Collapse into sweet, dark oblivion.

...

You feel like you're floating. That's the first sensation that returns to you. Floating on soft, pillowy clouds. The feeling is above you too. It's nice. Less nice is the returning feeling of your body itself. It hurts. Aches and pains emminate from wherever you focus, your muscles screaming at you to never be put through such rigour again. What rigour? What did I do? Then your stomach joins the choir. Why am I...?

A sharp, feminine scream peals throughout the room as memory slams back into you.

Who Screamed? Where am I?

Was That Scream Me? What Happened!?! GODS, WHERE AM I?

WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY!?!? WHAT'S TOUCHING ME!?!?!

WHAT DID WHO SAY? WHERE AM I? AM I OKAY?

Who's Stroking My Hair? I'm Okay? What Happened?

I'm Okay! I'm Safe! Who's holding me?

Where am I... I've got you... You're okay....You're safe... "you're okay..."

...

Those last thoughts weren't yours. Someone's talking. A woman. Calm and soft.

"...hey...hey...I've got you...you're safe...you're okay...everything's fine...hey..."

You believe her. You think she's holding you too. Focusing on her voice lets you focus on your vision.

You're in a room. Wooden. Late morning sunlight diffuses through the room. Probably from a window behind you. It's quite a large room, relatively spacious with a large, if not ornate, wardrobe on one wall and a full-length mirror on the other. At the foot of the bed there's a heavy, iron-reinforced chest. The bed, the bed that you're in. And sitting beside you, rocking you slowly with arms wrapped tight about you is the woman the voice belongs to.

Sensing that you've calmed, she pulls back, still holding your shoulders reassuringly. Now you can get a good look at her. A portly Human Commoner just entering her middle years, if the slate grey of her hair is any indicator. Her comely face is furrowed with wrinkles that look more the product of years of laughter and worry than hard work exposed to the elements. Her dress is modest, in both cut and ornamentation, made of a thick-weaved matterial that suggests an emphasis on function over form.

"Where am I?" Someone new asks. A light croaking from a girl who's not spoken yet today? It takes you a couple of heartbeats to work out it was you: the voice of your new body echoing foreign in your ears.

"Somewhere safe, dear. The finest bedroom of the Threfork Inn!" The matronly woman replies, puffing up ever so slightly at her mention of the establishment. Perhaps she owns the place? "You scared me half to **** there, you did. Boltin' up and screamin' like a banshee! Wasn' expecting a pair'a lungs like that on a skinny waif like you, that's f'sure." She aims a thumb vaguely behind her, to the left of the bed, and you can see the mess of some hurridly discarded needlework piled at the foot of a wide-set rocking chair.

"But anyhoo, no use fretting over that. I'm bettin' you're quite thirsty now aren' you? There's a pitcher o'fresh water there on the other side. Drink up, my dear!" She's right. It wasn't as noticeable as the hunger, put you're parched. You turn around, your mouth seemingly drying up at the thought of a drink, to look at the bedside table on your right. A tall pitcher of fired clay stands besides a smaller but otherwise matching mug. You lean over and reach for both, the mug with your left hand, the other vessal with your right, only to almost immediately drop the pitcher due to its inordinate weight. What the fuck?

"Poor thing! Are you okay? You think you might need a hand with that?" The question is so genuine and earnest that you can't help but blush in shame. Am I really that weak? I feel like a child! The woman has already reached across you and taken the weight of the water off of your rapidly straining wrist. You make a few vague hand motions to show you're fine and, after placing the mug back on the table, grab the pitcher with both arms. It's still heavy like this, too heavy, but you can manage it's weight now. You bring its lip up to yours and just chug the fluid directly. And you don't stop. Very soon, the jug is completely empty and is gently removed from your hands by the woman.

"How long...? How did I get here?" Speaking is significantly easier now. The voice that reaches your ears is no longer hoarse and cracked but light and lilting: the feminine trill of a young woman.

"Ol' Jim was the first to spot you, lyin' face down on the road just outside o'town. He brought you in crack'o'dawn yesterday. Gave me a right fright, he did!" Yesterday? "And good thing he did too! 'Cos you've been out cold ever since! I can't imagine what you've been through!" There's an inquisative bent to the statement that you're choosing to ignore for now. However, you can't help but agree with the words, all things considered. You still don't really believe it yourself. Mostly, you're hoping to wake up in the sailors' cabin and discover that this was all a product of too much drink. But you can' escape the feeling in your gut that's telling you that that's looking less and less likely.

Then your gut rumbles. Maybe it's trying to tell you something else.

"Oh, I'll go get you some food, love. No-one'll ever say that Laura Bauer was a poor host!" Laura, it would seem, triumphs before getting off the bed and making her way to the closed door. She halts halfway through opening the door though, something seeming to cross her mind. "Anything else I can get you dear?" She continues hesitantly, turning to face you. "Anything you need me to whip up?"

Your head reflexively tilts as you struggle to understand what she's alluding to. She seems to notice this and works up the courage to continue.

"Do you need a contraceptive?"

Acting on instinct you shake your head and wave her off without even thinking. Tension you hadn't realised she was holding drains from her face and shoulders as you begin you laugh internally at the absurdity of the question.

"Oh, praise the Light!" she breathes in relief, her hand rising to her chest, "I was worried, dear, given how we found you. Those rags were obviously for someone much taller, and those undergarments were for... equipment... we both know you don't have. I was worr...I guess...I guess I assumed...Well, I guess I'm just happy that they didn't *hurt* you, wherever you came from."

And then you stop laughing to yourself. Because the realisation hits you that that was not a ridiculous to ask. It was, in fact obvious. Obviously necessary. Necessary enough for Laura to ask a very uncomfortable question with very uncomfortable implications. Fuck...can I get pregnant? You don't know how you'd find the answer to that. Well, there would be one very obvious way. And by then it would be far too late. The thought of you being pregnant, of someone elses cum growing into a screaming newborn deep inside of you, fills you with an overwhelming wave of dysphoria. I really don't want that...I really, really don't fucking want that! And then another thought dawns. I'm going to have to take responsibility for this. If I am going to have to live as a woman, I need to make sure I don't get pregnant... one way or another...Because no-one else will. And so, you steel yourself to ask an uncomfortable question of your own.

"How do you make a contraceptive?" The words are simple, innocuous, even. But it doesn't feel so to say. Throughout your life you've gathered that such potions do exist, but you haven't the faintest clue as to how they'd be made. But best to find out, and best to do so now, rather than when it's too late.

And now it's Laura's turn to quizzically cock her head. "Don't you know?"

Fuck.

Did I mess up? Should I know? I mean, yeah, sure. As far as she's concerned, at least. Is this bad? Have I fucked up?