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a delicate disposition
It’s an accident. Sort of. Rayla will swear on her life that she’s never once missed her tea, but she’s been throwing up for weeks now, and she hasn’t had a bleed in longer still. There’s no denying it. The proof is there. But in spite of the nausea, and the moodiness, and every other symptom that screams the truth, there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to believe it—not because she’s not ready (she’s not, but what can she do?), and not because she doesn’t want it (she does, even if she does find it hard to admit)—but because she doesn’t like the idea of being vulnerable , and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being — she takes a breath — pregnant.
So she pretends she’s not. Vulnerable, she means. It’s hard to pretend she’s not pregnant when her entire body knows it, but she can still pretend she’s not vulnerable and that those other symptoms — the ones that haven’t yet started — won’t happen to her.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe they won’t.
She’s not.
They do.
The first time it happens, Rayla’s not ultra prepared for it. She’d known in her head, of course, that things like this were likely to happen, but for the most part, she’d sort of brushed it off as unlikely to happen to her. She’s hardly the emotional type, after all, and yeah, things have made her cry in the past, but things were also considerably more serious then.
They’ve enjoyed four years of relative peace now, and she and Callum have been married a week. There’ve been no snide remarks, no poorly disguised digs at elves from humans or vice versa, not even a hint of disrespect from the lesser families or the castle guards. There’s not even a meeting they have to rush away for, for once, and it’s been smoother sailing than she ever thought possible—
Except for the nausea, of course, but the healer in Lantha had said that that’s pretty par for the course.
It’s still supposed to be a secret. They still haven’t told anyone yet, and the ones that do know only know because they’d figured it out. Honestly, it’s still pretty ridiculous sounding to Rayla, and she’s the one who’s been throwing up four times a day for three weeks. She’s spent a pretty solid portion of their married life so far curled up in bed or on the bathroom floor, mug of ginger tea between her palms to still the spinning room and to wash the taste of bile out of her throat, avoiding anyone and everyone in case they figure it out too -
But it all comes to a head one morning when Callum comes back from breakfast with a tray of plain toast and fruit juice and a gentle sort of understanding in his eyes.
“Still not keeping anything down, huh?” he says.
Rayla groans. She’s got her head buried in her arms by the toilet again and her stomach turns at the thought of food, but Moon and Stars, she has to eat something. It can’t be good for her, and it certainly can’t be good for — she steels herself for the thought — the baby .
She hears Callum sigh, and his fingers are gentle when he pulls her hair back from her face. He presses a kiss into the top of her head and settles behind her, one hand idle against her still-flat belly. “It’ll pass,” he promises quietly.
“What if it doesn’t?”
“It will,” he says, tucking her hair behind the points of her ears. “Besides, you’re the strongest, most amazing person I know. It’s gonna take more than nausea to put you down.”
“Easy for you to say.” Rayla sucks in a breath. She pulls back from the seat, her eyes shut tight, her hands pressed against her forehead as if that might keep the room steady, but she’s up for all of ten seconds before the bile rises in her throat once more. She gags into the bowl, her shoulders shaking with the exertion, and she half expects Callum to leave, irked by the sound or the smell or something —
But he doesn’t.
It can’t be nice, having to listen to his wife empty the contents of her already empty stomach, and he can’t enjoy holding her hair back to keep vomit out of the silver, or having to put up with the smell of sickness every morning—but he’s patient and undeterred, like usual. He rubs his free hand across her back; helps her off the bathroom floor when she’s finally, finally done; tucks her back into bed and brews another mug of tea for her, unprompted—
And when he presses it into her hands, Rayla starts to cry.
“Hey!” Callum shifts in the bed, panic in his eyes and in his voice, and she knows he means well, and that he just wants to make it better, but knowing that just makes it worse.
Rayla whimpers. “How are you so nice?”
Callum frowns at her, confused.“What?”
She bats at him, frustrated and grateful and sad without really knowing why . It’s the hormones, she reasons — there’s a bunch of them stewing within her, and it’s normal to be moody and upset by the most irrational things, but that’s the problem. She’s not reasonable or rational right now in the least, and it’s bad enough that Callum’s been going out of his way to take care of her, and now there’s this too. She curls into herself. Leans forward in the bed until her forehead meets his shoulders and her tears leave stains in the sleeve of his shirt. “I just like you a lot ,” she sniffles. “I don’t — hic — you have no idea how much I appreciate you and—”
Callum lets out a disbelieving sort of chuckle. There’s no malice in it. No mockery. It just sounds flattered by her ridiculousness. “Let me get this straight,” he says, trying to make sense of it. “You’re upset… because you appreciate me?”
