memories archive

Their kicks came like waves—uneven, unpredictable—testing the limits of your already strained body. Your belly, stretched full and heavy, felt like a boulder strapped to your front. Your ankles ached, your hips throbbed. And your back… oh, your poor back!, burned as if someone had taken a blade and pressed it between your vertebrae, just to see how long you’d endure.

And you weren’t even doing much. Not anymore, actually. The bag full of Zaytun Peaches you meant to put away had been sitting on the counter untouched for the past ten minutes. Your tasks had blurred into a fog of discomfort. You just stood there—frowning into nothing and feeling the pain running through your bones.

And gods know how much you hated this feeling.

You hated the way your body betrayed you lately. You were a warrior—strong, proud, used to pushing through pain. But pregnancy showed you it was a different battlefield. One where endurance wasn’t measured by brute strength, but by how long you could quietly suffer without snapping.

Across the room, Cyno was staring at you—and he had been doing it for a while now. He never said anything. Not out of neglect, no, but caution.

He always stayed behind watching you though.

Watching the way your fingers trembled when they gripped the countertop too long. The way your shoulders sagged, tight with tension. The tiny winces you tried to hide when you adjusted your stance. The subtle war you fought in silence.

He also hated it.

He knew you wouldn’t ask for help—not out loud, knowing you.

And yet, it wasn't like you need to.

Earlier that week, while escorting a former sage through the city, the General Mahamatra overheard two older women chatting in a sunlit corner of the Grand Bazaar. One of them had been reminiscing about her own pregnancy—how her husband used to lift her belly up from behind, and how even just a few seconds of relief could feel like heaven.

“I could’ve kissed the man to death every time he did it,” she had laughed with her friend.

The memory returned to Cyno now, as if summoned by instinct.

And then, without a word, he approached you.

His footsteps were soft, deliberate, the kind only a seasoned hunter could make. You didn’t notice him until he was directly behind you. Barely turning your head, you offered him a tired glance.

“What is it?” you mumbled.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his hands reached forward—slowly, respectfully—and slid under the curve of your belly. Not abruptly, nor carelessly. But with purpose and reverence.

And then… he lifted.

You gasped.

Your eyes flew open, mouth parting in stunned silence as the weight—the crushing, exhausting, soul-bending weight—vanished.

“Oh praise be to Deshret, Lord of the deserts!”

Your knees nearly buckled from the instant relief, your lungs expanded like they hadn’t in days, your spine, once compressed and burning, felt loose, as if the pain had been scrubbed away with a single breath.

You blinked, dazed, overwhelmed by how good it felt.

It was like surfacing from under water after holding your breath till your limit.

Cyno adjusted his hold, lifting gently but firmly, holding your bump as though it were sacred.

And to him—it was.

You let out a noise. A laugh? A sob? Something between the two, he guessed.

“Why didn’t I know you could do this?” you whispered.

“I didn’t either,” Cyno said softly, his lips near your ear. “But I heard someone mention it and I’ve been waiting for the right moment to try.”

“Oh, this is definitely the right moment,” you breathed, shutting your eyes.

You stood like that, surrounded by fading sunlight and the soft murmur of the wind outside. You, once tense and withdrawn, now leaned back into him, your hands resting over his, your breath steady and light. Your whole demeanor had shifted—like the pain hadn’t just lifted from your body, but from your soul.

“Cyno, habibi,” you whispered after a while, voice low. “This is the best thing you’ve ever done.”

“Better than challenging your uncle to a duel for your hand in marriage?” He teased gently, a smile just barely playing at the edge of his voice.

You chuckled briefly and nodded without hesitation, “Absolutely. I felt that proposal in my heart. But this? I feel it in my spine.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’ll do it whenever you need me to.”

“Then I might drag you to follow me everywhere like this for the rest of the pregnancy,” you murmured.

“Then I will.”

There was no sarcasm in his tone, no teasing. Only promises.

You turned your head just enough to see his face over your shoulder, your expression shining now—soft and glowing in a way that only deep love could bring. Your pain wasn’t gone, not forever, but for that one perfect moment, you weren’t carrying them alone.

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

The late afternoon sun filtered through the shoji screens, casting golden squares across the wooden floor of the Kaedehara household. The smell of simmering rice and miso broth drifted through the air, warm and comforting.

You stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing vegetables for dinner. Your movements were steady but slow—every step, every twist of your back, each reach for the cutting board made your body ache. Your belly, full and round with your baby daughter, felt heavier than ever.

You exhaled through your nose as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the dull ache in your lower back stubbornly pulsing.

Kiyomi had been a whirlwind from the beginning.

Unlike Kazumi, who had been much calmer while in the womb, this little one seemed to never stop. Kicks, rolls, stretches, hiccups. Constant movement, vibrating every cell in your body.

