Before Our Dawn| ongoing

forty-eight

Chapitre quarante-huit
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

December 7th.

The snow fell in soft, silent flakes outside the house. Isra stood at the kitchen counter, her swollen belly brushing against the edge. She hummed a lullaby—the same one her mother used to sing—as she prepared breakfast for the family. The warmth of the oven enveloped her, and for a moment, she forgot all about the dreadful things that had preoccupied her for so long.

But then it happened—the first cramp. A sharp twist in her abdomen that made her wince. She pressed a hand to her belly, trying to steady herself. Pregnancy had brought its share of discomforts, but this felt different. More urgent.

The second contraction hit harder. Isra dropped the plate she was holding, the ceramic shattering on the floor. She gasped, sinking to her knees. The pain radiated through her, stealing her breath. She knew all about the strife of labour, seeing as she had birthed two children already, but nothing could prepare her for this raw intensity.

Hans leaped up from the kitchen table, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. His eyes widened as he took in Isra's pale face. "Isra," he said, his voice urgent, "what's wrong?"

She managed a weak smile. "The baby," she whispered. "Hans, the baby is coming."

His panic melted into determination. He knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms. "Stay with me. We'll get through this."

Isra clung to him, her fingers digging into his shirt. The snow outside blurred into a white haze as the contractions intensified. She thought of Sophie, of Klaus, and of Analise, of the world they were bringing their child into. Each contraction was a vice grip on her insides, and she cried out, her voice echoing through the small cottage.

Hans's arms were strong around her, his shirt damp with her tears. "Breathe, Isra," he urged, guiding her toward the bedroom. "Just breathe. We'll get through this. I'm here. It's not like the last time. I'm with you."

She held fast to him, her legs trembling. The hallway stretched endlessly, and she wondered how they would make it. She thought of Sophie again, her firstborn with Marcel, who had been born in a different time—a time of hope and laughter. Now, with the war raging outside, hope felt like a distant memory.

Hans kicked open the bedroom door, and the room welcomed them with its familiar warmth. The bed, neatly made, seemed both inviting and impossible. Isra's body rebelled against each step, but she had no choice. Their baby was coming, and there was no midwife, no doctor—only Hans.

He lowered her gently onto the bed, arranging pillows behind her back. "Isra, you're doing amazing. Our little one is almost here."

"Towels... blankets..." Isra managed to utter through gritted teeth, her focus consumed by the impending arrival of their child.

Hans hurried to gather towels and blankets; his movements fueled by adrenaline. Each second felt like an eternity as he fumbled with the linens he retrieved from the dresser, his heart pounding in his chest as he raced against time. Returning to Isra's side, he placed the towels and blankets within reach, ready to assist in the delivery as best he could.

"I'm okay," she murmured. "I'm okay. I can do this, Hans. The baby is almost here. Almost..."

"You're very strong, my love."

She nodded, her breaths ragged. The pain was relentless, waves crashing against her. She thought of Klaus, their toddler, who slept soundly in the next room he now shared with Analise. He had no idea what was happening, and Isra prayed he would stay that way.