Birthing of Vod
Below is a story I wrote, it is not a happy story, in fact it is a touch sickening, but I love it. Read it please, comment if you want (I will love you if you do).
Ayah stood in the far corner of the room, her hands held tightly against her own stomach. She watched --though she did not wish too-- as Beryl, the Matron Mother, preceded over the new birth. If it were not her life to leave, the apprentice would have ran, maybe to the Magistrate, maybe to the Mughouse, or maybe she would have simply ran. She feared for her soul, for this would surely damn her to the pits, and to the Adversary’s hands; but her fear of Beryl was greater. Beryl was here, while gods and devils were absent.
Beryl watched the painful contorting of the young Deliverer, looking back over her shoulder while washing her hands, sighing pleasantly. Carefully she turned on her heels, giving her hands a shake and sending water spraying to the dusty floor. Crossing the room, looking at Lila writhe, she wrung her weathered hands together; fingers weaving in and out. At the birthing bed, "Does it hurt, bad?" she asks, hopefully, and in a tone that spoke with icicle words.
The girl had looked up and peered through her sweat caked plaster of black bangs, her tear streaked and muddy face. "Yes, yes, oh please yes.. Oh, please make this stop, please make it stop, please make it st..!" the word cut off in her throat, her eyes rolling back up into her head. Eventually she begged with a cracking voice, "What is happening to me?!"
Beryl merely watched the girl hurt, a rueful smile curling her lips. "Pretty cunny, I envy you.. Such exquisite extremes you play in." In a way she wished the girl to live through this, but doubted it, and lied to her. "You will be fine. You just bare down, cunny, bare down."
One cool hand was calmly placed against Lila’s brow, and then a finger was brushing a string of hair away from her eyes. For a moment the world cooled for the child, for a moment she hoped, and then the pain hit, ripping through her, "Get it out; please Matron, please! It is cutting me open!" Lila snapped her head down, eyes wide as dinner plates, and saw.
Where there was not a homespun dress there was pinkish peach flesh. Flesh stained with smeared blood, and the tracks of her fingers. Flesh that tented in six places fell and tented again; hard points that pushed against the yielding coat, piercing small holes and leaking the precious bits of life down the pulsing belly. Lila let loose with a shriek that sounded like the sweet tears of gods to Beryl; and pained wail of dissolution to Ayah
Beryl watched anxiously, eyes dancing over Lila’s jittering form; another wail broke the room, Beryl’s hand covered her wrinkled lips in excitement. Lila's chest heaved up, hitched twice then settled still. Lila’s dead eyes were wide, and beginning to bulge from her face. Beryl tittered, girlishly.
"Will she live?” Ayah asked while her hands knotted into her dress, tugging it up past her knees. She watched the girl’s chest, waiting for a breath that was not coming.
"Too late, oh far too late." she sung merrily, a hand came up to her face and hid her smile, though it did nothing to stifle the horse laughter that filled the stone walled room. "Quite unfortunate, really, I had so many questions to ask, so many questions." She giggled, not unkindly, while steely fingers gripped then ripped the dress off the girl’s body, breast knocking back and forth as the tenting of the distended stomach continued.
"Ayah, bring me the glaive." Her hand raised and her fingers clapped once; an aching song delivered with bony sticks. As ordered the heavy steel was placed in her hand, and in turn it was pushed into the soft flesh of the Deliverer. A sudden gushing of blood ran down acrid fingers and over the table to drip on the gray floor.
The child was trying to free itself from the womb, a muddled skull of flesh pushed through the new opening, and black cherry wine ran freely down the still warm flesh. The wicked midwife made several more shallow cuts, all the while whispering to the squirming figure as if it was her own beloved.
Claret dribbled out from the new gash being cut through the belly of the mother, laying open the womb and the child. The thick oily skin of the cowl stitched over the body; white veins running, pulsing, in bare branch patterns that paid no heed to the lack of life in its host. Beryl set the glaive against the cowl and opens it, whispering with pride, "You see Ayah, you see. A baby born with a cowl is twice blessed. We shall see a great many things from my baby, so many great things."
"Never have I seen more evil, Mother." Ayah moved closer, her hand dropped the bundle of her dress as she took her place on Beryl right side.
"Evil can be great." She replied with pride, watching the worm of child made its way up the dead girl’s body, claws dug into the dead flesh of its mother’s teat; blood welled up around its nails. With an acrid cry it opened its mouth --a few jagged teeth were already coming in-- then fell on its mother’s breast, feeding for the first time.