You loved your daughter with all your heart, you really do, but Kiyomi’s restless nature had taken its toll. Every morning, you awoke with stiffness in your hips, and every night you collapsed into bed aching and sore.

And now, just standing here, chopping carrots, you could feel the strain pulling at your spine.

You paused, your knife hovering in midair, and closed your eyes. Your hands went instinctively to the underside of your belly, fingers curling under the curve, as if to hold it up—just for a second. Just enough to—

Suddenly, a familiar presence moved behind you.

Without a word, warm hands slid gently beneath your stomach, lifting it just enough to take the weight off your tired frame.

You inhaled sharply at the unexpected sensation—not from pain, but from instant, glorious relief. Your back relaxed. Your shoulders dropped. Your knees, which had been quietly trembling, felt steady again.

“Oh…” you moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, Archons. Kazu… that feels amazing…”

Kazuha’s chuckle was soft against your ear. “I thought it might.”

You felt him behind you fully now—his chest pressed to your back, his arms cradling your belly with the utmost care. It was a tender, reverent hold, not just of the weight of your child, but of you.

“I’ve been watching you,” he whispered after a long pause. “You hide it well, my love. But I see the way your legs tremble at the end of the day. How you try to stretch out the pain in your lower back when you think no one is looking. The way you wince when you stand up too quickly.”

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking away tears you hadn’t realized were forming.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you admitted softly, your voice thick. “You already do so much for me, for Kazumi. I can manage this.”

“I know you can,” he said, smiling gently into the curve of your shoulder. “You always manage. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

He adjusted his hold slightly, lifting your belly just a bit higher. The change made you sigh in relief again, the tension unwinding from your spine like a string being gently released.

“I wish I could carry her for a while,” he murmured. “Give you a day of rest. Even if just an hour. Just to feel what you feel. You’re incredible, (Y/N).”

You laughed softly through your tears, leaning back into him, letting his warmth and his scent—maple leaves and rain-dampened wood—envelop you.

“I feel like she is going to come out running any time, at this point,” you joked, one hand resting on Kazuha’s where he supported your belly. “She never stops moving.”

“She takes that after you,” he replied, the corner of his mouth curving. “Stubborn. Determined. Full of will.”

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his. “Then I'm glad she has someone like you to teach her that it's okay to stop and breathe,” you whispered.

You stayed like that for several moments. The stove ticked softly, and outside, Kazumi’s voice could be heard giggling faintly in the garden as he played with his kite. Time paused for just this moment. A rare, quiet breath of peace.

Eventually, you exhaled again and said, “I think I could stand like this forever.”

Kazuha chuckled under his breath and placed a couple of kisses on the edge of your warm skin. “Allow me to stand here forever.”

You smiled, eyes soft with emotion, “Thank you… for everything.”

“Any time, dove.”

SHIKANOIN HEIZOU

The rain outside tapped gently against the windows of your home, soft and steady, like a lullaby. Steam curled from a nearby teacup left forgotten on the table, and the low hum of the kettle on the stove whispered in the background.

The late afternoon air smelled of matcha, petrichor, and fresh ink—from some of your notes and case files still scattered across the table where you’d been working earlier.

Now, you stood at the kitchen sink, carefully washing a stack of dishes, your sleeves damp from the splashes of soapy water.

Your back ached. Your ankles throbbed. Your belly, round, full, and ever-growing with the life of your son, felt like it had doubled in weight overnight.

And to worsen, Ren wasn’t a still baby.

He kicked constantly, stretched, squirmed, pressed tiny feet against your ribs like he was testing your patience from the inside. Your body felt foreign, heavy, overworked. You prided yourself on your independence, your strength—but lately, even standing for ten minutes had become a challenge.

You shifted your weight, arching your back slightly to ease the pressure, and let out a breath that was more contained irritation than relief.

“Mm-mm… is this the part where you finally admit I was right?” a familiar, teasing voice said behind you.

You startled slightly and glanced over your shoulder. Heizou leaned lazily against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his lips. His shirt was half-buttoned, hair a little damp from the bath, a white towel still around his neck and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“About what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow despite the ache in your back.

“That you’re doing too much,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you with measured, cat-like steps. “I’ve been telling you—sit down, rest, let me handle it. But no. Shikanoin (Y/N)’s gotta finish the dishes because it's just a few plates.”

“They were just a few,” you said, though your hands were trembling slightly from fatigue. “And you were reading. All afternoon. Then went straight ahead for an even longer bath.”

“Well, yes. But I was reading because someone told me not to hover while she works,” he shot back playfully.

