Eugenides looked down at the tiny, sleeping face of the infant in the crib. She was very small, even for a newborn. He reached down into her crib, running a finger along her features, already a miniature of her mother's. The delivery had taken so long, and been so suspenseful for the king, who had not been allowed inside while the queen was in labor, that it seemed almost anticlimactic that the result of so many hours of effort and so many months of waiting was so little.

Almost.

It was some time past midnight and the royal suite was finally quiet. For hours he had endured sitting outside of the bedchamber and listening to the women's voices inside as his daughter was coaxed into the world. It hadn't been an easy delivery, for anyone involved, but the result was well worth it. It had only been an hour or so ago that he had convinced his wife to take a few sips of water and lie down. He might have felt bad about drugging her, had she not done the same to him before. They hadn't even taken a moment to select a name yet, something that they should have done months ago, but neither had really had the heart to. It seemed like bad luck to name a person, sight unseen, but now, looking at the infant, he had an idea.

He turned when he heard the soft sound of his queen's footsteps behind him. He frowned at her, "You really should be in bed."

She smiled thinly back at him, clearly exhausted. "It seems neither of us is very good at listening to our physician."

He held out an arm to her, and she accepted the invitation, tucking herself into his side and leaning heavily on him. He was no taller than she was, in fact without shoes he often appeared shorter (though neither of them mentioned the fact) but was well muscled enough that she could lean entirely on him without fear of their toppling over. They sank into silence, both staring at the person that they had brought into the world, sleeping peacefully beneath them.

"What are you thinking?" She asked, resting her head against his shoulder. His left arm curled around her, his naked wrist, devoid of the hook that usually adorned the end of his stump, pressed delicately into her hip.

"I'm thinking of my father," he admitted rather sheepishly.

"Ah," she replied, "He should be here tomorrow, according to your cousin's letter."

Gen laughed dryly, "I had forgotten that he was coming. Helen will be upset that she missed all of the excitement." He paused, touching one of his daughter's fingers with his own. Had his fingers ever been that small? The first thing he had done when the child was presented to him, writhing and squalling, confused and freshly scrubbed, had been to count all of her fingers and toes. He had endured a gnawing fear that his child would be cursed with some affliction or disability because of some shortcoming of his own. But, as he had first examined her, red-faced and screaming, he came to the only reasonable conclusion: he had somehow succeeded in creating something perfect.

"Are you disappointed?" She asked suddenly, not looking away from her new daughter. They had avoided speculating on the child's gender during her pregnancy because the truth of the matter was, neither would be safe. A son would be a stronger heir, but boys in the royal family of Attolia were often killed before they made it to adulthood. Girls were generally used for marrying off, their positions extorted by their brothers, fathers and later, husbands.

"Why would I be disappointed?" He asked seriously, running a finger across his daughter's tiny eyebrow. Her face puckered slightly in response, before relaxing again in sleep. The queen did not respond, but rubbed a small circle in the king's back with her palm.

"She looks like you, you know," she said, touching the fine dark hairs already growing out of the baby's scalp.

"Her hair will lighten up," Gen replied, as if trying to deny any resemblance to the angelic child. "Once she's been in the sun a bit."

"Maybe," Irene allowed, "But her skin will only get darker."

"She has your chin," he responded argumentatively, "And your nose and ears."

The queen actually laughed, "Those are your ears."

"They are not," he snapped back, making a show of leaning forward to check the child's ears. He looked closely at his queen's as well, and saw that there was little resemblance between them. Perhaps he didn't know what his own ears looked like. He shrugged, conceding the argument. "She's beautiful," he replied simply, kissing his wife's cheek, "And so, looks much more like you than me."

She smiled at him, "You are trying to charm me, I swear."

"And you, you are trying to distract me from the fact that you should be asleep," he relied tartly.

Irene shifted, straightening up so that she did not lean so much on her husband, trying to look more awake. "I am fine."

Gen raised his eyebrows at her, "You delivered an entire human into this world not four hours ago," he reminded her. "I think you deserve a few hours' rest before you begin prowling about again."

"I'm fine," she snapped, her tone unusually sharp. She saw him draw back slightly and added, "Besides, I do not prowl."

"No," he replied, rubbing her back with his stump, a strangely calming gesture, "I don't suppose that you do."

She let out a long sigh of mingled irritation and exhaustion. She had assumed that her husband would understand her gnawing feeling of unease, the constant fear that one blink would find her daughter snatched away. Sleep was not something she could indulge in right now, and she was disappointed that she had allowed herself to drift off in the first place.

He squinted at her assessing, "What are you thinking?"

