The birth
Peter, the lord of the manor, could never stomach the sight or smell of blood. Just one drop and he’d be out cold. He hadn’t even wanted to be in the room for his wife’s labor, but she insisted he not miss out on the birth of their first child. He woke up to the iron and salt scent of blood overwhelming his nostrils. His last memory before the black was of the cold, unforgiving floor but when he opened his eyes he saw that he had been laid out on the chaise in the corner of the room, but there was no one in sight. Where was his wife? Where was the midwife who was helping to bring his child into the world? And where was the scent of blood coming from? As his senses began to come back into focus, the shapes around him became clearer. The panic began to rise in him. There was a mound of bloodied rags in the middle of the floor, there was a lot of blood in those rags. Too much. He scrambled from his resting place to the pile, and to his horror he realized it wasn’t made of rags, but of flesh. Glinting in the firelight was a mangled mass of metal that resembled the insignia of the healer’s academy. The midwife. The edges of his vision began turning black again but he fought it; forced himself to breath.