He came to a stop behind you, and his teasing tone softened as he looked at the curve of your back, the slight way you winced when you reached for another plate. Without another word, he gently placed his hands on your hips, stepped in close, and then slowly, carefully, slid his hands beneath the swell of your belly.

“What you—” you began.

“Shh. Just trust me.”

His hands cupped and lifted your bump upward—just slightly, just enough to take the pressure off your spine.

You gasped—actually gasped—because the relief was immediate. Your whole body relaxed, your shoulders drooped, and your eyes fluttered shut with a breathless “Oh...” that made Heizou chuckle low behind you.

“There it is,” he murmured, pleased with himself. “That’s the sound of a woman realizing her genius husband is, in fact, full of good ideas.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. “Okay, okay... you get one point.”

Heizou's smile softened, and his voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “You carry him all day, every day. Rely a little bit on me, (Y/N).”

His grip stayed steady, lifting the weight of your son off your tired frame. For once, you allowed yourself to truly melt into it. Into him.

“I hate that I need the help,” you confessed after a moment, voice barely above a whisper.

Heizou leaned down and pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, then another just behind your ear. “Needing help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. It makes you mine to protect. To support.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing over his as they supported your belly together. “You’re right… He’s getting heavier every day, you know…”

Heizou chuckled. “That’s because he’s obviously building muscle. Kid must be training for his first case already.”

“He’s probably training because he wants to kick his annoying dad’s ass.”

“Hey! Now, that wasn’t very nice of you, love” he said, mock-defensively. “He adores me already. You should’ve seen how excited he got last time I read him that thriller romance.”

You laughed loudly and felt your body relax even more in his arms.

“I mean it,” Heizou murmured after a beat. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, (Y/N). Not strength, not stamina, not toughness. You’ve already done the impossible—you’re bringing our son into this world. Let me be the one who takes care of you.”

You turned slightly to look up at him, eyes glossy, lips curved. “You already do. Even when you’re being a pain.”

Heizou grinned and kissed you—softly, sweetly.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin.

“I love you too.”

VARKA

The kettle was whistling.

You moved to take it off the stove, slow and steady, as you often had to be these days. The baby had been sitting low today—not uncomfortably so, but enough to pull a soft sound from you when you moved too quickly.

You exhaled as you poured the hot water over the tea leaves, steam curling around your face like a silken veil.

From the next room came the sound of boots being unbuckled and shrugged off. The ones that usually thudded into the floor with impatience, with fire, with purpose. But today, they moved carefully, slowly as if their owner didn’t want to wake something fragile.

You didn't turn when you heard the door creak, nor when a large, loud silhouette made its presence known. Instead, you smiled softly, your eyes still fixed on the steam rising from the mugs.

“If this is how you sneak around enemy camps, then I'm not surprised why you always end up in conflict situations.” you said.

A low chuckle answered you. “Was I that loud?”

“You’re like a lawachurl, babe.”

A few slow steps later and he was behind you, arms slipping gently around your waist. The embrace was familiar, steadying. Warm breath stirred the hair behind your ear.

“I’ve only got a week,” he murmured. “And yet you still find a way to point out the mistakes on my espionage methods. Tsc. And here I was just wanting to make every minute count, ya know.”

You chuckled and leaned back slightly into the contact, your hand brushing his along your side. “I know,” you said simply.

There was always a weight to these moments — not sadness exactly, but something quieter. You were a knight, just like Varka. You understood the call of duty, understood that when he left again, it wasn’t because he wanted to but because people were counting on him.

Still, the house always felt colder when he was gone.

“Let me see you, pretty girl,” he said, already sliding a hand down to your hips.

You let him, shifting your weight slightly as he help you to turn around to face him. His touch was slow, reverent, his expression lines drawing together in something close to admiration. He didn’t rush—not when it came to you.

His hands, broad and sure, settled beneath the curve of your belly. Then, gently, he lifted.

A soft gasp escaped your lips, your body instinctively relaxing as the pressure eased from your back and hips.

Varka looked down you immediately.

“Better?” he asked, voice hushed.

You nodded, your eyes fluttering closed. “Much better.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was weighing on you like this?”

You smiled, just a little. “Because if I told you every time I was uncomfortable, you’d carry me around in a damn wheelbarrow.”

“I would,” he said with complete seriousness. “Or I’d build you something better. With velvet cushions, a crystal awning and maybe a little bell so you could call me whenever you want.”

You laughed loudly this time, then winced—not from pain, just from the small strain of laughing while held like this.

“I’m not that helpless,” you said, but there was no biting to it.

Varka leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours as he continued holding the bump, relieving you of the weight like it was second nature. “No. You’re not,” he murmured. “But even the strongest of knights deserve to rest.”

His fingers shifted slightly, still cradling your belly with steady care. Then, as the baby moved—a soft flutter just under the skin—his entire expression changed.

