POV – Azra'il
Darkness. Physical confinement. And an irritating jab at my temporary ribs.
I ought to have been accustomed to the lack of space in the womb by now, but this time the universe decided to cut corners on the floor plan. Ordinarily, the gestation process is a solitary stay at a spa of lukewarm fluid. This time, it felt rather like sharing a studio flat with a noisy flatmate who had absolutely no concept of personal space.
〈Eos... tell me that thing thrashing about beside me is merely an involuntary muscle spasm from our progenitor, and not what I think it is.〉
[Systems online, Azra'il. Welcome to reincarnation cycle number... well, my database suggests we stopped counting at the one-thousand-and-fifth to conserve RAM. And no, it is not a spasm. The adjacent foetus is displaying independent cerebral and motor activity. You have a twin brother.]
A long, weary mental sigh echoed through my soul.
〈Twins. How marvellous. The universe truly does love a buy-one-get-one-free arrangement when it comes to hurling me back into the machinery. What are we working with today? Another technological apocalypse? A sect of psychopathic cultivators? A radioactive wasteland?〉
[Current world: No unified scientific designation. Colloquially known in certain cosmic spheres as the World of the Six Faces. Technological level: Late medieval feudalism. Hygiene: Acceptable in the major capitals, though as you will be born in the countryside, I recommend bracing your immune system for dust and horse manure. Local magic: Present, though structurally simplistic and reliant on redundant incantations.]
〈Magic through incantation? What a step backwards. Rather like having to read the instruction manual aloud every time you want to strike a match. At least there is magic, though. Better than that kingdom of anti-mystical stone from the last time.〉
[Initiating diagnostic of current vessel. Designation: Humanoid. No severe physical anomalies. Magical signature: Stable, though massive. Your soul continues to exert a disproportionate pressure on the biological fabric, which will affect pigmentation of the hair and eyes. The result includes the customary silver hair and luminescent blue eyes.]
〈Poetic. The customary. And regarding biological sex?〉
[As is customary during your passages through humanoid species, the absence of gender polarity in your soul has resulted in an intersex physical manifestation. Presenting physical characteristics of both sexes.]
〈Excellent. One fewer identity crisis to concern myself with. I am quite the veteran at this point. And the other occupant next door? He's gone rather quiet.〉
[Analysis of the adjacent foetus: Vital signs normal. Cerebral activity consistent with a healthy human foetus. No physical anomalies detected. Simply an ordinary, fragile baby.]
〈Splendid. At least I shan't have to contend with a thousand-year-old demon weeping in the cot beside me. I only hope he learns not to drool on my things when he's older.〉
[Activating Universal Translation Module. Calibrating for local dialects of the Current Dimension... Complete. You are now able to decode and comprehend local verbal communication.]
〈Your efficiency is one of the few reasons I have not yet abandoned this existence entirely, Eos.〉
My reflections were abruptly interrupted as the ceiling of our flat began to come down around us. The familiar pressure of labour set in.
[ALERT. BIOLOGICAL EXPULSION PROCESS UNDERWAY. I RECOMMEND PREPARING YOUR LUNGS.]
〈Here we go again. Let the curtain rise.〉
The birth process is always an experience I would sooner strike from memory, but biological physics is unrelenting. I was pushed outwards, the cold, dry air of the wooden room striking my sensitive skin. My lungs expanded by force, and I released that sharp, perfunctory cry that doctors and midwives are so terribly fond of hearing. It is purely mechanical; in my head, I was simply lodging a complaint about the room temperature.
I was briskly cleaned by hands that smelt of medicinal herbs and fresh cloth. My infant vision, still blurred, began to register the sounds around me. Thanks to Eos's translator, the local dialect came through as a clear, clean language in my mind, albeit with a slightly rural accent.
"It's a... wait—" the voice of the woman conducting the birth wavered for a moment, slipping from her usual composure. I managed to focus on her minimally: plain clothing, auburn hair pinned firmly in place, oval spectacles. "Sir... the baby..."
"What is it, Lilia? Is something wrong with the child?" a man's voice echoed through the room. The tone was one of genuine concern, but rough, the voice of someone accustomed to physical labour rather than books.
"The hair... it's white as snow. And the eyes... good Lord, they're glowing." Lilia took half a step back, holding me with a mixture of professional fascination and reverent awe. "And... the physical characteristics... Sir Paul... the child has both..."