Ayah stood in the far corner of the room, her hands held tightly against her own stomach. She watched --though she did not wish too-- as Beryl, the Matron Mother, preceded over the new birth. If it were not her life to leave, the apprentice would have ran, maybe to the Magistrate, maybe to the Mughouse, or maybe she would have simply ran. She feared for her soul, for this would surely damn her to the pits, and to the Adversary’s hands; but her fear of Beryl was greater. Beryl was here, while gods and devils were absent.
Beryl watched the painful contorting of the young Deliverer, looking back over her shoulder while washing her hands, sighing pleasantly. Carefully she turned on her heels, giving her hands a shake and sending water spraying to the dusty floor. Crossing the room, looking at Lila writhe, she wrung her weathered hands together; fingers weaving in and out. At the birthing bed, "Does it hurt, bad?" she asks, hopefully, and in a tone that spoke with icicle words.
The girl had looked up and peered through her sweat caked plaster of black bangs, her tear streaked and muddy face. "Yes, yes, oh please yes.. Oh, please make this stop, please make it stop, please make it st..!" the word cut off in her throat, her eyes rolling back up into her head. Eventually she begged with a cracking voice, "What is happening to me?!"
Beryl merely watched the girl hurt, a rueful smile curling her lips. "Pretty cunny, I envy you.. Such exquisite extremes you play in." In a way she wished the girl to live through this, but doubted it, and lied to her. "You will be fine. You just bare down, cunny, bare down."
One cool hand was calmly placed against Lila’s brow, and then a finger was brushing a string of hair away from her eyes. For a moment the world cooled for the child, for a moment she hoped, and then the pain hit, ripping through her, "Get it out; please Matron, please! It is cutting me open!" Lila snapped her head down, eyes wide as dinner plates, and saw.
Where there was not a homespun dress there was pinkish peach flesh. Flesh stained with smeared blood, and the tracks of her fingers. Flesh that tented in six places fell and tented again; hard points that pushed against the yielding coat, piercing small holes and leaking the precious bits of life down the pulsing belly. Lila let loose with a shriek that sounded like the sweet tears of gods to Beryl; and pained wail of dissolution to Ayah
Beryl watched anxiously, eyes dancing over Lila’s jittering form; another wail broke the room, Beryl’s hand covered her wrinkled lips in excitement. Lila's chest heaved up, hitched twice then settled still. Lila’s dead eyes were wide, and beginning to bulge from her face. Beryl tittered, girlishly.
"Will she live?” Ayah asked while her hands knotted into her dress, tugging it up past her knees. She watched the girl’s chest, waiting for a breath that was not coming.
"Too late, oh far too late." she sung merrily, a hand came up to her face and hid her smile, though it did nothing to stifle the horse laughter that filled the stone walled room. "Quite unfortunate, really, I had so many questions to ask, so many questions." She giggled, not unkindly, while steely fingers gripped then ripped the dress off the girl’s body, breast knocking back and forth as the tenting of the distended stomach continued.
"Ayah, bring me the glaive." Her hand raised and her fingers clapped once; an aching song delivered with bony sticks. As ordered the heavy steel was placed in her hand, and in turn it was pushed into the soft flesh of the Deliverer. A sudden gushing of blood ran down acrid fingers and over the table to drip on the gray floor.
The child was trying to free itself from the womb, a muddled skull of flesh pushed through the new opening, and black cherry wine ran freely down the still warm flesh. The wicked midwife made several more shallow cuts, all the while whispering to the squirming figure as if it was her own beloved.
Claret dribbled out from the new gash being cut through the belly of the mother, laying open the womb and the child. The thick oily skin of the cowl stitched over the body; white veins running, pulsing, in bare branch patterns that paid no heed to the lack of life in its host. Beryl set the glaive against the cowl and opens it, whispering with pride, "You see Ayah, you see. A baby born with a cowl is twice blessed. We shall see a great many things from my baby, so many great things."
"Never have I seen more evil, Mother." Ayah moved closer, her hand dropped the bundle of her dress as she took her place on Beryl right side.
"Evil can be great." She replied with pride, watching the worm of child made its way up the dead girl’s body, claws dug into the dead flesh of its mother’s teat; blood welled up around its nails. With an acrid cry it opened its mouth --a few jagged teeth were already coming in-- then fell on its mother’s breast, feeding for the first time.