Author: Regency

Title: My Art, My Creation

POV: Laura Roslin

Category: AU

Summary: I brought him into this world, I made him. That’s better than any other thing I’ve done.

Disclaimer: Ron D. Moore owns it all.

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For months, I walked around watching other women bloom and grow, children stretching and distending their bodies to the very limits. I’d learned long ago to never expect it of myself, the chemotherapy and the medication, and the chamalla killed any chance I ever had of motherhood. And yet, part of me hoped. I’m that kind of woman, hope springs eternal within me, though nothing else ever had.

I was envious of them, their living legacies soon to be existing outside their bodies, to be held and cherished for years. I would have no legacy. There would be nothing tangible left of me once I died. Gods, I was envious.

Then, something happened. I could’ve said it was amazing and gratifying, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t remember. I thought of when it might have happened, but nothing significant came to mind. It was all a magnificent blank. All I know is that one day I woke up ill and before the day was done I discovered I was pregnant. Believe me; you couldn’t be more surprised than I was.

And you couldn’t possibly be more terrified. Out of nowhere, out of the clear blue, I was having a child. There was no logical way it could’ve happened naturally. We investigated every angle, but there was no way. We had to let it go. I had to let it go.

Call a spade a spade and let a miracle be. And, so I did.

Months passed and I grew. I grew, and bloomed, and distended just like the other mothers I’d seen. It was glorious as I knew it would be. To feel the constant motion beneath my skin and to have the heartbeat of my child fill my ears was beautiful. It was something I never thought I’d experience.

But I’m here now. There’s this person in my arms. He was tiny and soft and ever so perfect. Of course, I’m biased.

I’m also oblivious to the reporters and photographers asking me about him and how I’m feeling. Don’t they see that I don’t care. He’s what I care about now.

He’s perfectly sculpted and painted with deliberate strokes of love. His eyes are my ambiguous shade of grey-ish blue and he has the same two little birthmarks on his cheek. There’s no one else in that face. Just me.

I think of him as if I built him from clay with my own hands and painted that little star-shaped mark on his foot. My body knew exactly how to make him. Finally, it’s doing something right.

Even if I don’t live to see him grow, I have my legacy. The Gods have not forsaken me as I‘ve often wondered. They have blessed me instead. I couldn’t ask for more than this. This boy…

He is my greatest work of art. He is my creation.