Post by Hiko on Jul 9, 2015 20:59:37 GMT -5
((Playing catch-up to the current timeline. Whee~))
Bedrest.
If there was anything Mollin hated more than being confined, she couldn’t name it. And yet, here she was, stuck in a sharding bed, tending to a cooing, crying babe. The child wasn’t old enough to send to the crèche, and there was no available milk mother at the moment, anyway. Until one was found, Mollin was sectioned away in a lonely room. Perhaps in another sevenday someone could take over, perhaps not; Mollin felt as if the inability to find a suitable caretaker was a silent ridicule at her for having been so stupid as to have slept with the Weyrleader. Daltilith attempted to sooth her.
They will let you out in time. She wasn’t an egg, but having her was still hard on you, the blue reminded. He hadn’t taken to his rider’s labor terribly well, and had to be subdued by the queens. Had they not intervened, Mollin thought, he might have torn the infirmary completely apart. Instead, he’s been reduced to crying for her from outside while she cried out within.
It might as well have been an egg, Dalti, for all the good it’s done me.
But eggs break. You can’t break squishy things!
I’d rather let someone else bother with this squishy.
But this one’s yours! Shouldn’t that mean something?
It probably should, Mollin thought. But try as she might, the weyrling couldn’t make that motherly connection. She wondered if that part of her was broken – if perhaps all the concerns from the Hold hadn’t held true, in the end. Was she just wrong? Mothers couldn’t just feel nothing toward their babes, could they? She shivered as Zaelin began crying.
“Why won’t you ever stay quiet?” she asked to the wailing infant. “All you ever do is cry and crap. Can’t you just not for one night?”
She shuffled out of bed and to the crib. Even as she placed the babe at her bosom and felt the child begin to feed, Mollin felt like crumbling away.
Bedrest.
If there was anything Mollin hated more than being confined, she couldn’t name it. And yet, here she was, stuck in a sharding bed, tending to a cooing, crying babe. The child wasn’t old enough to send to the crèche, and there was no available milk mother at the moment, anyway. Until one was found, Mollin was sectioned away in a lonely room. Perhaps in another sevenday someone could take over, perhaps not; Mollin felt as if the inability to find a suitable caretaker was a silent ridicule at her for having been so stupid as to have slept with the Weyrleader. Daltilith attempted to sooth her.
They will let you out in time. She wasn’t an egg, but having her was still hard on you, the blue reminded. He hadn’t taken to his rider’s labor terribly well, and had to be subdued by the queens. Had they not intervened, Mollin thought, he might have torn the infirmary completely apart. Instead, he’s been reduced to crying for her from outside while she cried out within.
It might as well have been an egg, Dalti, for all the good it’s done me.
But eggs break. You can’t break squishy things!
I’d rather let someone else bother with this squishy.
But this one’s yours! Shouldn’t that mean something?
It probably should, Mollin thought. But try as she might, the weyrling couldn’t make that motherly connection. She wondered if that part of her was broken – if perhaps all the concerns from the Hold hadn’t held true, in the end. Was she just wrong? Mothers couldn’t just feel nothing toward their babes, could they? She shivered as Zaelin began crying.
“Why won’t you ever stay quiet?” she asked to the wailing infant. “All you ever do is cry and crap. Can’t you just not for one night?”
She shuffled out of bed and to the crib. Even as she placed the babe at her bosom and felt the child begin to feed, Mollin felt like crumbling away.