The baby had definitely been planned.

She and her husband had been trying for years, and she only had the deepest regrets that she'd started to lose faith, to fear that she'd never be able to have the child she'd so desperately wanted. She should have had more trust in the Maker, thatthey were listening to her prayers after all and would deliver to the faithful, as they always had in the times they'd needed them most.

But, while she looked forward to finally getting to hold thebaby in her arms and by no means wanted to seem ungrateful…the pregnancy itself wasn't particularly present.This one, it seemed, was particularly rambunctious, and on some occasions she could even swear that she could feel themdancing in there.

Or them trying to escape early, really, the exact intent of what they were doing was ever a mystery, but it did certainly seem to involve a lot of kicking.

And, on top of all the baby's activities, as time went on she was finding that she couldn't even do many herself anymore either. She couldn't chase after the geese whenever the flock of viscous fiends yet again escaped, nor could she tend to the farm's crops.

All that responsibility was, for now, left upon her husband.

And she was left finding herself with nothing to do.

When she'd asked her neighbours what she could do to pass the time until the baby was born, the answers had generally been the same. Read a book, write some poetry, cook even.

But she was never very good at reading.

It's not that she hadn't tried, it's just that the words didn't evermake any since, blurring together, letters all jumbling up so she couldn't keep track of where the words were, until no matter how hard she tried she just couldn't make sense of any of it at all.

So, unless she wanted a bad headache, reading simply wasn't a viable way to pass the time.

And as for cooking, well, when most of your food comes from your own farm and has to be rationed so that, not only you don't run out and starve, but you also have enough left over to trade when market arrives, baking little treats was a rare luxury rather than something she could occupy the whole 9 months with.

So instead, she took to sewing.

In the earliest days, when she'd only just been convinced to take small breaks from the farm work, it had started small enough. She'd find little salvageable scraps of material fromold, long ruined dresses, scraps which she'd try to turn into something resembling little clothes for her child.

Although, more often than not during those days, saying the end products were even "something resembling" baby clothes was a bit of a stretch at best.

But she got better at it, as time went on, as her belly swelled and the time she could spent on the farm became shorter and shorter. By the fourth month of trying, the clothes were looking like clothes and by the sixth she'd started being able to embroider patterns.p

And then the market came to town and her husband came back with the most beautiful red and orange materials she'dever seen, chantry colours. There was no telling how much he must have had to trade for it and he certainly wasn't sharing that either, just calling it a "little Summerday surprise" for her.

Meanwhile she'd made him a lopsided tunic, granted, a very fashionable lopsided tunic in her opinion, but a lopsided tunic nonetheless.

It had taken a while for her to decide what to make with the gift though. She was tempted to make it into more baby clothes, but the child would quickly grow out of it and they'd likely never find a use for it again, and were it to be made into something for her or her husband to wear it would likely end up dirty and ruined in no time.

So she decided to make a pillow, something of practical use that would actually last. Once the frame for it was made, stuffing it enough was easy enough too, to get feathers she only had to wait for the geese to maul each other or one of their few, often unfortunate chickens, who really should know by now to avoid the bigger, rampaging birds.

Now, she just had to finish the embroidery...embroidery of the symbol of Andraste herself for which…well, it would be outright blasphemous to disfigure or ruin.

But once she finished with that ordeal, everything would just be perfect.

…Well, being finished with that and just one other thing, of course.

Then everything really would be perfect.

…Ish.

Ouch!