EVEREST
The hours lengthen and fold in on themselves, measured less by clocks than by the rhythm of Isla's body. Light shifts from harsh white to amber to the bruised violet of approaching night, and through it all Everest remains exactly where she needs him to be.
Where others might attempt to align themselves with the staff—offering apologetic smiles, silent she’s not usually like this glances—he does not fracture his loyalty even a little. When Isla refuses ice chips, he calmly removes them. When she demands them again, he ensures they are delivered. When someone suggests rest and she insists on standing, on walking, on labouring upright, his gaze sharpens and steadies, an unspoken boundary drawn in the space between her and anyone who might override her. He does not argue with the professionals; he simply makes it clear, in tone and posture, that her wishes are not optional considerations. He listens to every instruction she gives—to him, to them—as though it is a set of coordinates he must honour precisely.
There are stretches where he sits beside the bed, hands folded loosely, present without intrusion, absorbing the sounds and movements without agitation. His stillness is not detachment; it is discipline. His mind does not spiral into impatience or boredom, but instead catalogues breathing patterns, timing intervals, the subtle change in the pitch of her voice when a contraction begins to crest. He stands when she stands. He walks when she walks. He does not leave.
So of course when Isla turns her head, searching, he is there. Not even shifted far from where she last saw him. He is watching her with a patience that is almost fierce, and when their eyes meet, his smile is immediate and warm, unshaken by the hours or the volume or the strain. He nods once; slow, deliberate encouragement. He does not move to touch he, knowing better than that by now, has learned the texture of her overstimulation, the way even well-meaning contact can feel like static across raw nerves. Instead, he steps just close enough and offers his hand, palm open, steady and waiting. If she chooses to take it, he will anchor himself accordingly. If she crushes it in the next wave, he will not flinch. Bones mend, but this moment will not come again.
"You can do this."
Where others might attempt to align themselves with the staff—offering apologetic smiles, silent she’s not usually like this glances—he does not fracture his loyalty even a little. When Isla refuses ice chips, he calmly removes them. When she demands them again, he ensures they are delivered. When someone suggests rest and she insists on standing, on walking, on labouring upright, his gaze sharpens and steadies, an unspoken boundary drawn in the space between her and anyone who might override her. He does not argue with the professionals; he simply makes it clear, in tone and posture, that her wishes are not optional considerations. He listens to every instruction she gives—to him, to them—as though it is a set of coordinates he must honour precisely.
There are stretches where he sits beside the bed, hands folded loosely, present without intrusion, absorbing the sounds and movements without agitation. His stillness is not detachment; it is discipline. His mind does not spiral into impatience or boredom, but instead catalogues breathing patterns, timing intervals, the subtle change in the pitch of her voice when a contraction begins to crest. He stands when she stands. He walks when she walks. He does not leave.
So of course when Isla turns her head, searching, he is there. Not even shifted far from where she last saw him. He is watching her with a patience that is almost fierce, and when their eyes meet, his smile is immediate and warm, unshaken by the hours or the volume or the strain. He nods once; slow, deliberate encouragement. He does not move to touch he, knowing better than that by now, has learned the texture of her overstimulation, the way even well-meaning contact can feel like static across raw nerves. Instead, he steps just close enough and offers his hand, palm open, steady and waiting. If she chooses to take it, he will anchor himself accordingly. If she crushes it in the next wave, he will not flinch. Bones mend, but this moment will not come again.
"You can do this."
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