She shushes him and swats feebly at his arm like it’ll help. “Just— hic —let me dumb, okay?”
He says nothing for a while. Rayla gets the feeling he’s trying not to laugh again for her sake. If he did, it’d be fair, and she wouldn’t even be mad—she’d laugh at herself too, if she could—but he’s far too nice for that, as always. He pries the tea out of her hands instead, more patient and careful and understanding than he should have any right to be, and sets it on the nightstand. “You’re not dumb,” he says gently. “You just need a hug.”
She pouts against his arm, but it would be a lie to deny it. “A hug would be nice.”
He does chuckle then. Gathers her into his arms and presses a kiss to her forehead, hiding that amused little smile against her skin. “It’ll pass,” he says again. “The weird emotional stuff too. You’ll feel like yourself again in no time.”
Rayla sniffles once more. She believes him.
art by @byghostface
The second time it happens, Rayla’s a little more prepared for it. They’re in Adamina for a negotiation about human mining operations near or on this side of the Breach—just for minerals, and for stones imbued with Primal energy so it’s more readily available and there’s no reason for humans to turn back to Dark Magic, nothing untoward—but the elves here (everywhere) are stubborn, even if the ones in this city are marginally more amenable to change in comparison.
She’s pouting at her reflection this morning. Yesterday it’d become pretty clear that fitting into her old gear isn’t really an option any more, and the dress suits her, but she’s grumpy about it. She doesn’t like dresses at the best of times, but there’s something about having to wear a maternity dress that makes her feel more vulnerable than she already is. It’s hard to explain. It’s fine for Callum to see her weaknesses, she thinks. It’s not fine for everyone else to see them too.
Callum frowns at her on his way past the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”
Rayla feels it before it happens this time. The upset building in her throat. The irrational sadness in her chest. The fluid in her eyes. “I’m—” She pauses. Her voice sounds strangled in her own ears. “I’m—”
Callum’s frown only deepens. “...Starting to show?” he asks uncertainly.
She nods, her lips tilting downwards in the mirror, her hands drifting to the material of her dress to pull it tight over the swell. It’s not even that big a bump yet. She’s only seventeen weeks along, and she’s only going to get bigger from this point on. It’s not like she’s ever had a problem with her body image. She’s never really cared to begin with, and it’s certainly not like she’s suddenly unattractive because of the extra weight. There's just… insecurity now, and she looks to Callum with a pout.
“I’ve never been so big before,” she murmurs.
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, yeah,” he says reasonably. “You’ve never been pregnant before.”
“But—” She presses her lips shut. It’s hormones, she reminds herself. She’s not really upset. She’s just moody and pregnancy is not so easy to reason with. “I—”
Callum purses his own lips, the understanding clear in his eyes. “I still think you’re beautiful,” he offers, abandoning his own tasks to loop his hands around her waist. He rubs the bump affectionately and smiles at her reflection in the mirror. “If anything, I think you look even prettier. You’ve got your glow.”
Her lip trembles. Her throat hurts. Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks and ducks her head to hide them before they fall. If Callum notices (he does, and she knows it), he doesn’t say anything. He only smiles, leaving a kiss in her hair and that familiar warmth in her chest.
She tries not to let it bother her too much after that.
The aches and pains start at nineteen weeks. They’re on their way back to Katolis, but they’ve got time to stop in and say hello to Rayla’s uncles, so that’s where they’re headed when Rayla starts wincing every time she climbs on and off from her filly’s back. Vorobey’s not a particularly rough horse, but she’s not so gentle either, and it certainly isn’t helping the ligaments in Rayla’s abdomen or the bones in her back.
She tries not to fuss about it. She’s had worse, and she’s not about to let a little ache stop her or slow her down, but it does hurt , and of course Callum notices because he notices everything , no matter how subtle she thinks she's being.
They could stop for the night in Lantha. It’s becoming a pretty frequent stop for them—they like Callum there, and it’s a nice city, all things considered. Theoretically, though, if they kept riding, they’d get home by dawn tomorrow, but Callum’s frowning at the way she grimaces with Vorobey’s movements and she has a feeling he won’t take no for an answer.
“You need to take it easy,” he says, disapprovingly.
Rayla purses her lips at him. “We’re only riding,” she says, pointed and stubborn. “It’s not like I’m doing any work other than that.”