He went still as his eyes widening and his voice lost its capacity to make a sound.

“That was—” he started, then paused, breath catching. “I felt them.”

“You did,” you giggled.

He looked at you as if he had just discovered where stars were born: behind the sparkle in your eyes, in your smile.

“I missed so much already,” he said softly. “I hate that.”

You lifted your hand to his cheek. “You’re here now, Var. That’s what matters to me. To them.”

He leaned into your palm for a moment, then dipped down without a word, kissing the curve of your belly with reverence.

“Hey there, little one,” he murmured. “It’s your old man. I’m sorry I can’t be here every day but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I swear it.”

Your hand settled over his, grounding you both.

“You’re doing your job, babe,” you said. “Same way I'd if it were me out there.”

He stood again, towering—still keeping you close. His hands remained on your belly, protective and steady. You rested your head against his chest, the beat of his heart strong beneath your ear.

“I’ve never wanted to stay more than I do now,” he said into your hair.

“I know.”

He held you a little closer, and you didn’t stop him.

You stood like that for a long while; held in silence, and something stronger than time.

WRIOTHESLEY

The fortress was quiet, for once.

A rare lull between reports, inspections, and the ever-rotating roster of maintenance work. The iron hum of the lower levels had softened into a low, distant murmur, like a tired sigh easing into sleep. 

Wriothesley had been reading something at his desk—well, attempting to—but his attention had long since drifted to the sound of soft footsteps padding across the duke's office.

You moved with that gentle rhythm he’d grown to adore—part grace, part stubbornness. Even now, belly rounding with the growing weight of your next chapter, you carried yourself as lit fire; quieter but still burning. 

However, there was the occasional pause, he observed. A tiny wince at your lower back, the momentary press of a hand just beneath your ribs, a deep and soundly breath like you've been trying to contain something within yourself. 

You were trying to hide it, as always.

“You’re pacing again, sweetheart,” Wriothesley called from his seat, his voice low and edged with amusement.

“I’m thinking,” you replied simply, not looking his way.

“You think best when you’re sitting down.”

You gave him a look. That look. The one that always dared him to try you, and never failed to make his lips curl into a knowing smirk or his heart stutter like a fool.

With a huff of a smile, he stood and crossed the room, long strides swallowing the distance between you before you could object. His hands, warm and calloused from years of fighting and metal, settled gently at your sides.

“Let me guess,” he murmured, ducking slightly to meet your eyes. “You’re not tired. You’re not sore. You’re just… what? Restless?”

You tilted your chin up, defiant. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re annoying.”

He grinned. “Maybe. But that proves I’m not wrong.”

Before you could get another word in, your husband slipped one arm around your waist and the other beneath the swell of your belly, palms spreading wide to support the gentle curve. He lifted—carefully, easily—just enough to ease the pressure off your spine.

You let out an involuntary breath, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Oh…That’s—” you exhaled, briefly losing your train of thought. “You did that on purpose.”

“Sure did, ma’am.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along your temple, lips grazing the edge of your cheekbone with the barest pressure. “You hide it well, but I know the signs. The shift in your stance. That little crease between your brows. We've been through this before, (Y/N).”

“Show-off,” you muttered, but the way you melted into him gave you away.

His large hands splayed protectively across your bump, thumbs absently stroking slow, lazy circles as if your child might feel it from within. He loved doing that—touching you there, holding the proof of your shared future like it was made of gold and light.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he teased gently, lifting just a touch higher before settling back into a better angle.

“Excuse you?”

“I meant the baby,” he said, chuckling against your ear. “I swear on my life, darling,” he emphasized as his eyes met your narrow, razor-sharp gaze. 

Saved by the bell, you guess.

“Though you’ve always packed more punch than people expect.”

You rolled your eyes, though it came with a faint smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m lucky you love me,” he corrected softly, his voice a low murmur now. “And that you let me help. Even if you pretend you don’t need it.”

You stayed quiet for a moment—not resisting his hold, nor pulling him away. Just letting him lift the weight, the literal and the otherwise, like you finally believed he’d always be there to carry it with you.

When you did speak, it was quieter. Almost reverent.

“You make all my burdens feel smaller.”

Wriothesley melted. 

Though so simple, that admission of yours unspooled something tight inside his chest. 

He lowered you slowly, letting the bump settle back into place, his hands never fully leaving you.

“Good,” he said as he helped you turn around to face him. “As your husband, that’s just a small of my many duties to you.”

Then, Wriothesley leaned in and kissed you, slow and tender. There’s no rush. Just warmth, just love. One hand at your back, the other still resting against the place where your baby slept. Your own hand placed on where his heartbeats played as a soft lullaby.