"Both?" The man, whom I now identified as the biological father by the possessive edge in his voice, sounded confused. He drew closer; the smell of sweat and leather grew stronger. "What do you mean? Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Both," Lilia repeated in a grave whisper, reassembling her usual mask of rigidity. "It is a child born with the parts of both a boy and a girl..."
"What? But—"
The brown-haired man had no time to finish the question, nor to untangle the information that appeared to have tied his brain in a knot. A sharp cry, laden with excruciating pain, tore through the air of the room and silenced any further enquiry.
On the bed, the blonde woman arched her body, fingers clawing into the sheets as a fresh and violent wave of contractions struck her. The urgency of biology cares nothing for gender anomalies or silver hair; it keeps a strict schedule, and there was still another tenant to evict.
"Sir Paul, take her hand!" the bespectacled woman commanded, her voice assuming a tone of medical authority that admitted no argument.
The brown-haired man, having entirely forgotten the shock of my anatomical revelation, leapt towards the bed with the agility of someone who has learnt to dodge a sword blow. He seized the blonde woman's hand, murmuring clumsy words of encouragement that Eos's translator rendered with perfect mechanical clarity in my mind.
As the chaos resettled around the bed, the bespectacled woman worked with surgical efficiency. She cleaned me with quick, practised movements, wrapping me in a rough but warm blanket. I was lifted briefly into the air before being deposited without ceremony into a wicker cot that smelt of fresh wood.
〈Disposed of like a parcel on an express delivery. What exemplary post-birth care.〉
[The current medical priority is the extraction of the second foetus, Azra'il. I recommend appreciating the fact that she did not drop you headfirst onto the wooden floor.]
〈A point in her favour, I concede.〉
I turned my limp neck with tremendous effort to observe the scene. The bespectacled woman, whom the man had called Lilia, was already back at her post at the foot of the bed, instructing the exhausted blonde to push. The man, whom Lilia had called Paul, looked on the verge of fainting from anxiety, which was rather ironic given his size and musculature.
I had been temporarily forgotten. The "albino anomaly of uncertain sex" would have to wait her turn in the family's order of priorities. For me, that was perfectly agreeable. The less attention I attracted in the first hours of life, the better.
A few more minutes of screaming, sweat, and the kind of tension that would have any ordinary observer gnawing their fingernails to the quick. I, however, merely yawned. I have witnessed real births in war tents, submerged empires, and mystical forests. This was simply another, operating well within the average medieval human standard.
At last, a high, piercing cry rang through the room.
This time it was not my controlled, mechanical wail. This was the desperate, full-cheeked, energetic bawling of a thoroughly ordinary baby who had just been ejected into the world.
"It's a boy! A healthy boy, Sir Paul, Lady Zenith!" announced Lilia, cleaning the newborn with the same brisk efficiency she had shown with me.
"Zenith... we did it..." the brown-haired man sobbed, burying his face beside the blonde woman on the bed and weeping as though he himself had done all the physical work of labour.
Zenith. Paul. Lilia. Three names now catalogued, courtesy of Eos's translator, and assigned respectively to the exhausted blonde, the weeping man, and the rigid bespectacled servant. None of those names carried any emotional weight for me yet. They were simply the identification tags of my new companions in existential captivity for the years ahead.
The second baby, the chubby boy with sparse, light-brown hair, was duly cleaned and placed in the cot beside me. He continued to flail his arms and cry in that ungainly fashion, attempting to adjust to the terrible, noisy reality of having functional lungs.
I glanced sideways for a brief moment, taking in my cot-neighbour. He appeared to be nothing more than another young, blank soul, nothing remarkable or noteworthy about him. Just an ordinary newborn who would in all likelihood spend the next several months dribbling and soiling nappies.
I turned my face the other way, feeling the weight of biological exhaustion pulling me down.
〈Well, Eos. No demons at the door, the ceiling appears structurally sound, and my brother is merely a baby who cries rather too much. I believe we can permit ourselves a nap.〉
[Notification: Domestic environment security at 98%. The adjacent infant's heartbeat is normal. Rest is advised, Azra'il. You will need the energy for the feeding rituals that lie ahead.]
〈Don't remind me. Good night, Eos.〉
[Good night, Azra'il.]
I closed my eyes and let the darkness carry me back under. At least the bed was soft.