“Yeah, but you’re in pain ,” he argues. “Don’t pretend you’re not,” he adds sharply. “I can see you wincing when you think I’m not looking. Your uncles won’t mind if we don’t get there ‘til tomorrow evening.”
It's true, but still. Rayla pouts, pretending her hips and her back aren’t killing her (they are), even as she groans under her breath when she climbs off Vorobey. Inwardly, she’s glad. Like the million other things she won’t admit, the ache is growing harder and harder to bear, and the idea of sleeping it off is considerably more appealing than riding through the night, even if it means another stop in Lantha.
They settle in their room, and Rayla stifles a moan when she takes a seat on the bed. The mattress dips under her weight, and while it’s not her own, or even the one in Katolis, it’s definitely more comfortable than Vorobey’s saddle, and she’s secretly very grateful Callum insisted. She goes to sleep that night contented, her face buried in Callum’s back, her arm draped loosely over his waist, and all is well until—
She wakes.
She’s not sure why, at first. It’s still dark outside, and it feels like there are still hours before dawn. She bristles, still half asleep, but then she tries to turn over and her hips groan in protest. It’s not a dull ache anymore, it’s sharp and it radiates up her back and down to her knees. Her joints feel like they’re on fire and it catches her so off-guard that Rayla lets out a cry. She claps a hand over her mouth to mute it, but it’s too late—Callum jolts awake beside her, his eyes clear and full of concern even in the poor light.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Rayla sucks in a breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way in, and she shudders as the pain settles and fades. “I’m—I’m fine,” she manages. Her voice trembles, and it doesn’t even hurt so much anymore, but Moon and Stars , is she crying? She swallows. “I just—my—my hips really hurt. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Are you seriously apologising right now?” Callum frowns at her through the dark. He scribbles a rune in the air—the glow lights his face and the worried frown creasing his brow—and he whispers into it and brings a little ball of light to life in his hands.
Rayla squints. Rubs her hands over her face to hide the tears and to shield her eyes from the light. “I’m fine,” she says again, sniffling a little. “I’m okay now.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah.” Rayla takes one more breath. A slower one this time, willing the last of the ache out of her bones so she might be able to go back to sleep. When she lays back down on her left, her bones creak in the effort, and she clenches her jaw shut to keep the sound in.
Callum studies her, unimpressed. Then he climbs out of bed. “Put this between your knees,” he says gently, snatching a cushion off the chaise in the corner. “It’ll keep your hips aligned and hopefully ease the pain. It was in the notes the healer gave me ages ago,” he adds, catching her frown as he seats himself on her side of the bed. “Do you want me to stay up ‘til you fall asleep?”
He’s so sweet it almost sets her off again. Rayla shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, easing the cushion between her legs. The relief is almost instant, and she sighs as the ache eases at last. “Thanks.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” whispers Callum, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You okay?”
Rayla swallows. “I will be.”
There’s an attack on the castle when Rayla’s about twenty-one weeks along.
They’d come back in a hurry. A clinic’s burned down, and there are tensions rising between elves and humans in Katolis that certainly weren’t there when they left. They’d discussed it with Ezran as soon as they’d arrived but it doesn’t make sense. Things were fine. Things were good. And now—
Rayla lets out a shudder. The assassins that had broken in were there for her , and they’d come so close . The memory of her own blood between her thighs is fresh, and her belly still twinges as the baby moves within it, but gods , if she’d been any less lucky—if Callum hadn’t woken when he did—
She doesn’t like thinking about it.
There’s a shop in the city called The Wishbone . It’s run by a couple of friends of theirs, and Soren and Claudia help run it often enough that it’s felt safer than the castle these past few days. Rowena, her midwife, has been by almost daily. “Bathing helps,” she tells Rayla. “It takes a little of the weight off your back and the warm water will help with any pain.”
She’s right. It does. It’s one of the few things Rayla's allowed to get out of bed for, and while she’d argue, normally, the fear—of making things worse, of losing the baby—is too real.
She’s in the tub again when Callum visits later that week.
He’s been avoiding it—visiting the shop too often might give away her hiding place, and the last thing they need is for anyone to know she’s there and vulnerable. It’s been awful for her, but it’s no better for him. She’s never seen shadows so prominent under his eyes, and his face is hard when he lets himself into the bathroom that morning.
It falters only a little when he catches sight of her. Something like a smile tilts his lips, but it’s grim and sad.
“How’re you feeling?”
