The time draws near. It will not be much longer before my one becomes two. Weeks or days, I cannot be certain, but I know that my child will enter this world soon.
Have I done enough, I wonder? Is all satisfactory for his, or her, arrival? I think not. A suitable selection of clothing has been crafted, lovingly so - in contrast to the hateful origins of my skill with a needle. Toys have been created by Rellas. Foodstuffs have been stockpiled for the days ahead and firewood stacked neatly outside. Minalmano has been sent out yet again with the instruction to fly further afield this time in her search for Cyfier, much to her racuous complaints. The bassinet has been set ready, the blankets laid within, the herbs and restorative potions set aside for my consumption once the first breath of my child is drawn...
But the house is not ready. I have been working on it for some time now. A house outside of Pemberth, one that me enemies - and those my my love - will know nothing of. A house that we can be safe in, at least until the one beneath the eaves of Far Cherwood is erected. It is incomplete now; barely habitable for all of my hasty efforts to ensure its suitability in time. I continue to do as I can, but I do not believe that it will be ready before the birth. For the first days, perhaps weeks, we will have to remain here; endangered still. It is not ideal, but we will make do. Rellas would allow no harm to visit us; this I know beyond doubt. Still, the added comfort of a secret abode would be welcomed. Soon. Soon.
I have given up all hope of my love returning before his progeny becomes more than just a rather uncomfortable swelling in my midriff. I wish for him to do so. I wish for him to know. I wish for him to aid me in chosing the name of his offspring. I wish....
But to dream will avail me not. The cold harsh reality must be afforded due deference. He will not return until after the child arrives. The child will open its eyes to the light sooner than I may desire, sooner than I can afford. This cannot be helped. Had I suppressed my desires for him, had I refused share myself in such a manner, had I turned away then perhaps I would not now be in this predicament. Yet... and yet... I cannot it. I cannot regret that which is to come.
I fear it. I fear my impending motherhood, and the very real possibility that I will embark upon this course without my love at my side. Without his knowledge and, perhaps, without his acceptance when he does learn this all-too-clear truth. I fear that I am not ready, that I will never be ready. I fear that I will err, that I will fail as a tutor, as a mother. I fear that my child will be taken from me and myself powerless to prevent such tragedy. I fear.
I can do this. I must do this. The choice was mine, the consequences unexpected but not unwelcome. There can be no running from what is to be. There can be no hiding from the gift so soon to be bestowed upon me.
