'Be calm, Little One.' I chide gently, running a hand over my swollen middle as I turn to the fire. The child is so active today, I know the time for his birth is fast approaching. Another kick. ' You must be patient.' I smile at the thought. So much like my husband, this one.
I close my eyes and dream of the child growing to look just like him: wide eyes--the color of the sky and filled with curiosity; hair--soft, thick, and the color of the dunes at sunset; skin--warm and silken, just a little lighter than my own.
I can see the two of them, walking along the dunes together. Father and son. They'd make their way to the excavation site and the boy would point to various strange lines and drawings and his father would explain each of them in great detail--telling their story in the way only he can.
I love to watch my husband's face when he makes a new discovery. It seems as though the sun itself would pale in comparison to the light that shines from his eyes. His hands move seemingly of their own free will--reaching up to touch, to feel history that has not been known for many, many seasons. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as his mouth goes dry with wonder and excitement.
More than once I have been unable to resist the urge to reach forward and pull those lips to my own, tasting and giving my own moisture to them. Each time my husband would be as shocked as the first, his cheeks flushed and hot, and it would take several long moments before he was able to return his attention to his find. Once he did, he would be as absorbed and excited as before I interrupted. It is one of the things I love so much about him.
Those days of discovery and excitement in the 'dig' would inevitably lead to nights in our tent filled with passion and heat unrivaled by even the desert itself.
I have learned to love these mysteries of the past and pray there will be many more discoveries for my husband to find. Especially now, with a son to aid him in his quest.
How many times would I have to go in search of my men; seeking them out for meals or rest periods? Finding them working together, my husband's large, graceful hands guiding small, awkward hands to the appropriate places.
Teaching. Loving.
These two traits would be passed on to our son. He would grow to be a fine man--a good man with the very essence of his father: my husband. My Daniel.
A sound behind me draws my attention back to reality. I turn to the sound of my name on my husband's lips.
He is here, but he is not alone. My father and a Jaffa are with him. The Jaffa pulls his weapon, aiming it at me, but I am more troubled by my Daniel's face.
Why do you look at me so, Husband? Are you not happy to see me? Do you not know--?
Expressive eyes travel down my body, taking in the swell of my stomach. There is no look of joy and wonder of fatherhood there, only shock and pain.
Memory returns.
My dream shatters.