Seed of Hope

Chapter 1: The night would be long

Notes:

For those who don't know us (and since this is our first post, that's probably more than likely!), we are Dawnborn, a Scottish duo of twins: Didymus and Deethra. Our passion for storytelling has driven us to co-write, creating a fascinating yet complex process where we blend our ideas to forge something greater than we could achieve alone. We thrive on challenges, setting ourselves personal goals while stepping out of our comfort zones.

All our stories adhere to two main principles: they must be co-written and accessible to everyone, even those unfamiliar with the original universe. For this particular story, we drew inspiration from the Darksiders universe and the song "Drunk on Shadow" by H.I.M., randomly selected as part of our creative constraints.

We invite readers to judge for themselves whether we have succeeded in our challenge, and we hope you enjoy the journey!

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The coolness of the night failed to seep into the humble circular house of packed earth, its woven thatched roof providing shelter against the fierce winds of Nimrach. The wooden and clay walls, sturdy yet simple, shielded the glowing hearth, while a small opening at the top of the roof allowed a thin trail of smoke to escape. Inside, the air was thick, stifling the throat, laden with the scent of burning wood and medicinal herbs smoldering to purify the space. Animal skins covered the floor, and everyday objects hung from the beams: wicker baskets, tools, and amulets made of polished stones and feathers.

At the center of the room, a young woman, drenched in sweat, groaned softly, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of a thick cloth wrapped around her wrist. Her face bore the strain of effort, while sweat glued her hair to her forehead. Two older women surrounded her, their calloused hands offering comfort and support, whispering words of encouragement.

Aisling, crouched between the young woman's thighs, brushed aside a lock of her chestnut hair from her eyes. She wore a simple linen tunic, slightly wrinkled and stained from the work, but her face remained calm, focused. Her green eyes shone with a gentle determination, reflecting the flickering candlelight that faintly illuminated the room.

"Breathe, slowly, you're doing wonderfully, Jenna," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm. She placed a reassuring hand on the young woman's knee and discreetly gestured to the other women. "Help her turn onto her side."

The women obeyed, murmuring encouragements. Aisling spoke calmly, her words tinged with the firm tenderness that was her own. "This will help, your hips will be freer, you'll be able to follow the contractions better. You're almost there."

The young mother nodded weakly, her lips trembling from the effort. She attempted a smile in response to Aisling's, but the tension in the room tightened, like a silent shadow. Births here were always a delicate moment. Every child born carried the fragile hope of their species, but also the fear that something might be missing - a soul. Many babies were born without that awakened gaze, that spark that once animated all of humanity. Aisling felt that fear floating like a heavy cloud above them, but she refused to be swept away by those thoughts.

Her attention returned to the young woman and the steady contractions shaking her lower belly. She guided each breath, each moan, while monitoring the rhythm of events. When she finally glimpsed the crown of the baby's head, a quiet sigh of encouragement passed through her lips.

"The head is there, you're almost at the end! One last push."

The mother, despite her exhaustion, gathered what strength she had left and, in a final effort, pushed once more, her body straining under the monumental task. And then, in a suspended moment, the baby finally slipped into Aisling's hands.