on the final dawn of the woods, right when the birds began to call to the sun, red leaf threw up for the third time in two weeks.
she'd been counting. the first time it happened, it was sudden and garish; a sloshing of green-brown muck fell at her feet and spattered across the pelt she'd been minting. she'd spent the entire afternoon rinsing it in the creek after that. stress, she thought, as she felt the glare of @Cen burn through the back of her neck; stress from travel, from grief. surely.
the second time, she'd been alone. she felt it coming while her husband slept at her side, and so she slipped off into the trees to purge the contents of her stomach. her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she remembered the words of her clan's own shaman; if you water a seed yourself, and it starts to sprout within a week, you have a surprise in store.
and so she did. a tiny seed, taken from a delicate stalk of newly sprouting wildgrass; hidden from view, but within easy walking distance from where they camped. she mapped it in her mind, in case cen sought to leave early. and then came the waiting game; distraction, secrecy; by the time she was able to check on it, another week had passed.
and so, on this final morning, when she woke to the wretched gurgles of her stomach, she immediately bolted to her tiny garden. and as she finished wiping the spittle from her chin, she saw it, the tiny tendril of green.
she was pregnant.
red leaf felt the breath leave her chest as if she'd been kicked by an omnipotent force. first, there was the shock; this meant her season had come early, silently, and neither of them had noticed. and then there was excitement; a dream of a son or daughter tucked beneath her arm, one who would see the world through fresh eyes.
and then there was fear.
not just fear, no, it was terror. she felt the tears roll down her flushed cheeks before she knew she was even crying. what would she say to him? how far along was she? what would he do?
and what would she do?
as she stares down at the sprout, she considers her options. if she knew a nearby shaman, she could — rid herself of them. spare them from the chaotic whirlwind that was sure to bear down upon them the moment their eyes open. and her stomach lurched again at the very thought of doing such a thing, of sacrificing the one thing she'd always wanted because of cen's own anguish —
but aside from him, she is completely and utterly alone, and that itself is a nightmare she could never have even thought to conjure until now —
but there is no choice.
as she gathers herself to return to her husband before he should wake, she decides that she will give herself at least twenty four hours of quiet before the storm. twenty four hours alone with her baby. the only twenty four hours she thinks she will ever get.
she'd been counting. the first time it happened, it was sudden and garish; a sloshing of green-brown muck fell at her feet and spattered across the pelt she'd been minting. she'd spent the entire afternoon rinsing it in the creek after that. stress, she thought, as she felt the glare of @Cen burn through the back of her neck; stress from travel, from grief. surely.
the second time, she'd been alone. she felt it coming while her husband slept at her side, and so she slipped off into the trees to purge the contents of her stomach. her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she remembered the words of her clan's own shaman; if you water a seed yourself, and it starts to sprout within a week, you have a surprise in store.
and so she did. a tiny seed, taken from a delicate stalk of newly sprouting wildgrass; hidden from view, but within easy walking distance from where they camped. she mapped it in her mind, in case cen sought to leave early. and then came the waiting game; distraction, secrecy; by the time she was able to check on it, another week had passed.
and so, on this final morning, when she woke to the wretched gurgles of her stomach, she immediately bolted to her tiny garden. and as she finished wiping the spittle from her chin, she saw it, the tiny tendril of green.
she was pregnant.
red leaf felt the breath leave her chest as if she'd been kicked by an omnipotent force. first, there was the shock; this meant her season had come early, silently, and neither of them had noticed. and then there was excitement; a dream of a son or daughter tucked beneath her arm, one who would see the world through fresh eyes.
and then there was fear.
not just fear, no, it was terror. she felt the tears roll down her flushed cheeks before she knew she was even crying. what would she say to him? how far along was she? what would he do?
and what would she do?
as she stares down at the sprout, she considers her options. if she knew a nearby shaman, she could — rid herself of them. spare them from the chaotic whirlwind that was sure to bear down upon them the moment their eyes open. and her stomach lurched again at the very thought of doing such a thing, of sacrificing the one thing she'd always wanted because of cen's own anguish —
but aside from him, she is completely and utterly alone, and that itself is a nightmare she could never have even thought to conjure until now —
but there is no choice.
as she gathers herself to return to her husband before he should wake, she decides that she will give herself at least twenty four hours of quiet before the storm. twenty four hours alone with her baby. the only twenty four hours she thinks she will ever get.
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