Page 7 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach
SOREYA
T he weeks blur into a muted wash of light and shadow, days stacking into months without edges.
I wake because Mirath tells me to, eat because a spoon is pressed into my hand, breathe because my body insists on the rhythm even when I'd rather stop.
Time moves like honey, thick and slow, each moment stretching until I can't tell if it's morning or evening, Tuesday or Sunday. Nothing has meaning anymore.
Mirath moves through our small home with quiet efficiency—tending the herbs that grow wild in the window boxes, stoking the fire when the chill creeps in, changing the linens when she notices they're damp from tears I don't remember shedding.
She's practically living here now, sleeping on the narrow couch more nights than not, her healer's bag always within reach like she's expecting disaster.
Maybe she is. Maybe I am disaster now.
"You need to eat more than this," she says, settling beside me on the bed with a bowl of something that smells like gankoya and warm milk. Her cinnamon-brown skin has taken on a gray cast from worry and too little sleep, dark circles shadowing her eyes. "The baby needs?—"
"I know what the baby needs." The words come out sharper than I intend, cutting through the fog that's settled over everything. But even the brief flare of irritation feels exhausting, too much effort for too little result.
She doesn't flinch at my tone, just keeps stirring the contents of the bowl with patient determination.
Her thick black curls are escaping their usual neat arrangement, framing her face in wild spirals that speak to how little attention she's been paying to herself.
All her focus has been on me, on keeping me functional when every instinct screams to just stop.
"Then you know you can't keep surviving on kaffo and grief." Her voice carries that familiar note of authority she uses with difficult patients, but underneath it I hear the strain. The fear that she's fighting a losing battle against something bigger than both of us.
The swell of my belly has grown heavier over these months, an undeniable reminder of what I've lost and what I'm about to gain.
The child moves constantly now, restless kicks and rolling motions that press against my ribs and steal what little breath I have left.
I feel every flutter, every shift of small limbs in the dark space inside me, and it hurts as much as it soothes.
Korrun should be here for this. Should have his massive hands pressed against my skin, marveling at the strength of his child.
Should be talking to my belly in that gentle rumble he used when he thought no one was listening, telling stories about the sea and his brother's adventures.
Should be building the cradle he promised, his careful fingers shaping wood into something beautiful and safe.
Instead, there's just me and this growing weight and the terrible silence where his voice used to be.
I take the spoon from Mirath's hand because it's easier than arguing, mechanically bringing the mixture to my mouth.
It tastes like nothing, like everything tastes now.
The gankoya should settle my stomach, should ease the nausea that's gotten worse instead of better as the pregnancy progresses.
But nothing eases the sick feeling that has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the gaping hole where my heart used to be.
"That's better." Mirath's approval is gentle, careful not to push too hard or too fast. She's learned to measure progress in spoonfuls and breaths, in moments when I respond to her voice instead of staring through her like she's made of glass.
Outside, the city moves on as though Korrun's absence is just another shift in the air.
I can hear the market vendors calling their wares, the clip-clop of equus hooves on stone, the distant roar of the colosseum crowds cheering for new fighters.
Life continues with brutal efficiency, indifferent to the fact that the most important person in the world is gone.
Inside, I drift from room to room like a ghost, unable to touch his belongings without feeling splintered.
His training harness still hangs by the door, the leather darkened by years of sweat and sun, and I can't bring myself to move it.
The familiar scent of him clings to the worn straps—salt and steel and something uniquely his that no amount of time seems able to wash away.
Mirath suggested once, carefully, that we might pack some things away.
Make space for the baby's needs. I'd stared at her with such venom that she'd backed down immediately, her hands raised in surrender.
Those belongings are all I have left of him.
The physical proof that he existed, that he lived in this space and loved me and planned a future that included teaching our child to fight and laugh and love with the same fierce intensity he brought to everything.
Some nights, the baby kicks hard enough to wake me, and I lie in the dark with my hand on my stomach, willing Korrun to feel it too.
Wishing he were here when he seemed even more excited than me about this pregnancy, when he'd spend entire evenings with his ear pressed to my belly, waiting for any sign of movement.
He'd been so patient, so gentle, mapping every change in my body like it was sacred territory.
"Did you feel that?" I whisper to the empty room, my palm pressed against a particularly vigorous kick. The baby seems to respond to my voice, settling into a gentler rhythm that feels almost like comfort. "Your papa would have loved that. He would have called you a little fighter."
The words hang in the darkness, unanswered. There's no warm presence beside me, no rumbling chuckle or careful hands joining mine. Just the terrible silence and the growing certainty that I'm going to have to do this alone.
During the day, I watch Mirath bustle around the small space with determined efficiency.
She's taken over the herb garden completely, her skilled hands coaxing new growth from plants that were starting to wither under my neglect.
The scent of rirzed and fresh greenery fills the air, a sharp contrast to the stale grief that seems to cling to everything else.
She's reorganized the kitchen too, moving things to more convenient heights for when the baby comes.
Making practical preparations for a future I can't quite believe in.
Her movements are quick and purposeful, but I catch her sometimes pausing by the window, staring out at nothing with an expression that mirrors my own lost look.
This is costing her too. Not just the time and energy of caring for someone who's more burden than companion lately, but the emotional weight of watching me disappear piece by piece.
She loved Korrun in her own way—loved how he made me laugh, how he brought me fresh fish from the market because he knew I wouldn't eat properly without someone looking after me.
She's grieving too, but she's buried it under the immediate necessity of keeping me alive.
"Mir." My voice cracks from disuse, making her look up from the herbs she's hanging to dry. "You should go home. Sleep in your own bed."
"I'm fine here." Her response is automatic, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of her compact frame. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually eat the soup instead of just moving it around the bowl."
She's not wrong. Left to my own devices, I'd probably forget to eat entirely. The hunger seems distant, unimportant compared to the gnawing ache in my chest. But the baby kicks again, insistent, reminding me that my choices affect more than just myself now.
The afternoon light slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
In a few hours, the sun will set and I'll face another night in a bed that feels too large, too empty, too full of memories.
Another night of lying awake and wishing for things that can never be, reaching for warmth that isn't there.
The baby shifts again, a rolling motion that makes my breath catch. Soon they'll run out of room in there, will need to make their entrance into a world that's already proven itself capable of terrible things. A world where their father's absence will be the first lesson they learn about loss.
But right now, in this moment, they're safe. Protected by my body and Mirath's fierce determination and the stubborn love that refuses to die even when everything else has. It's not much, but it's something. A small flame in the darkness that refuses to be extinguished.