbirth! This is beyond anything you—"

"I've seen it before," Celeste interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. She was growing desperate. Her mother's breathing was shallow now, the tension in her face tightening with each passing moment. "In my previous life—"

She caught herself. She couldn't explain it, not now. Not when time was running out.

The physician's skepticism was evident. "Previous life?" he repeated in confusion, his brow furrowed. But before he could say anything more, Celeste cut him off again, her voice shaking with urgency.

"This birth is different. It's premature, and there's something wrong," she said, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to collect her thoughts. She could feel the weight of the situation crashing down on her, suffocating her. Think, Celeste. Think!

She turned back to the physician, her heart pounding in her chest. "There's no time to waste. We have to prepare for complications. You need to listen to me. We need to stabilize the Duchess now before it's too late."

The physician looked at her for a moment longer, still unsure. But then his gaze flicked back to the Duchess, who was gripping the edge of the bed with white-knuckled hands, her face contorted in pain. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

The physician's shoulders sagged in resignation. The reality of the situation hit him in full force. "Fine. But you will not make a single decision without me. Do you understand?"

Celeste nodded, her heart hammering as she quickly took a position near the bed.

The room grew eerily quiet as Celeste's focus narrowed. She could hear only the labored breaths of the Duchess and the distant pounding of her own heartbeat. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.

With her small, shaking hands, Celeste positioned herself at the foot of the bed, trying to remember every procedure, every step she'd ever learned.

The physician, still clearly doubtful, hovered behind her, waiting for her next move. "What do you suggest?" he asked reluctantly, his voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

Celeste's mind raced as she assessed the Duchess's condition. The birth was too soon. Her body wasn't ready. The baby—the baby was coming too fast.

There's an issue with the cervix," she muttered to herself, her eyes narrowing as she examined the Duchess's belly. "Too much pressure. If we don't relieve it, there's a risk of rupture. We need to slow things down."

She bit her lip, trying to recall the techniques she'd seen used in her previous life. It wasn't much, but there was something she could try. She turned to Lilia, who was standing by the foot of the bed. "Get some warm towels. Wet them."

Lilia hesitated before rushing off to do as instructed. Celeste's eyes stayed locked on the Duchess's face, her focus intense, trying to read the symptoms, trying to piece together everything she knew.

This wasn't normal. The contractions were erratic, and the pain wasn't following the usual rhythm of a typical delivery. It was wrong. The baby wasn't in position, and the cervix wasn't dilating as it should have. There was something else, something unseen that was complicating everything.

"I need you to stay calm," Celeste said, her voice low but firm, as she knelt closer to her mother. "We're going to make it through this. Just stay with me."

The Duchess nodded weakly, but Celeste could see the fear in her eyes.

And then… the next contraction came.

A violent, wrenching wave of pain that sent the Duchess arching off the bed, her hands gripping the sheets in a desperate attempt to stay in control. She cried out, a sound of pure agony that shook Celeste to her core.

"Mother! Stay with me!" Celeste shouted, her voice desperate.

But as the contraction passed, the Duchess's body relaxed momentarily before another wave of pain took over.

The physician's face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. "It's too soon! She's not ready—this baby is coming too quickly!"

Celeste's mind raced. She had to stabilize her mother. She had to help her—now.

But then… something else happened. The room seemed to grow colder, and Celeste felt a sharp, unsettling pressure in the air. A warning.

The Duchess's pulse began to falter. She was fading.

And Celeste realized, too late, that this birth wasn't just difficult—it was going to cost her mother her life.

Celeste's breath came faster as she clutched the edge of the bed. The room was spinning, the noise of her mother's agonized cries, the physician's frantic orders, the clatter of footsteps, and the oppressive silence between each wave of pain pressing down on her. It felt like time was collapsing in on itself.

She had seen this before. It was like déjà vu—those long hours in the hospital, the late-night shifts, when she'd seen cases like this. But this was no hospital. This was a world without machines, without the technology that could diagnose with precision, without the swift, advanced procedures that she had once taken for granted.

Her gaze flickered to her mother's belly. She could feel it—the pressure. The way it was pushing. The way it didn't feel right.

I know this... she thought desperately, trying to ground herself, to force her mind back into focus.

She had treated women in labor countless times. But this is different. There's something wrong.

