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Over the city of the Rose, a winter breeze blew, bringing with it chilling ocean winds that brought the temperature down below freezing. For the folks that lived in the harbor, it meant there was a good chance of snow, though the sky so far had held back its soft downy deluge. The town was quiet, the winter sun disappearing from the sky under the cover of thick grey clouds that just begged to let go. The gamblers in Anglers Alley had taken themselves home, to cold even with substantial quantities of rum to stay out. Too cold even for a decent drink in the Dove, let alone a decent muster of people in the Queen. As much as the city was known to never stop, even vagabonds were susceptible to the chill of winter.
With nothing much to do, most of the Rose had retired to their homes, to keep their lovers warm or to drink the chill away beside a roaring fire. The wind rattled window shutters and whistled through palm trees, reminding the harbor that it was around. In the little home by the sea, Sarinah paced their small living area, field a tightly wound barrier of panic and genuine fear. She’d spent the last week complaining that she was tired of being pregnant. Tired of having another person in her body. Her back ached, her legs ached, her hips ached. She was uncomfortable and heavy, and instead of sweet little kicks, the being inside had run out of room and seemed to stick their knee or elbow right under her ribs. It was painful, and frustrating. The hiccups were adorable, until they became annoying. Her back had been aching for the past day or so, and the strange uncomfortable tightening of her abdomen had become more frequent. They weren’t painful per say, just odd, like her body was protesting the life inside by tensing up.
This day though, it had been different. The tightening had been more reliable, more consistent. The witch hadn’t wanted to bother Tristaan, knowing he needed the sleep from the late night before, and so she had continued about her business. She should have slept, knowing that she would probably struggle in the evening. Whilst she had been granted some leniency by Boriand on her workload, it didn’t stop her tossing and turning at night. It was hard to sleep when you needed to change sides every half house because of the pressure in your pelvis. Sarinah was up by midday, moving around the house with a sense of restlessness. Instead of resting, she cleaned. It wasn’t like there was much to do, but she did it anyway. She dusted, and rearranged. She folded clothing and swept floors. She paced, and ignored the fact that the clenching pressure in her abdomen came every half hour, on the dot. It wasn’t like it hurt, it was just…sort of uncomfortable.
That was what she kept telling herself.
It was as the day turned to late afternoon that the raven haired dancer began to feel that perhaps this wasn’t normal. That this wasn’t quite the same as before. The cramping feeling was coming a little more frequently now, every quarter, and it didn’t quite feel the same. It still didn’t quite hurt, but it wasn’t entirely just uncomfortable either.
“Tristaan!” The wick called to the passive, standing at the table they shared meals over, hands resting on the wood and voice strained with obvious panic. She took a slow, deep breath, releasing it in a long steady stream before straightening again. That particular one had sort of hurt.
“Hama, I think something’s wrong.” She said with a wince, rubbing her hands over her belly. The boch inside had quietened down, it’s kicks far less frequent as though it had fallen asleep. Outside, the day was turning to dusk, though with no sunlight to show the time it was simply getting darker.
“It doesn’t feel…this doesn’t feel like it did before. This is…more.” Sarinah said lamely, her hands trembling slightly, still denying that everything was feeling could possibly be the beginning of labor. Refusing to accept that it could be time.
She wasn’t ready. She had never been ready.
Placing a hand on the table again, she whined as the muscles in her torso tingled, beginning to contract again over the curve of her belly. Everything tightened, her stomach becoming a hard ball before her, and the dancer hummed a soft sound of discomfort. The tension only lasted a minute, but it felt longer, freezing her in place and bringing a small grimace to her face. As it slowly petered away, the olive skinned creature took another breath in and out.
“Vrunta…” She swore, mahogany gaze seeking the comfort of the scarred man’s face.