“You don’tneedto work, Silva.” It had been the first time she could remember him sounding truly irritated with her, entirely disinterested in placating her. “That’s going to make us look bad.”
“Why would it?!” she’d exclaimed, unable to keep her own frustration from overriding her sweet, Silva of the Daytime voice for a moment. Silva of the Nighttime was bolder, less of a doormat, less of a mouse. She could tell immediately that Tannar didn’t like this version of her, his eyebrows turning down. “You’re acting like we didn’t literally meetatwork! Where we worked with plenty of other elves! There’s no expectation that—”
“I thought a traditional marriage was the point of all this,” he’d snapped coldly, the chill of it making her stiffen, silencing her. “I thought that was literally the point. What we both wanted. Why we did this. A traditional marriage, to make both our families happy.”
Silva had the realization then, foolishly for the very first time, that he was using her in the exact same way she was using him. Oh, he was decent and unobjectionable and kinder than many of the other options she likely had, and shehadgotten very lucky, but that didn’t change what this was. For either of them, evidently. A means to an end, a respectable life in their community set on easy mode. Theright sort, as her grandmother would say.You’ll meet and marry some perfect, purple-skinned prat with a respectable, white-collar job and anexcellent credit score. The only thing he’d gotten wrong was the color of her husband’s skin.Lovewas just a word.
“I need to get out of this house,” she’d whispered, furious with the tears that spilled over her lashes. “I need to make friends somewhere.”
“That’s the whole point of the club, Silva.” His voice hadn't warmed. “Friends. A social circle, volunteer opportunities. You’re not meant to be sitting in the house all day doing gods knows what. You don’t need a part-time job for that. You can have lunch every day, play tennis, go to the spa, whatever you want!”
“I don’twantto do any of that!” Her voice had a ring of hysteria, the endless months of isolation catching up with her at last. Self-imposed isolation from everyone she loved and the community she knew, the memory of true happiness, and an increasingly unhinged online social circle of fae conspiracy fanatics.
“Then you need to start trying a little harder,” he said bluntly. There was no wounded kitten look that would save her. Silva knew she was beat. Sometimes, a good hustle meant knowing when to cut one’s losses, when to walk away while one still could. “You’re not trying atall, Silva. You’re not trying to make friends. You’re not getting involved.Youare the one who wanted to move. You want something to do? Then you should be meeting with the fertility counselors at the health center, not following around after a bunch of humans, putting books away like the help. And if you don’t care about how that makes you look, then fine. Butyouare not going to makemelook bad. As if my bridal barter was lacking. You don’t care? I do. Absolutely not, and that’s the end of the discussion. And speaking of things you’remeantto be doing; I thought you were supposed to be finding a cook.”
She’d gasped in offense. It was true, the vegetable curry she’d attempted that night hadn’t turned out quite the way she’d hoped, and the previous night’s cauliflower steakshadbeen a bit well-done, but shelikedlearning to cook . . . At least, she had once. When she’d had strong hands guiding her, never getting impatient or frustrated, always choking down her efforts with a shake of his head and a kiss to the tip of her nose, ensuring she didn’t burn anything down.
She’d flounced from the table, spent the rest of the evening crying self-indulgent tears, keeping her back to Tannar when he finally came to bed.
And now you just took a bite out of his shoulder like he’s a raw steak.
She would stay here for the rest of the night, she vowed, pushing unsteadily to her feet. A hot shower was what she needed. She was cold and nauseated, and she wanted to get warm. Get warm and wash away the stickiness on her thighs, the evidence of an existence she didn’t want, a reminder that things had gone terribly wrong and she had no idea how to fix any of it.
She’d stay in this bathroom forever, if need be. It was preferable to what was on the other side of the door, and the mess that had become of her life.
Lurielle
The smell of the waiting room was neutral.
Lurielle knew that she was likely alone in her preference for the waiting room. She would stay out here as long as it took. The vinyl-covered seats were designed for species much larger than her own, plenty of room, plenty of padding. The television in the corner played in a never-ending loop of inoffensive music from two decades prior. No polarizing talk shows. No news, no politics. Not even an infomercial.
Just her, a relatively comfortable seat, a band that was popular when she was in school, and air that smelled like nothing at all.
She never seemed to get her wish. She would be called in by the nurse, led to an exam room that smelled of bandages and antiseptics, and left there to rot. She had begun to associate the smell with a held breath. She would be nearly blue in the face by the time the doctor or the technician finally rolled in, wheezing and gasping as they smeared her distended belly in a cold gel, her lungs screaming by the time she was able to wheeze in a breath, the news that everything looked fine, that there was nothing to worry over, that she could exhale at last. And then shesucked in that smell, trapping it there in her lungs, a tension she brought home with her as a result.
Khash sat beside her, as he did every appointment, one knee bouncing. He wore the expression he always did when they were here — cheerful and determined, as if his syrupy charm was a weapon he could wield effectively enough to keep any potential bad outcomes at bay.
“You ready, mama?” he asked, squeezing her hand.
Lurielle gave him a weak smile, knitting her short fingers with his huge ones. “As I’ll ever be.”
It was a high-risk pregnancy. That's what they had told her from the beginning.
“You're perfectly healthy, Lurielle. I have no doubt you'll be able to carry to term without issue,” her doctor told her, right from the beginning. That hadn't prevented the high-risk classification, one that was denoted purely because of her species. “It's just something we must stay on top of, that's all. Ensure the baby is growing enough. We need to make sure they’re getting enough nutrients without leaving you depleted, and that you're taking good enough care of yourself, most importantly. You're petite as it is. But there's nothing to panic over. We'll just see you a lot more often.”
The doctor had laughed, as had the nurse in the room at the time. Lurielle had laughed weakly along with them, but there was nothing that felt good about being labeledhigh riskout of the gate.
So far, everything had been fine. She tracked her meals meticulously. Every meal was notated in a journal, adding up her calories, protein, fiber, folic acid, which supplements were added and when, focusing on nutrient-dense foods. Her nutritionist regularly emailed her menu plans, following up weekly to ensure she was eating enough for them both. She had a set amount of water she needed to drink each day, staying up tofinish every drop if she had to. Her weight was recorded weekly, and measurements taken of her rapidly expanding middle.
After a lifetime of unhealthy relationships with food, diet culture, and borderline disordered eating, the sudden focus on eatingenoughwas, Lurielle thought, a complete mind fuck.
“I’m telling you, Bluebell, it’s a girl. I can feel it.”
“You’ve been saying that since day one,” she scoffed, tightening her grip on his hand, as if it were the only thing keeping her in the building. They were there for her check-in, but this appointment was the big day. At least, that’s what she’d been told.
Learning the sex of one’s child wasn’t a milestone worthy of celebration in Elvish culture. Lurielle supposed that was part of the reason why these appointments felt so fraught to her. Theirs was not a culture of celebration during pregnancy. Every month was too steeped in worry, the rate of miscarriage too dizzyingly high to pin one's hopes on trivialities. The celebration didn’t come until there was a healthy bundle in the new mother’s arms, and by then, no one cared about anything other than the successful completion of gestation.
One more elf on the books, beating back the unspoken reality of their population decline.
