Frantic screams fill the jail cell, but no one gives her heed. She is frightened, her hands though bound can feel the wet slip of blood that is already collecting in her robes. She screams for help, but it does not come.

She is out of her mind in desperation, she can not think straight. The woman knows only that something is wrong, that her child is coming, that it is not time. The scope of her mind is limited to this one thought: that it is not time. It is all she knows or sees.

Agonizing hours before her captors open the cell to check on her status, she does not sense them in the room. She is lying face-down on the floor, hands bound behind her back and unable to rise. Her mouth is open slightly, and she can taste the vile waste coating the prison floor.

It is the sudden image of the Speaker before her that rouses the Matron from her state, perhaps the realisation born of her hatred, the allpowerful drive.

"NOOO!" She screamed, flailing about. "You did this! This is on your head!" She screamed out her curses, made her useless threats. Anger blinded her, and surrounded by nearly ten of her enemy, fear kicked in once more.

How very like her frequant nightmares, they appeared, standing over her in this way- and even though they were not, Ursah could feel them grinning, mocking her. She could hear voices in the back of her mind, but could not sense from which direction they came.

Best to put both mother and child from their pain... What is wrong with her... It is her own fault... I can not do anything.... The child will die if... I do not know... Die.... Not good... Looks... Child...

The image of the Speaker came into her vision, and she spat at the face, screaming curses. Then the face dissolved into her confusion, the voices, her body, the knowledge that her child was coming. That Lyan was not here. That her child would be in the hands of her enemy. That it was too soon.

That she was dying...

She could feel her body growing lethargic, as if the blood was slowing in her very veins. She was aware briefly of her own heartbeat, at her own struggle for breath, and the words of encouragement that were hitting her from all sides.

She could put forth no more effort. She gave up the struggle, willing herself to die. Then the voice of a man echoed in her ear, speaking of the child, demanding the last of her strength to ensure that it did not die.

This she freely gave.