Chapter 27 - The Peasant
Pregnancy has convinced me that women, historically, have either been deeply dishonest or dangerously committed to collective psychological manipulation.
There is simply no other explanation.
Poets describe it as some sacred transformation.
Midwives smile softly while speaking about "the beauty of motherhood.
" Old noblewomen clasp your hands and tell you to cherish every moment because it passes so quickly.
Every single one of them conveniently forgets to mention that sometimes your child uses your bladder like a ceremonial drum at three in the morning while your husband sleeps peacefully beside you like a man untouched by suffering.
No one warns you that your emotions become deeply unreliable.
Three days ago, I cried because the cook accidentally burned a tart.
Not because I wanted the tart.
And yesterday, I became genuinely furious at a chair for being too far away from me. At this point, I no longer trust myself morally, spiritually, or physically.
Which is why I currently sit buried beneath blankets in the sitting room, using my stomach as a table. And honestly, it works remarkably well.
The book rests against the curve of my belly at exactly the right angle, supported by the tiny tyrant currently growing inside me, and for once, my back doesn't ache from holding something upright for longer than ten minutes.
Unfortunately, my husband has spent the last several minutes staring at me with increasing levels of concern usually reserved for battlefield injuries and political assassinations.
"What?"
Achille sits across from me near the fire, one boot resting lazily over the opposite knee, reports forgotten entirely in his lap.
The flames throw gold against the sharp lines of his face, softening him in ways the world rarely gets to see.
His hair is slightly disheveled, likely because I yanked on it earlier when he informed me I was "walking aggressively. "
I still maintain that it was rude.
His gaze lowers slowly toward my stomach.
"...are you using our child as furniture?"
I blink.
Then look down thoughtfully at the book balanced against my belly.
"Well," I say carefully, "yes, why do you ask?"
"Because it is concerning."
I shrug lightly. "It's efficient."
His expression shifts to genuine offense. "You're using my daughter as a table."
"And your parasite is using me as a host," I reply calmly. "The least she can do is contribute to household productivity."
"Don't call my baby a parasite."
"But that's what she is, she steals nutrients directly from my body, just like a parasite would."
"Well, she needs it to grow."
"Well, does she need to headbutt my ribs hard enough to see every God in existence?"
"She's active."
"She's violent."
"My baby girl is perfect."
The certainty in his voice is immediate.
Absolute.
Like, there has never been a single doubt in his mind.
Gods.
I narrow my eyes at him. "You are still deeply committed to this daughter fantasy."
"It's not a fantasy," he says smoothly. "It's intuition."
"It's a delusion."
"It's genetics."
"You cannot genetically manifest a daughter through confidence."
Achilles leans back further into the chair with the unbearable smugness of a man entirely convinced the universe personally favors him.
"My intuition is usually right."
I stare at him flatly.
"And what," I ask slowly, "are you going to do when the child comes out, and it's a boy?"
Achilles looks genuinely disturbed by the suggestion.
"Why would you even say that out loud?"
"Because it's possible."
"No."
"It literally is."
"I reject it."
"You cannot reject biology."
"I can reject negativity."
I open my mouth to argue further when the baby suddenly kicks hard enough to make me jolt.
Achilles is out of his chair before I can even react.
Honestly, at this point, I'm beginning to think fatherhood has transformed him into some overprotective hunting dog. One strange movement from me and suddenly he's kneeling beside the couch, looking ready to wage war against the laws of nature themselves.
"What happened?"
"The parasites kicked me."
"She is not a parasite."
"Belay my last, the little tyrant is that better?"
His large hands settle carefully over my stomach anyway, his entire expression sharpening with concern.
"You," he says darkly to my abdomen, "will stop assaulting your mother."
Another kick answers him immediately.
His face softens so quickly that it would horrify the entire court if they ever witnessed it.
"That's my girl."
I groan loudly.
"She kicked because your voice annoyed her."
"or because she loves it."
"Well, whatever it is, it's making her use my internal organs as percussion instruments."
"She's spirited."
"My body won't survive spirit ."
"She will make a great tyrantess."