Rayla shrugs. Her throat is raw, and while the swell in her belly is growing, it’s not so big yet that she can’t draw her knees to her. She sets a hand on it beneath the water, her breath caught in her throat until she feels it twitch under her fingers, but she sighs in the end. “Could be better,” she murmurs, resting her chin in the valley between her knees. “How are things on your end?”
Callum breathes out through his nose, exhausted. “The same,” he says quietly, crossing the tiny bathroom to sit against the edge of the tub. “I brought you your things. Eleni said to just leave them in Lessa’s room. Your butterfly blades are right at the bottom, so you don’t have to worry about her getting into them.” He presses his lips shut for a moment. The sentence sounds clipped,like he wants to say something else—a joke, maybe?—but he only shakes his head and brushes a lock of her hair out of her face.
Rayla hums and leans into his touch. How she’d missed it. The tenderness of his fingers. The care of his hands. It’s pathetic, she thinks, but she can’t fault herself for it. Not now. Not while things have been so dire.
“I miss you,” mutters Callum, his words thick with emotion. “I don’t think we’ve been apart for this long in…”
“Ever,” finishes Rayla. Her own voice trembles, but she offers him the closest thing to a smile she can muster. “I wish—” She takes a breath. She wishes a lot of things right now, and there are too many of them to say out loud. She sniffles and lifts a hand to catch his. “I wish things were different,” she mumbles, pressing his fingers to her lips. “I wish we could just be , y’know?”
“Yeah,” whispers Callum. “I know.” He takes his own breath—one long shuddering one that fills the rest of his body with resolve—and bends to press a kiss into her hair. “I wish that too.”
They move her to the Banther Lodge as soon as Rowena clears her for travel.
Rayla’s not happy about it, but there’s not much of a choice. It’s this, or stay in the capitol and risk another attack, and she’s—
She’s more vulnerable than she’s ever been in her life, and as much as she hates it—as weak as it makes her feel—she’s not stubborn enough to risk the life of her unborn child on something as stupid as her own pride.
It still sucks, though.
Callum doesn’t come with her because Ez needs him. There’s too much tension in the city for him to handle on his own, and, in any case, there’s an assassin’s conspirator to find, and he can’t do that from the Lodge. It makes for quiet, lonely days, even with Rowena, and Soren, and Claudia for company, and Rayla whiles away the hours sitting by the front steps and waiting for news.
Weeks pass.
Then a month.
Then another.
There is none. Only Callum’s I love you’s and I miss you’s that appear in the little hand held magic mirror that they’ve been using for communication since she left.
Moon and Stars, how she misses him. He should be here, or at least, she should be there, and he should get to put his hands on her belly and laugh at the way his child twitches and rolls and kicks within her. He should be able to talk to it the way she does, and marvel at how quickly it’s grown.
“You miss him too, huh?” she says quietly to her bump one day. She turns her mirror over in her hands, waiting for his handwriting to light it up in her hands. “It won’t be for too much longer, little one. Dad’s just… got some stuff to take care of. He wants us to be safe.”
She draws a breath. She’s cried a lot this pregnancy. It’s completely normal, Rowena tells her, and it’s beyond her control. She shouldn’t be so hard on herself, and sometimes it helps to cry.
It doesn’t now.
She hardly does anything most days while they’re out here—the others won’t let her—but Rayla finds herself exhausted all the time .
“That’s normal too,” Rowena promises while she’s doing one of her check ups. “Growing a baby is hard work, and you’ve been through more than most. You should take the opportunity to nap while you can, Your Highness. I don’t know that you’ll have that luxury once the baby comes.”
It’s supposed to be a half joke, Rayla thinks? Rowena’s smile is kind and understanding, but there’s a spark of amusement in it too, perhaps because Rayla’s so ostensibly and comically frustrated by the way her body seems to want nothing but to eat and sleep.
She’ll be coming up on thirty weeks now. The baby squirms and wriggles all day every day, seemingly ignorant of the fact that it’s running out of room. Its feet get caught in her ribs, and it nudges into her bladder, and sometimes, it moves so much that it’s difficult to sleep anyway, and Rayla spends what’s supposed to be her afternoon nap watching it wriggle, half-exasperated, half-endeared by the way her whole belly shifts with its movements.
Other women—not that Rayla personally knows many who’ve been through this to begin with—had made this sound magical. A wondrous, miraculous time in any woman’s life full of love for a person yet to be. Rayla had had her doubts, but this just about seals the deal:
Pregnancy sucks and no part of actually being pregnant feels magical at all .
