No Regrets

"If I were to tell you that I'm alright with this, I'd be lying." he says, smiling weakly. "But, I will...manage. I suppose it wasn't meant to be." He shakes his head sadly.

I desperately want to cheer him, but I'm not sure how. I settle with "Shall we rouse Teran and Moula and go down for breakfast?"

"Why not?" he replies, looking at least a little cheerful, though he's probably just putting on a brave face. "I'm certain they had more fun than we did last night."

We share an uncomfortable laugh. I step forward, and, feeling a sharp discomfort suddenly in my midsection, nearly fall to the ground. Fortunately, John catches me. "Hari! Are you alright?!"

"I...I'm fine." I say. Seconds later, though, it is clear that I am NOT fine, as my water breaks. "It's time. I'm going into labour!"

"I'll get Moula!" John says, rushing off. I stagger weakly back into bed. Moula enters moments later, followed by a rather frenzied John and a groggy Teran. Moula begins barking out orders, beckoning them to bring clean blankets, hot water, and the like.

The next few hours are a blur. I won't go into detail, but it was one of the most harrowing, painful experiences of my young life. My screams no doubt woke the whole inn. I don't understand how some women in my time actually refuse painkillers, as I certainly would have taken some if they had been near to hand. Moula did a great job, in full-on midwife mode she's more assertive then I've ever seen before. Teran, more than once, had to leave the room, as shaken as I've ever seen him before. John spent much of the time pacing nervously, though he occasionally held my hand, for which I was grateful.

Hours later, my exertions are at an end. After (almost) nine months of pregnancy I've given birth to:

1. A healthy boy.
2. A healthy girl.
3. Twins!

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