Standing in the still-smoking rubble of the Attolian capital, Irene pauses and considers herself. The bereft widow, the overthrown queen, standing surrounded the ruins of her city, her hair unbound in the wind as she clutches her infant to her breast. Irene, no stranger to the emotional power of a carefully-calculated image, would laugh if it wasn't all so cruel.
She toes aside scorched blue-and-yellow tiles to secure more firm footing in the debris. What was once her palace is now a destroyed shell of brick and marble and wood; what was once her husband is now a bloodied corpse stretched out under black cloth in one of the few buildings left wholly intact in the city. She is grateful that the few remaining Medes left in the city are already chained together down by the shore, awaiting transport overseas. If she were to see any of them right now, she is certain that she would kill them herself.
There is a tremour in Irene's hands, and she holds her baby more tightly, setting her lips in a thin line. Costis Ormentiedes is already at her elbow, where he has been since the first days of the war, since he returned from Eugenides's assignment. He reaches out an uncertain hand, meaning to steady her.
"My Queen," he says.
She shakes her head, pulling herself together. "No, Costis," she says. Her smile is brittle. "I'm Attolia no more. There is no Attolia any longer, not really."
"That doesn't make you any less my queen," Costis says. Irene feels as though she might crack in half at his words; she lowers her head suddenly, afraid that she might start weeping. "Your Majesty. Here. Let me take him."
She is irrationally terrified to let her son out of her arms, but she acquiesces, mute, and passes the baby to Costis together with his rough woolen blankets. She nearly laughs again, to see this grave huge soldier with a soft pink baby in his arms; instead, not wanting to injure Costis's dignity, she smoothes her son's dark hair and nods.
"So, so, so. Onward, then," Irene says bravely.
She breathes in deep, but all she tastes in her mouth is smoke and blood.
It is long past midnight and while most of the palace is still and quiet, in their throne room, the King and Queen of Attolia sit on the dais steps and talk. They talk quietly, so the guards they have so cleverly eluded in the halls will not hear them and interrupt their peace. Irene wonders if they should be including the respective rulers of Eddis and Sounis in this conversation; it has been scant days since their marriage but they are already here, bogged down for weeks to come in the negotiations for formally consolidating their triumvirate of nations.
But no, she thinks. They need their sleep as much as we do.
Eugenides sighs, and rolls his shoulders. "My God," he says, looking upward. "I cannot do this."
Irene touches his shoulder gently, and says, "Unity is not a concept most of our countrymen can appreciate. We knew that before we began."
"They will never accept me as annux," Eugenides says. His voice is weary, and he leans back against the steps. "Not the barons, not the patronoi, not the okloi. There is too much bad blood between us all. I'm trying, Irene, but I fear am not the one who can do this. I can bend them to my will but I cannot make them want to do it for themselves and if I can't do that, then I have nothing. War is coming, and I can do nothing to stop it."
"Eugenides," Irene says. She leans over him and cups his chin in her hand, shaking his head a little to make certain he is listening. "You underestimate yourself."
"We need more time," Eugenides says helplessly. His lips tighten, and he does not meet her gaze. "I am not the one for this job. Our heirs might be able to do it – or their heirs – generations down the line. But I can't."
Irene lets go of him and sits back against the steps herself, holding her robe closed at the neck, placing her bare feet flat on the cold floor. She licks her lips and pushes her hair behind her ear; it strikes her as a stupidly girlish movement, and she lowers her hand and speaks.
"Eugenides," she says. She can feel the flush rising on her cheeks.
"Mmm," he says. He turns his face towards her, brow raised quizzically.
"I'm pregnant."
After the funeral, Irene finds herself immersed in an endless series of meetings with the emissaries left behind by the Continental Powers as they attempt to deal with the power vacuum. Irene does not particularly want to serve as her son's regent. This was always supposed to be Eugenides's role. She does not know if he will be another Eugenides, if there could ever be another Eugenides, to play the part so well. But Attolia, Eddis, and Sounis are sovereign nations no longer, and that is, apparently, how the Powers want it; and while they will leave the former monarchs of the countries to deal with administration they are determined that someone, after all, must serve as Annux.