She swallowed hard, pushing past the rising fear, her heart pounding in her chest. Her medical mind was firing on all cylinders, but the tools were not what she was used to. There were no ultrasounds, no blood tests, no epidurals. The room was filled with only the dim light of the flickering candles, the rustle of ancient cloth, and the sweat on her forehead.

"Uterine abnormalities…" Celeste whispered to herself, her voice shaky. She'd seen cases like this before in her past life—irregularly shaped uteruses, fibroids, or scarring from previous pregnancies that would obstruct normal labor. That's what this is.

The Duchess was not dilating properly. Celeste's eyes narrowed, remembering the signs: The contractions weren't regular. The cervix wasn't opening at the right speed. There was pressure, but not the kind that was supposed to come. The baby wasn't descending as it should.

Preterm birth… she thought, gripping her small hands into fists. "This isn't normal."

She recalled the medical papers she'd read on uterine abnormalities and infections in amniotic fluid. They triggered premature labor. Infections, untreated, could lead to septic shock, and, in a worst-case scenario, could cost both mother and child their lives.

Celeste's head spun, but her instincts took over.

Her eyes flicked around the room. There has to be something here... she thought desperately. The servants had gathered every available tool they could find, but they were nothing like the sterile, modern instruments she was used to. There were old metal instruments, wooden spoons, bandages, and potions—but nothing that could be of any real use for an emergency cesarean or proper infection control.

"Physician!" she cried, her voice rising above the confusion. "We need to stop the infection—we can't let it spread."

The physician glanced at her in disbelief. He was standing by, paralyzed, unable to move fast enough to make a decision. His hands were trembling, his thoughts jumbled in panic.

But Celeste had no time for hesitation. She turned to Lilia. "Boil water, now," she ordered. Lilia hesitated for a moment but rushed to the fire. It was primitive, but it was the only way to sterilize anything they might use.

The Duchess's labored breathing grew louder. The pain was overwhelming her, and she was starting to slip in and out of consciousness.

"Please, stay with me," Celeste muttered softly, more to herself than to her mother.

Her mind raced. Her gaze darted to the physician, who had finally calmed enough to start his preparations. But there was something missing—something crucial. No matter how well Celeste tried to focus on the problem, the tools here simply wouldn't work for the type of procedure she needed to perform.

Then, it hit her—the pressure. The pain in her mother's abdomen was too intense, too uneven. The baby was in distress, and the premature labor couldn't be contained with a simple attempt to slow things down. There was no time to wait.

The cesarean—it could save her. It could save the baby.

But it was impossible. The tools were crude. The situation was dire. She's too young, too small, too weak. Celeste tried to calm herself, but the panic was rising again, threatening to overtake her.

Her breathing quickened as she looked back at the physician, who was still fumbling with the instruments in disbelief.

"Please," Celeste pleaded. "You must listen. I know what to do. We need to operate. Now."

The physician's mouth opened in protest, but before he could argue, Celeste took a deep breath and grabbed the nearest sharp tool. "I'll do it," she said. Her voice was more forceful than she felt. She was terrified, but she knew what needed to be done.

Her hands were shaking, but she wasn't going to back down. Not now. She couldn't.

The physician watched her, his face pale, but he said nothing. The room had gone deathly still, save for the heavy breathing of the Duchess.

With a trembling hand, Celeste tried to steady herself. She knew what to do—she had to.

"Get the clean bandages," Celeste ordered as she moved closer, ignoring the stares and murmurs around her. "We're going to prepare her. I'll need assistance. Now!"

Lilia quickly returned with boiled water, and Celeste immediately started the process of sterilizing the tools the best she could. The physician was still hesitant but stepped forward reluctantly. His fear was palpable, but Celeste couldn't afford hesitation. Not now.

Every moment that passed could mean the difference between life and death.

She had to move fast. She had to save her mother.

"I'll guide you through this," she said firmly, her voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos swirling around her. "But you have to listen to me. You must follow my lead. This birth cannot continue without intervention."

The physician looked down at her, almost as though he were considering backing away. But he caught the look in her eyes. He had no choice but to trust the child. He nodded and steeled himself.

Celeste reached forward and prepared to perform the only procedure that could save her mother.

As her hands hovered above her mother's abdomen, Celeste felt a sharp pang of fear and something else—the weight of responsibility.

This wasn't a simple birth.

It was a battle to save a life. A fight against time, fate, and the limitations of this medieval world.

The room was thick with tension. Celeste was alone in this. There was no safety net, no second opinion. She would do whatever it took.

End of Chapter Six.