Pattern Birth: Fantasy

The dance of the pattering feet, the patterning feet, went on above the birthing chamber. Lyda heaved and groaned and sweated. She wished the feet would be still. She seemed to feel each impact, each footfall as a thrust inside her own body, as if the child inside her was matching the beat and kicking out with her small feet in the same pattern. No, she wanted to whisper to the child, no, do not follow the pattern. I know that it is tempting. I know that it is hypnotizing. It is so for me; how much more so must it be fore you? But you must not follow their pattern, my darling, you must find your own. Lyda's eyes shot up to the birthing wife above her whose hands cradled her head. Had the woman heard her words? She thought she had only thought them...she thought she had not said them aloud...but in this pain, how could she be sure of anything? The sound of a baby crying made her glance move down. She had only a glimpse of the baby cradled in the birth catcher's arms before the strong hands of the birthing wife snapped Lyda's neck. For she had indeed spoken aloud in extremis.


Inspiration: lyght mentioned something about birth in a post I was reading a few seconds before this, and then I typed 'pattering', thought "patterning...hey, that could be cool" and it went from there.
Story Potential: Medium-High
Finished Length: Novel. Or it could be a short story about the child, but it would have to take place much later, maybe when the child was adolescent. This paragraph would not even be part of it.
Notes: Consider the sort of society this would come from. And magic. Yes.