isolt griffin

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Even in the fathomless vocabulary of the modern era there existed no words that were capable of truly capturing how she felt in this moment- with the calloused and yet so wholly soothing bulbs of her husband's fingers against the supple plane of her cheek, the first soft mewling of their newborn daughter as her lungs invited in those very first breaths, and the impossible physical and emotional weakness in the aftermath of childbirth that harkened to days before immortality had steeled Isolt's body against the myriad wares of the world. It was absolute and unadulterated euphoria in a manner that even Isolt had not expected, a timeless moment that would be nestled within the eternal cradle of her heart forevermore.

Isolt's lips pull into a tired, languid simper as her head rests gently against that of her husband, the cushions of her fingertips tracing the hills and valleys of his knuckles. Her eyes only part from him with the movement of Renee and the small army of nurses away from the foot of the hospital bed, the physician issuing hurried assurances that they merely needed to record their daughter's measurements before handing her over into the anticipatory embrace of her doting parents. Standard practices, a finely-choreographed dance that Isolt herself had performed a dozen times or more. But as the moments pass and the time that they are apart from their daughter grows, there is something that captures the attention of the redheaded vampire, drawing her into a sitting position with the telltale wince of residual pain pressing rivets into her otherwise angelic façade.

In the beginning it was faint, so much like the subtle hint of perfumed notes clinging desperately to the tumultuous winds of a brewing storm, the faintest suggestion of something pressing ever so slyly through the cacophony of other aromas converging in the relatively small delivery suite. It is not the warm fragrance permeating from their newborn daughter, nor is it the aromatic shards of bitter metallic heralded by the blood that continues to dry, sticky and uncomfortable, upon Isolt's inner thighs. It is not the scent of adrenaline that had served as the top note within the room until the present moments. No. The distinctly pungent stench that permeates the birthing quarters is one that hardly belonged in such a hopeful and joyous setting and it burned as a cresting wave of bile at the back of Isolt's throat.

It was the unmistakable stench of fear.

And it rolled from the posse of clinicians huddled about her newborn daughter in thick, squalid waves, carrying with them the ever more urgent cries of their daughter. "Renee," she issues, though the newfound dryness within her throat reduces the utterance to little more than a strangled whisper. "Renee," she attempts again, far louder and vastly more authoritative this time. Renee does not turn towards the mother who waits in her stead, though her movements become more hurried, urgent. "Just give me a second, Isolt." This, it seems, is hardly satisfactory to the new mother, the redheaded woman straightening as much as can be permitted by a body that continues to protest every movement she might wish to make. "RENEE!" The physician's head snaps towards the fire-crowned woman, her shoulders nearly atremble with the agitation and fear that has blossomed within her own belly, unfurling its ghastly petals and loosing its venom unto her. A glacial chill skates the length of Isolt's spine as her eyes meet those of her colleague, the terror in the other woman's eyes a contagion that sears into her every last cell. Isolt's grasp tightens upon her husband's hand though her eyes do not leave the woman still huddled over their newborn. "What's wrong?"