EVEREST
Isla's fingers close around his hand with bruising force, and pain blooms sharp and immediate through his knuckles, down into his wrist. He absorbs it without flinching, jaw setting but expression steady. Not because it does not hurt—it does—but because the scale is incomparable. Whatever fractures in his hand can be mended, what she is enduring is tectonic.
As she screams, as the sound tears free of her despite her efforts to contain it, his eyes snap instinctively toward the medics. He searches their faces for alarm, for urgency, for deviation, but finding none, he swallows down his rising alarm. Time distorts. His arm aches. His heart feels as though it has climbed into his throat.
And then...the shift is abrupt and undeniable. The tension in her grip changes, the room inhales collectively, a sound cuts through the air, high, indignant, unmistakable. For a fraction of a second, Everest does not move, not until he hears it again. Crying. Their daughter.
The doctor’s words register dimly but they are peripheral to the seismic realignment happening in his chest. While the infant is lifted away for assessment, Everest reaches for the cloth prepared earlier, dipping it quickly in cool fountain water before returning to Isla’s side. He presses it gently to her forehead before leaning down and pressing a kiss against her temple. "You did so well," he murmurs, voice thick but steady. "You did it. Isla...you did it." There is awe threaded through every syllable.
He straightens only when movement draws his attention back to where a nurse is returning, arms cradling a small, pink, indignant bundle. The crying is stronger now, alive and furious in its newness. The nurse steps closer, offering their daughter toward Isla.
As she screams, as the sound tears free of her despite her efforts to contain it, his eyes snap instinctively toward the medics. He searches their faces for alarm, for urgency, for deviation, but finding none, he swallows down his rising alarm. Time distorts. His arm aches. His heart feels as though it has climbed into his throat.
And then...the shift is abrupt and undeniable. The tension in her grip changes, the room inhales collectively, a sound cuts through the air, high, indignant, unmistakable. For a fraction of a second, Everest does not move, not until he hears it again. Crying. Their daughter.
The doctor’s words register dimly but they are peripheral to the seismic realignment happening in his chest. While the infant is lifted away for assessment, Everest reaches for the cloth prepared earlier, dipping it quickly in cool fountain water before returning to Isla’s side. He presses it gently to her forehead before leaning down and pressing a kiss against her temple. "You did so well," he murmurs, voice thick but steady. "You did it. Isla...you did it." There is awe threaded through every syllable.
He straightens only when movement draws his attention back to where a nurse is returning, arms cradling a small, pink, indignant bundle. The crying is stronger now, alive and furious in its newness. The nurse steps closer, offering their daughter toward Isla.
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