Attolia grits her teeth and agrees. With a council, she says firmly, and that sets off another week's worth of talks.
They are finishing things up for the evening when a sharp, sudden noise shatters the quiet murmuring. There is a shout in the hallway, an inchoate yell of rage, and then someone is pounding furiously on the door; Frej Koertig, one of the ambassadors who is chairing the meetings, looks to Attolia with alarm, and she goes perfectly still, knuckles going white where her hands grip the edge of the table. She can hear the high ringing of steel on steel and the violent thuds of flesh on flesh, and she thinks, Costis was one of the guards posted in that hallway.
Irene stands, her breath caught fast in her lungs. She thinks of her son upstairs, looked after by only a handful of her female attendants, and all she sees in her mind's eye is Eugenides stepping off that roof for the last time, bloodied and stumbling and hounded, leaping out into the black emptiness –
She doesn't even notice when the noise in the hall dies down.
"My Queen," she hears finally.
Irene is still staring at the door, but she isn't seeing anything. She blinks just once to clear her vision.
"An assassin?" she says. Costis, doubled over and breathing hard, snaps upright. There is a splash of bright blood across his face, and he hastily smears it away.
The room is all ablaze with light and frantic, panicked noise, but Irene's attention is focused entirely on her lieutenant. Captain. He's her captain now.
"He's dealt with," Costis says. "I promise."
Irene, able to move at last, makes for the door, pushing past confused and furious dignitaries. She stops at the last moment, though, and turns back. Costis's face is blank with worry, and she puts a hand out but does not yet touch him.
"You have done more than enough in our service, Costis," Irene says abruptly. "Too much. You have earned your retirement a thousand times over. If you wanted to return to your family's farm, if you wanted to go home and live out your days in peace…"
If anything, that stone-face of his becomes even more stubbornly set. "For as long as you will have me, my Queen," Costis says, standing rigidly at attention, "I'm staying."
Attolia touches his arm. "I am grateful," she says.
"She will be a fighter, like her mother," Eugenides says. He is whispering; their tent walls are thick, but the camp is still bustling with activity outside. Their moments alone and few and far between, these days, and all the more precious for their rarity.
"She?" Irene says into the darkness. She lifts her head, listening to the drumming of rain against canvas.
"Mmm," Eugenides says, propping his head on his hand. "I think so. Though I would not protest too loudly if it were a boy, you understand."
"Of course," Irene murmurs.
"He would not be forced to be a soldier," Eugenides says. He tilts his head forward and scowls. "No matter what my father says. I know you have a weakness for the man, but we will ignore him on all questions regarding childrearing."
Irene does not plan on cutting their child's only grandparent out of their lives, but she nods and says placidly, "Whatever you say, my dear."
Eugenides shoots her a look. She smiles.
"Mutiny at every turn," Eugenides says. Plaintively, he adds, "Why does no one do as I command around here?"
"We know you too well," she says, leaning up to kiss him. There is a shout from outside, the tramping of many feet as a squad runs into position; Irene pulls the blankets with her and settles back against the pillows, ignoring the sounds. It is cold, camped out here by the sea.
"Yes," Eugenides says after a moment, hands curling warm around hers. "A boy would be nice, too."
Eugenides lays his cheek on her stomach. Irene drifts her fingers through his hair and blinks hard, grateful that he cannot see her face.
After the assassination attempt, Irene takes a short vacation to visit the former rulers of Eddis and Sounis. They are living by the coast now, overseeing the efforts to restore Eddis's volcano-buried capital from a distance. Sounis's ancient megaron has mostly escaped the scars of conflict, but the court is sadly depleted; Irene looks around and all she can see are the empty chairs, the great gaps like missing teeth in the crowd. Those who are left behind are more grim-looking than ever, and the atmosphere at dinner is subdued.
