Page 40 of Godslayer
My mother and father stopped paying attention to me years back when I stopped paying attention to them.
But still.
I want to go home.
Immediately, self-loathing fills up the emptiness inside me. Why am I being such a baby? Why am I being so... stupid? This is not who I am. I am not emotional, or weepy, or senti?—
Oh, shit.
Oh, no.
No. No, no, no.
This cannot be?—
“Jasina?”
I blink and find myself looking straight into Finn’s eyes. “Yeah.”
He points to his back again. “Do you want a ride?”
I force a smile. “No. I’m good.” And then, before he can ask me what’s wrong—because clearly everything is wrong right now—I grab the railing and start climbing.
I know Finn hesitates because I count to five before I hear his footsteps following me up.
He’s getting worried. And I don’t blame him. We’re doing something very dangerous. Together. Meaning him and I. Meaning, partners. Meaning he’s counting on me and I’m… wavering. Overthinking. Retreating.
Oh, you wish that was all you were, Jasina Bell.
You wish.
I’m not weepy and homesick because I’m acoward.
I’m weepy and homesick because I’m… pregnant.
I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’mpregnant.
My mind races with what-ifs, and second thoughts, and possibilities. I see everything that’s happened in the last several weeks, I see all that’s happening to us now, and then… I picture that life Finn’s been talking about. The scholar and his wife.
Correction. The scholar, and his wife, andchild.
I picture a comfy cave with walls made of sandstone and floors covered in dirt soft enough to go barefoot. Flickering candles line the small room. There’s a makeshift kitchen, anda fire pit, and various iron cooking pots hanging from a rack. I picture sleeping in on top of a soft feather mattress under a pile of fluffy blankets. Finn Scott and I clinging to each other to keep ourselves warm during the cold nights.
I picture the ruins, or relics, or whatever it is we study down there. Finn’s excited concentration as he scribbles notes in some tattered book. He’s always covered in sand, but he smells like a promise of happiness. He looks at me, and my swelling belly, with longing and hope.
We marry in a small ceremony officiated by… I dunno. Whatever you call the person in charge of the scholar’s camp.
We have a boy. Or a girl. Then another, and another. And pretty soon, we’ve been living this life long enough that we forget where we came from and how we got here.
We forget.
We just live.
The grin creeps up my face. Slowly at first, but by the time we get to the top of the stairs and we’re standing in front of the door that leads into the Little Sister dorm, my smile is wide and beaming.
Perhaps it is not a write up in a history book.
Perhaps being a wife and mother to the child of a scholar is mundane.