I stare at him.
"...do you hear yourself?"
I sigh dramatically and slump further into the cushions. A laugh escapes before he can stop it, deep and warm and entirely too attractive for someone mocking my suffering.
I glare harder.
"This isn't funny."
Before he can respond, the doors open and Elias walks into the room carrying several folders beneath one arm and the expression of a man already exhausted by whatever nonsense he's about to witness.
He stops immediately upon seeing me.
Then his gaze lowers toward my stomach.
Then the book balanced on top of it.
Silence.
"...I have questions," he says carefully.
"Yes, I'm using it as a table," I explain.
Elias blinks once.
Then nods slowly like he's decided not to interfere with whatever pregnancy-related madness has overtaken the palace.
"Fair enough."
Achilles points at him immediately. "Tell her she shouldn't use my daughter as furniture."
Elias pauses.
Look at me.
Look at my stomach.
Looks back at Achilles.
"...you think it's a girl too?"
"Obviously."
Elias hums thoughtfully. "Interesting."
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "Don't encourage him."
"I'm not encouraging him," Elias says innocently. "I'm studying him. This level of delusion is medically fascinating."
Achilles looks deeply offended.
"It's not delusion."
"It's confidence."
"It's insanity," I correct.
Elias drops into the chair beside us with a sigh. "Honestly, at this point, I support whatever keeps him manageable. Last week, he threatened a minister because someone referred to the baby as 'the heir' instead of 'his little princess.'"
"That man knew what he was doing."
"That man was seventy."
"He was disrespectful."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"How are you both real people?"
Elias looks genuinely thoughtful. "Personally, I ask myself that every morning."
I shift slightly again, grimacing when another ache spreads through my lower back.
Immediately, both men notice.
Gods help me.
It's unbearable.
"What hurts?" Achilles asks instantly.
"My back."
"Lower or upper?"
"Both."
"You should lie down."
"I've been lying down."
"You should lie down differently."
Elias snorts loudly.
I glare at him. "What?"
"Nothing," he says, grinning. "It's just fascinating watching the most feared man on the continent panic every time you blink too aggressively."
Achilles ignores him entirely, already moving behind the couch.
A second later, warm hands settle against my shoulders.
Then carefully
Slowly
He begins massaging the tension from my back.
I nearly moan from relief.
"Oh."
Achille's expression immediately turns smug. "Better?"
"...maybe."
Elias watches the entire thing with deep amusement.
"You know," he says conversationally, "if anyone from court saw this, they'd assume we replaced the king with an emotionally supportive imposter."
Achilles doesn't even pause.
"I can still have you executed."
"You threatened that yesterday because I ate the last pastry."
"You knew it was hers."
"You can't prove that."
I sink deeper into the cushions as Achille continues rubbing careful circles into my aching back.
Honestly?
I'm beginning to understand why pregnant women become unreasonable.
This child has transformed me into a creature entirely motivated by comfort and snacks.
Speaking of
"Fetch me something sweet, peasant."
Achilles sighs dramatically. "Again?"
"The baby is hungry."
"The baby had pastries an hour ago."
Elias bursts out laughing.
Achilles points at him without looking away from me. "Don't encourage this behavior. And do not call me a peasant woman."
"She's creating life," Elias says. "Frankly, I think she should be allowed to call you whatever she wants. Your reason is like this."
I nod approvingly. "See? He understands me." I tilt my head thoughtfully. "Anyway ... I want something sweet. But spicy, but I have to be pretty and pink, ohhh no blue."
Achilles freezes.
Slowly closes his eyes.
"I can't go through that again."
"But..."
"No, because that description means nothing."
"But that's what the baby wants."
Elias immediately bends forward, laughing.
Achilles looks personally betrayed by my existence.
"What," he says carefully, "does pretty mean in relation to food?"
I shrug. "You'll know when you see it."
"That is not helpful."
"I believe in you."
"That makes one of us."
Elias wipes at his eyes dramatically. "I'm crying. The king of Elysium has finally met an enemy he cannot defeat."
Achilles glares at both of us. Then mutters something incomprehensible under his breath