Sounis – Sophos now, Irene reminds herself, Sophos – turns to her as she tears off a piece of bread distractedly. He smiles; the effect is fierce. His beard has taken on strange patterns, thanks to the new scars that mar his face. She considers him thoughtfully, remembering him as the boy he once was.
"You are welcome here, you know," Sophos says a little awkwardly.
"For as long as you'd like," the former queen of Eddis adds. The baby, sitting in her lap, bucks enthusiastically and babbles away to himself, squishing his food between his fingers.
Irene pauses before answering. "Thank you," she says. "But I think I will return home soon. Things should be settled down by now, and I – I find myself reluctant to linger."
Helen reaches across her husband to squeeze Irene's hand briefly. "Of course," she says. "But we miss you, you know."
She has to snatch her hand back quickly when the squirming baby threatens to topple over onto the floor. "Ouf," Helen says affectionately, sitting him more securely in her lap. Irene glances over her shoulder to see Costis relax back into position against the wall; he had already been springing to catch him.
Helen dashes sword-callused fingers across the rosy apple of the baby's cheek, wiping away bits of mashed fruit. "He is his father's son," she says, amused.
Irene's heart throbs suddenly, and the loss of Eugenides is like a hole in her breast.
"His son in more ways than one," Sophos says drily as an errant kick from the boy sends his cup flying from his grasp. He shakes his hand out, wincing. "Ow."
Their son is born the day before the final wave of the Medean fleet reaches the capital, on a sunny, falsely-bright morning just before dawn. The palace is hushed and tense; most of her court has fled the city, and the people filling up Irene's antechambers are largely stoic-faced guards and not nervous advisors or power-hungry barons.
When the baby is cleaned and is held, squalling, in the sunlight from a nearby open window for his parents to see him properly, Eugenides goes white and leaves the room.
Irene breathes in and out, measured and slow, and then holds out her arms for her child.
Eugenides returns minutes later, no longer wild-eyed but looking sheepish and chastened. Irene drowsily lifts her head from her pillow and shifts her arm where the baby is tucked against the crook of her elbow. He sits on the side of the bed, trying not to jostle her.
"I'm sorry," he says. He leans in to admire the baby, his hook tucked against his side, gently nudging the blanket away from their son's little pink face.
"I understand," Irene says. She can feel one eyebrow, though, tugging itself higher on her forehead, and Eugenides sighs hotly.
"It isn't fair," he says. "To him. The gods have asked so much of me, and I just – I don't want our child to suffer from their capricious will as I have. It's not an easy burden to carry, you know, being marked by them."
"We don't know anything yet," Irene tells him, voice calm and level. "It could mean anything. And I think that any child of ours will forge his destiny on his own, quite apart from what the gods want of him. We have managed it well enough, I think."
Eugenides touches his lips to the baby's head, softly, then turns to kiss her as well.
"All will be well," Eugenides tells her, as though trying to convince himself as well as her.
Irene reaches up and touches his face. He grips her hand and closes his eyes.
Now, Irene stands under a rosy sunset on the fortifications of her megaron at Ephrata, her son a warm weight on her hip. The words come to her mind unbidden, as if whispered by Eugenides the god or Eugenides the man or both at once.
Her breath hitches. The moment is gone in the space of two heartbeats but she is left feeling both fragile and unstoppable, like her heart is too big for her chest and cannot be contained by her delicate ribs any longer. Irene brushes her thumb across the baby's cheek, across the bright feather-shaped birthmark beneath his eye. He coos up at her, hands flapping with delight at the few last rays of the setting sun.
There will be more battles to come. When the land recovers, when the barons turn their attention away from restoring their properties and begin making nuisances of themselves once again, she will have more work to do in defending her son's throne. But for now?
"All will be well," Irene repeats, letting him wrap his fat little fingers around her ringed thumb. The baby smiles up at her toothlessly, and she smiles back.