So here's the thing—I've been pregnant for longer than your species has had written language, and somehow THAT'S not the weirdest part of my life anymore.
The weirdest part is that after three thousand years of existence, I'm finally admitting something I never thought I'd say:
I'm bored.
Catastrophically. Mind-numbingly. Soul-crushingly... Bored.
I'm like the poster child for immortal ennui, if such a thing existed.
I've been living in this cabin for... well, let's see. The last time I checked a calendar, those metal birds were making all that noise over Europe, and I decided maybe it was time to find somewhere quieter. So that was... twenty years ago? Thirty? Time kind of blurs together when you're immortal. Point is, it's been a while.
My daily routine has become a masterpiece of pointless repetition. Wake up at dawn because, well, what else am I going to do? Attempt to see my feet over my belly?
Spoiler alert, still impossible after all these millennia.
Wonder if today will be different from yesterday?
Spoiler alert number two: it never is.
Breakfast is the same meal I've been eating for decades. I swear the eggs taste exactly the same as they did in 1847, which is either a testament to my chickens' consistency or a sign that my taste buds gave up caring somewhere around the turn of the century.
Then come the activities that used to matter. Reading? I've memorized every book in my collection. Twice. I could recite Hamlet backwards if I wanted to, though considering I knew the guy personally, the whole "to be or not to be" thing hits differently when you remember Will practicing it in his backyard.
Crafts? I've made enough pottery to supply a small civilization. My cabin looks like what would happen if someone gave a perfectionist immortality, unlimited time, and a nesting instinct that never gets satisfied. There are doilies on surfaces that don't even need doilies. I crocheted a cozy for my tea kettle last week. A cozy. For a tea kettle.
That's where my life is right now.
The garden grows itself at this point, which is probably for the best since bending over is still—after three thousand years—physically impossible. I've developed some impressive toe dexterity trying to pick up dropped items, but there are limits to what even immortal flexibility can accomplish.
Afternoons are reserved for staring contests with the local wildlife. The bears are surprisingly good conversationalists, all things considered. Mostly they just grunt and huff, but I've learned to read the subtle differences in their disapproval. The squirrels, on the other hand, are judgmental little bastards who clearly think I'm wasting my immortal potential.
They're not wrong.
Evenings are for counting ceiling beams. Again. I've counted them 47,293 times over the years. There are thirty-seven beams, in case you're wondering. Beam number twenty-three has a small knot that looks like a duck if you squint. I've named it Gerald.
Gerald and I have had some deep conversations.
Yesterday—and this is the part that finally broke me—I spent six hours watching paint dry. I wasn't even painting anything. I was literally watching old paint continue to be dry. For six hours. And at the end of those six hours, I thought to myself:
Well, that was more entertaining than usual.
That's when I knew I had a problem.
But the real breaking point, the moment I realized I couldn't continue this existence any longer, came this morning when I opened my sock drawer.
I have three pairs of socks. Three. In over three thousand years of existence, I own exactly three pairs of socks, and I've been "planning" to reorganize them since... when exactly? I stared at those socks—one wool pair, one cotton, one that might have been silk before the Renaissance—and I realized I've been having the same internal conversation about reorganizing this drawer for the past decade.
A decade. Ten years. I've been mentally rearranging three pairs of socks for longer than some civilizations lasted.
"Right," I said aloud, addressing the socks directly because why not, at this point. "Options are..." I attempted to pace dramatically, which is less impressive when you're nine months pregnant and have been for several millennia. Still, I've learned to work with what I've got.
Option one: Continue existing in sock-drawer purgatory forever. Given that I'm immortal, "forever" isn't hyperbole—it's a genuine timeline.
Option two: Actually do something about it.
I gestured emphatically at the socks, looking ridiculous.
That's... actually just two options. Huh. You'd think after three thousand years I'd be better at making lists.
The more I thought about it, the more obvious the solution became. How bad could human civilization have gotten since I last checked? Sure, things were getting a bit loud and explodey when I left, but that was just twenty years ago. Maybe thirty. Time gets fuzzy when every day is identical. Point is, humans have probably sorted themselves out by now. They usually do, given enough time.
