Burden
Oct 20, 2012 21:26:11 GMT -5
Post by Kender Bard on Oct 20, 2012 21:26:11 GMT -5
Kiri shivered and tugged the cloak draped about her frame tighter, though it was ill fitting. It, like most of her clothing, were donations from the priests and people who lived in Acoia. Some of it she'd managed to buy, but precious little. She turned coin by playing her flute, but it wasn't enough to completely live on. These days, she spent most of her time playing in the temple, to repay the priests for their generosity with her. She slept in the temple, assisted with the chores as best as she could, ate meals with them, and more. She had made friends here, of a sort, though nobody was terribly close to her. There had been attempts, but she held everyone out at arm's length, polite but aloof. She didn't want to settle. It seemed too final.
But things were rather final, weren't they? She tugged at the cloak again and then gave up with a sigh. There was no way it was going to fit over the swell of her belly. She brushed a hand over her extended stomach, a nervous gesture she'd adopted over the months, and kept walking through the market. She had a strong craving for some fresh bread and used a few precious coins on it. Hunger satisfied, she was meandering, loathe to return to the temple. It wasn't that she had nothing to do, though the priestess who was also a trained midwife kept insisting she stop and rest more often, but that she didn't have the will to do any of it.
She sat on a granite bench, the cold stone sending a shock through her. She needed to rest, though. Resting her feet, she let her eyes roam over the crowds, searching for Neil. After five months, she'd begun to feel that, realistically, he was not going to return but hope was stubborn and even now not completely dead. She didn't expect to find him, but that corner of her heart that clung to hope made her keep looking. If he's not dead, he's probably never coming back, she thought and hot tears sprung into her eyes, to her irritation. She should have been done crying long ago. She felt she'd cried enough to fill the River after she'd discovered her pregnancy. The priests had been kind, so kind, and understanding. They gave her gentle, encouraging lectures. Efil had given her a gift. Her burden should be cherished, not lamented. It was a great shame that the father wouldn't be here, of course, but she was young and strong and the priests were always happy to help young mothers of the temple to cope with bringing new life into the world. Unspoken, but implied, was that if she felt it was all too much, they would be willing to take in the child as a ward. The temple had other orphans. Kiri had seen a few, but on the whole she avoided them. They just made her depressed.
She'd entertained ideas of heading home. Surely by now her neighbors would have forgiven and forgotten? Or maybe they'd have realized that Kiri would have never had someone killed? At the very least, they couldn't turn away a woman heavy with child. But she couldn't gather the courage for it. What if she was wrong? And the trek would be dangerous, especially alone, especially helpless. She was prey for any predator, man or monster, who happened upon her. Her brother was gone. She couldn't have written him for help, but her pride wouldn't allow her. She was in this situation because of Neil, whom she'd given her heart and her trust against her brother's better wishes. It was her choice, her mistake. She would have to live with the consequences. But each time she thought of Alex and home her throat would close with unvoiced sobs. How had she gone from her life as a quiet, hometown bard to this? Used and abandoned, like an unwanted whore. Sometimes she missed Neil so greatly that she felt her heart breaking all over again, and some days she loathed and hated him, cursed his name into her pillow.
If she didn't do something, she would start weeping in public. Unacceptable. She fumbled for her flute, which she carried everywhere with her these days, and brought the instrument to her lips. She channeled her depressing thoughts into music and played a slow, sad tune.
But things were rather final, weren't they? She tugged at the cloak again and then gave up with a sigh. There was no way it was going to fit over the swell of her belly. She brushed a hand over her extended stomach, a nervous gesture she'd adopted over the months, and kept walking through the market. She had a strong craving for some fresh bread and used a few precious coins on it. Hunger satisfied, she was meandering, loathe to return to the temple. It wasn't that she had nothing to do, though the priestess who was also a trained midwife kept insisting she stop and rest more often, but that she didn't have the will to do any of it.
She sat on a granite bench, the cold stone sending a shock through her. She needed to rest, though. Resting her feet, she let her eyes roam over the crowds, searching for Neil. After five months, she'd begun to feel that, realistically, he was not going to return but hope was stubborn and even now not completely dead. She didn't expect to find him, but that corner of her heart that clung to hope made her keep looking. If he's not dead, he's probably never coming back, she thought and hot tears sprung into her eyes, to her irritation. She should have been done crying long ago. She felt she'd cried enough to fill the River after she'd discovered her pregnancy. The priests had been kind, so kind, and understanding. They gave her gentle, encouraging lectures. Efil had given her a gift. Her burden should be cherished, not lamented. It was a great shame that the father wouldn't be here, of course, but she was young and strong and the priests were always happy to help young mothers of the temple to cope with bringing new life into the world. Unspoken, but implied, was that if she felt it was all too much, they would be willing to take in the child as a ward. The temple had other orphans. Kiri had seen a few, but on the whole she avoided them. They just made her depressed.
She'd entertained ideas of heading home. Surely by now her neighbors would have forgiven and forgotten? Or maybe they'd have realized that Kiri would have never had someone killed? At the very least, they couldn't turn away a woman heavy with child. But she couldn't gather the courage for it. What if she was wrong? And the trek would be dangerous, especially alone, especially helpless. She was prey for any predator, man or monster, who happened upon her. Her brother was gone. She couldn't have written him for help, but her pride wouldn't allow her. She was in this situation because of Neil, whom she'd given her heart and her trust against her brother's better wishes. It was her choice, her mistake. She would have to live with the consequences. But each time she thought of Alex and home her throat would close with unvoiced sobs. How had she gone from her life as a quiet, hometown bard to this? Used and abandoned, like an unwanted whore. Sometimes she missed Neil so greatly that she felt her heart breaking all over again, and some days she loathed and hated him, cursed his name into her pillow.
If she didn't do something, she would start weeping in public. Unacceptable. She fumbled for her flute, which she carried everywhere with her these days, and brought the instrument to her lips. She channeled her depressing thoughts into music and played a slow, sad tune.