Maybe a year from now, when this is all done and over with and her child’s a crying mess, she might look back and miss the days she’d just watch her belly move, but right now, at this moment, while her hips ache and her breath is short and what she thinks is an elbow is pressing painfully outwards in her womb, life could not be any harder.
She wishes Callum were here. The others are probably sick of listening to her grumble to herself, but Callum had been nothing but supportive and she’s certain that, if she asked him, he’d rub the tension out of her back and her shoulders without even pausing to think about it. He’d hold her close and smooth her hair and read her to sleep if she needed it. His very presence would be a comfort in and of itself.
But the fact is he’s not here, and it’s just one more thing on top of a very long list of things that suck really, really bad.
She spills the milk one morning. She’s been a lot clumsier recently too, and it’s not just because she’s so much bigger than she used to be. The jug tips, and milk runs over the counter and splashes at her feet. Rayla stares at the puddle for three, four, five seconds, before her frustration gets the better of her at long, long last, and she starts to cry.
Claudia doesn’t even ask. “Go sit down,” she says gently, ushering her out of the kitchen. “I’ll take care of this. Do you want a heat pack for you back?”
“ Yes ,” blubbers Rayla, aware of how ridiculous — how pathetic —she sounds. “Just—don’t even—”
“I wasn’t going to,” chuckles Claudia. “Go on. Leave this to me.”
Sometimes, Rayla remembers that there’s history between them. Not good history. History that she’s not particularly proud of, and, she imagines, history that Claudia’s not particularly proud of. But things have changed a lot since then, and she’s reminded, not for the first time, of how grateful she is for Claudia’s presence at the lodge.
“Sorry I’m a pain,” she mutters, when Claudia joins her on the front steps with a heat pack in one hand and a plate of tarts in the other.
“You’re not a pain,” says Claudia. “You’re just pregnant. You shouldn’t apologise for that.”
In spite of herself, Rayla laughs. Pregnancy still sucks, she thinks, but it’s not so bad with good company.
Her little girl is born after midnight. At least, Rayla thinks it’s after midnight. It’s hard to be sure. The contractions had started late in the evening, and then it was a kind of a rush to get her out of harm’s way as General Balan’s forces descended on the mountain.
There was pain, and there was blood, and a battle, further down from the heart of the Moon Nexus, and oh, how terrifying it had all been—
But she doesn’t think about any of that.
Callum is here now. They’re safe now. Everything is fine now.
And their baby—Sarai, they’d named her—is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
“She’s so tiny,” whispers Callum—and, indeed, she is. His hands are big compared to Rayla’s, but they’re the perfect size to cradle his baby girl, and in spite of everything that’s happened, and how hard this pregnancy has been, Rayla’s heart is full.
She wonders if she might cry again, but there are no tears left. She’s grateful to be alive, and happy to meet her daughter, and so in love with Callum and the way he coos at their child as he holds her in his arms for the first time—
And then to her great surprise, he starts to cry.
Rayla’s lips pull upwards, and she’s not sure if she’s smiling because she’s happy or because she thinks it’s funny or because she thinks turnabout is fair play. “Are you okay?” she asks him quietly.
He nods pathetically, his shoulders shaking with emotion. “I’m just—I love you both so much and—”
“You don’t have to explain,” chuckles Rayla, putting her hands over his. “I get it.”
He sniffles. “She’s—she’s so beautiful, Rayla, and I know it’s been a long night, but—I-it’s been so long , and I — I started to wonder if this day would ever come and — gods, I was so scared I was going to lose one or both of you tonight, and I’m just so happy —”
“Callum. My love.” Rayla swallows a laugh and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “C’mere,” she whispers, pulling him to her.
He lets her without resistance; rests his forehead against her shoulder and sobs until his tears leave dark stains in his scarf-turned-swaddle. His shoulders shake, but his hands are firm and steady all the while, tucked securely around Sarai while she sleeps.
Rayla presses a kiss against his temple and hides a smile against his skin. “You’ve been so strong for us,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair. “You took such good care of me when I was emotional. I think it’s our turn to let you cry now.”
He chokes out a laugh. And, in turn, he presses a kiss to Sarai’s temple, mindful of the way she fidgets in her sleep. “Everything’s gonna be okay now,” he whispers. “Mum and Dad are both here. You’re gonna be just fine.”
“We all will be,” adds Rayla, her face shining with joy and hope and love . “That’s a promise.”
It’s one they keep.
art by @lovelysheree