"It's probably all sunshine and reasonable political discourse out there," I told the socks. "Maybe they've finally figured out that whole 'not killing each other' thing."
The socks, predictably, had no opinion on this matter.
I tried to bend over to grab a sock that had somehow escaped the drawer—probably during one of my many reorganization debates—remembered halfway down that physics still applies to immortal pregnant women, and straightened back up with a sigh.
"Might as well knit a new one," I muttered, then spent five minutes trying to pick it up with my toes. Success, eventually, though not without some creative stretching that would have impressed a yoga instructor.
The worst that could happen is I'd hate modern civilization and come back to my sock drawer. Plus, I could probably use some new socks. These three pairs were getting a bit threadbare, and I had the distinct feeling that humans had probably invented better sock technology in the past few decades.
I mean, they invented those metal flying contraptions. Surely sock innovation followed.
"Right then," I announced to my cabin, my socks, and Gerald the ceiling beam. "Time to rejoin civilization. How hard could it have gotten?"
Famous last words, Lyria. Famous last words.
The preparation process was surprisingly simple for someone who'd been living like a hermit for the better part of a century. Wardrobe selection involved choosing from my extensive collection of clothes that hadn't been updated since... well, since before those metal birds started flying around. Fashion doesn't change that fast, right? I selected a serviceable dress that had served me well in the early 1800s, complete with all the necessary undergarments and layers. Practical, modest, and with enough room for my permanently enhanced midsection.
Currency was trickier. I grabbed a handful of recent coins from the collection I kept near the door—examining them briefly to make sure they all looked current.
Yeah, these should work fine. You never know when having a variety of currency might come in handy.
I was only planning to be gone a few days, maybe a week at most. How long could it take to determine whether human civilization was worth rejoining? "I'll be back by Tuesday... or would it be Friday?" I told the cabin. "Probably."
The magical preparations were the easiest part. I'd maintained a ward around this entire forest area since I moved in, keeping it hidden from human detection. All it took was a simple wave of my hand to open a path through the boundary. The magic shimmered and parted like a curtain.
"Yogi!" I called out, and within moments, a massive brown bear lumbered into view. He was the size of a small horse and had been my primary companion for the past several decades. Also, my chief of security.
He looked at me with the sort of expression that clearly communicated:
What exactly do you think you're doing?
Bears are remarkably eloquent when they want to be.
"I'm going out," I explained, as if this wasn't the first time I'd left the ward boundary in... well, a while. "Into human civilization. I know, I know, it sounds terrible, but I've reached my boredom threshold."
Yogi huffed. It was the sort of huff that suggested he thought this was a terrible idea but wasn't surprised, given my track record of questionable decisions.
"I need you to go back home and watch our stuff," I continued. "And be extra scary. You know how humans get when they wander too close to the boundary. And tell George not to get too complacent while I'm gone. You know how he gets when he thinks nobody's watching."
He growled low in his throat—"Grrrrh, gruff, eerrrr, raahh."
"What? I'm not going to be gone that long. Ice age is a bit much," I replied, understanding him perfectly.
Just a few days. A week at most. How complicated could their society have gotten?
Yogi gave me a look that I'd learned over the years meant:
You're about to find out, and I don't think you're going to like the answer.
Smart bear. Smarter than me, probably.
"Go on then," I shooed him back toward the cabin. "Go home. Guard things. Be terrifying. The usual."
He lumbered off with one last disapproving grunt, and I was left standing at the edge of my magical sanctuary, looking out at a world I hadn't seen in decades.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction. I picked a path somewhat randomly—east seemed as good as any direction—and took my first step outside the ward boundary in... actually, let's not admit that out loud.
The magic settled behind me with a soft whisper, sealing my sanctuary until I returned. Ahead lay whatever human civilization had become in my absence.
"How hard could it be?" I repeated to myself, adjusting my dress and checking that my coins were secure.
Given my track record, I should probably know better than to ask these kinds of questions.