As the night wore on, the pain grew, and she moved to the bed he had built, her hands gripping the wooden frame until her knuckles were white. Daniel could do nothing. He wiped her face with a cool cloth. He gave her water. He spoke soothing words that felt hollow and useless.
He watched her suffer, and the old terror crept back. "It's been too long," he said, his voice tight, his pacing frantic. This This is how it was before. Tyen, it's not right. It's too hard.
He was panicking. He was seeing pale, exhausted face. He was failing again. Tyen, in the deep, agonizing grip of a contraction, opened her eyes and looked at him. She saw his fear.
She saw his ghost, and in the center of her own pain, she found the strength to save him. She reached out, her hand weak, but her grip iron. "Daniel, stop." He froze. Look at me," she commanded, her voice a raw gasp.
He knelt by the bed. "Listen!" He could hear the wind howling like a wolf, the crack of the thunder. "We We are both made from storms," she breathed, her eyes locking with his. "We were born in them.
This is how she will come. Do not be afraid. "Be strong. Be the work. Be the work."
His own word. It was as if she had struck him. His panic shattered. She was right. This was not a memory.
This was now. This was his wife. This was his child. He was not a helpless spectator. He was her husband.
"I'm here," he said, his voice steady again. He took her hand. I'm with you. I'm not afraid. The final hours were a blur of pain and prayer and effort.
He held her. He supported her. He whispered the Apache lullabybies he had learned. His rough voice a counterpoint to her cries and the storm's roar. Just as the false dawn was lighting the sky.
The storm reached its peak. A bolt of lightning struck the ridge above the cabin. The crack simultaneous with the flash. In that moment of electric silence. Tyen gave a final desperate cry.