"Stara. Wake up." There is a voice beside me. A voice I cannot recognize. There is something cool and wet on my forehead. I open my eyes. And I see the room that's filled with women from the village. 

Beside me there is the sound of a baby crying. Dread immediately settles into my core as I realize what's going on. As I realize what's happened. No. No, this can't be. It can't be. It can't. Lifemaker, no. 

I push myself up, fighting through my tiredness and my aching and my pain. Beside me Malati is holding our baby. She is holding them tight to her chest. Honano is stroking the baby's cheek and forehead. 

This is my child. This is my child. This is my child. They're so sweet. They have soft, bright pink lips and soft dark curls. Their eyes are so overly large, so sweet and round and big. Their eyes are a soft golden colour. And their cheeks have little dimples on them and so does their chin. Their little legs are folded like frog legs and their arms and legs have folds in them. I can't see any hints as to whether they're probably a girl or probably a boy, but they're infinitely beautiful nonetheless. They're so beautiful. 

It shatters my heart to a million pieces. I can feel the tears forming in my eyes. 

"Can I hold them?" I ask. 

"Of course," Malati answers. And she passes the baby to me. I take them carefully and gently, making sure I support their back and their head with my arms. 

They're so soft inside my arms. So soft and so tender and so small and so warm. Fragile. Vulnerable. Defenceless. 

"I failed you," I whisper to the child, in a gentle, hushed tone. "I'm so sorry that I failed you."

"You didn't fail them," Malati assures me. "I promise. You didn't." Her words are sweet. So sweet. But she's lying. I know she's lying. Still, I focus on the child in my arms, as Honano leans over to give them a soft, gentle kiss. 

"What should we name the baby?" I ask. 

"I was thinking, we could maybe name them Aramane," Malati replies. "It means flower of paradise."

"Aramane," I whisper softly, smiling just a little bit through my brokenness. "That's a beautiful name. What do you think, Honano?"

"I think I like the name," he replies, caution and sadness in his young voice. 

"Do you love your baby sibling?" I ask him. 

"Very much," he replies, and that reply breaks my heart even more. Though I knew that that would be how he would answer. 

"I love them too," I tell him. "And I love you." 

I pass the baby to Malati again, keeping my hand on their chest, feeling their little heart beating under my much larger hand. Malati holds them close yet again. 

One by one all the women make their way to baby Aramane and they each trace a protective seal onto the newborn with their finger. Their touches are cautious and protective, soft and serious and gentle. And I am so grateful for them. So grateful for the protection that they are giving our child. 

In the middle of it, Malati passes the baby back to me, and I hold them for the rest of the sigil-drawing ceremony. 

"Your child is so beautiful," Savi tells us reverently. 

"Thank you," Malati replies. 

"Thank you," I echo. 

Honano is still stroking the baby and patting the baby and kissing the baby and giving them whatever affection he can. He's still very careful though. My baby boy is still so careful. 

There's a small part of me that almost feels safe here, almost feels safe with my baby in my arms and my wife beside me and my son in front of me and all the women in my whole community around me. There's a part of me that can almost forget the danger that lurks right around the corner. There's a part of me, however small, that almost wants to feel victorious at what we've all accomplished together. 

But I can't truly forget. I can't truly forget what lurks in the spaces between reality, ready to come for my child. I can't truly forget the danger, and because of this, deep, aching sorrow flows through me and settles inside of me. The deepest, most aching sorrow that I have ever felt before, though I have truly felt this type of sorrow before. 

My entire soul, everything I am, is in jagged, broken pieces. I will never recover. 

Still, I make the most out of the small moments I will get with the baby. I pass them to Malati and Malati passes them to me and we both hold them close. 

My heart sinks deeper than I ever thought it could sink when the air all around us gets just a little bit heavier, just a little bit more polluted, just a little bit more dense, and I can smell the faintest traces of a strange smoke that's not truly like smoke at all. No, no, no, this is wrong. Everything is wrong. 

I hold Aramane tighter against me. They're with me. They're with me. They're with me and I can protect them. But I can't. Not really. No matter how hard I try, I can't. 

Fresh tears spill out of my eyes. 

I don't look at it. I can't bear to force myself to. I never have looked at it before, not during all the many many births I have attended and not during any of my own. It's just too potent, too powerful, too horrible. I fear that if I ever see it, I will lose my sanity forever and ever. 

I do however look at my son. He is looking out in front of him with terror carved on all of his features. I look back down at my baby. They begin to cry in my arms. I rock them soothingly, but they keep crying. I know why they're crying. It's the same reason why I am crying. Though I think the innocent young one doesn't truly know the danger that they're in. I don't think they could ever fathom it, with their tiny, brand-new mind. 

"I'll go get the carving," a woman states solemnly. I don't know exactly who it is but it sounds like Liva. I'm sure she echoes the feelings and thoughts of all the women. 

A voice like a thousand angry wasps cuts through the air. It sounds like metal on metal. Like hatred and greed given sound and form. It makes me shiver. 

"A new baby," it snarls, "how sweet." I can hear the sarcasm in its voice. 

"You're exatlation," Amana speaks, "please show mercy on us humble, small people. Please show mercy upon this baby." Her words are imploring and raw, but still held together and calm in a forced sort of way. 

"I will give the mercy that you have earned." I can tell that his horrible, grating, dreadful voice is aimed at us. And I can tell that he is not too pleased. 

"Your reverence," I start in a weak, shaky voice, "We are trying our best to please you. Please, we are trying our best to please you."

"I will be the judge of if you are pleasing me or not," it snarls back at me. 

"Your reverence, please." That's all that Malati says. 

I cradle baby Aramane near me. And I let Honano stroke her arms. We don't have time. We don't have time. We don't have time. 

"My tribute. Where is it?" The horrible creature - no, monster - asks. 

"Here you go," Malati speaks. 

The tribute we carved for it is almost perfect. Almost. Almost is the key word. The little chipped dent made by the axe was carefully, oh-so carefully sealed over with resin. You can barely tell that it's there. But you can tell. You can tell and I know it will not be pleased. 

"How dare you disrespect me with an imperfect offering!" The loudness booms through the room, making my soul jump in my chest and my ears hurt. Honano cries out in fear. Aramane cries louder. I try to rock them, but I know it won't be enough. 

I know it won't be enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough. 

"Please," I cry, my tears watering my shaky voice. "Please, please, please don't take them." My lips quiver. 

"Do not dare tell me what to do!" There is a loud rumble of thunder, and I hold my baby tighter, hold them right against my chest. All at once the colours in the room become brighter, harder, sharper. And I can feel in my heart that something is deeply, deeply wrong. 

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the thing disappears. And I am left with my baby in my arms, the world returning back to normal. 

But everything is not okay. Nothing is okay. The tiny form in my arms is limp and ragged and altogether silent. My mind tries to tell me something but I push the thought away in disbelief. 

"Baby. Baby?" I coo to the child gently as I rock them in my arms. They make no response. "Come on. Wake up." 

Nothing. 

"Pass them to me," Clara asks. And so I do. She's a midwife. She knows what she's doing. She knows how to keep babies safe. 

She uses one hand to support the baby on her lap and another hand to feel for a heartbeat. 

I see tears well up in her eyes. 

"They're gone," she says in a small, barely-there voice. 

I scream.

———

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