She shrugged, in a shockingly unladylike gesture. Her husband would have laughed, had the mood not been so strangely serious. He had an inkling what was bothering her.

"Who do you trust the most in this palace?" He asked, knowing that as he stared at the baby's perfect face and stunning innocence she saw only the plentiful safety hazards that they had brought so close to her bedside. All of the intrigue of their court may as well be standing there with them, waiting for the opportunity to extort the little girl, to use her for their own sick gains.

"You," she replied without missing a beat. If there was one person in the world that would keep all of that away from their daughter it was Gen.

He waved the comment away, "I don't count."

"Of course you count," she argued.

"Alright," he allowed, rolling his eyes, "Besides me."

She let out a long breath. Who did she trust the most in the palace besides her husband? Relius? Teleus? Her guard? Her ladies? "I don't know."

He let out a long breath, "My love, we can't stand beside her crib at all hours, you do know. At some point we will have to give her to someone else's care, at least for some of the day."

"We've agreed that Phresine will be her nurse," she replied, a new uncertainty entering her voice, "Are you doubting her? Do you have someone else in mind?"

"No, Irene, I don't doubt her, but you have to trust that she can take care of her."

Irene shook her head, "I trust her." And she did. She trusted Irene with her wardrobe and her errands, her hair and papers and keeping the younger, more gossipy attendants in line. But did she trust her with this? It seemed wrong, almost criminal, to give this child to anyone else. Right after she had been born the midwife had taken her away to be cleaned off and Irene had had a terrible fear that she would drown her or steal her for some unknown secret design. When the baby was brought back, this time in the arms of her smiling husband, her relief had been almost divine. In the few hours since the birth she had been commanded by her physician, her ladies, and her husband to sleep but every time she closed her eyes she found herself plagued by the fear that her baby, so young and as of yet unnamed, might have disappeared.

"Irene, we can't be with her all the time," he repeated, this time more seriously. "We have a kingdom to run and we aren't afforded the luxury."

"She'll not be raised by the help," the queen said obstinately, reaching forward to take the sleeping infant out of the cradle and into the safety of her arms. Was this what motherhood felt like? She wondered, contemplating this new anxiety. She was probably the least suited woman for motherhood in all of the peninsula, and probably the continent too, but she would never let this child now that.

"I'm not suggesting that she is," her husband replied in the same serious tone.

"She will see us every day," Attolia continued, soldiering on as if her husband had not spoken. She was listing the numerous issues that she had with the way that her parents had raised her.

"At least," the king agreed, realizing that the queen was not so much arguing with him as informing him of her own childhood grievances.

"She will know us," She asserted with certainty.

The king nodded, "And we will know her."

"And her siblings," she added, shifting the now waking child to the crook of her arm. She opened her tiny grey eyes to look up at her parents, the only two people in the whole world to her, her protectors and creators, the voices that she had heard most often in the womb and the ones that comforted her now in the new, bright confusion that she had been thrust into.

"Siblings?" Gen asked, reaching out for his daughter. Attolia gave her to him reluctantly, almost immediately missing the warm weight of the tiny girl in her arms.

"There are sure to be more," the queen said sweetly, touching the girl's cheek to wipe away a waking-tear. "Petrus said that her eyes will darken up," she noted with the air of one winning an argument. "She'll be your miniature."

Gen smiled at the infant, who blinked up at him good-naturedly. "Her skin is darker than is fashionable here," he noted studiously, moving her to the crook of his handless arm so that he could touch her nose with his forefinger.

"The fashion will change to suit her," the queen replied quickly.

Gen laughed, and the baby looked up at him surprised, which only made him laugh more. "All your ladies will be burning themselves trying to get that which we Eddisians have naturally," he crooned to the infant.

"We'll have to name her, I suppose," Attolia said, watching the scene with a genuine smile.

Gen looked up, "Ariadne," he said suddenly. The queen looked at him questioningly, "It was my mother's name," he explained, "She looks like her."

"Ariadne," Attolia tested experimentally, watching the infant stare absently at her father. She had been wondering when he would suggest this. Of course she had no objections,"The Princess Ariadne."

"Heir to the throne," Gen said solemnly to the child, as if she were an active participant in this conversation. "For now anyway," he added with a shrug. Should a male heir come along, he would become the heir and their daughter would only inherit if all males in the house died first.

"Heir to the throne," Attolia echoed. She paused as they both watched their newly-named child blink at them as if it were the most impressive thing either had ever seen. "I don't want to leave her with someone else." She stated suddenly, returning to their former topic of conversation.

He nodded, "Neither do I."

"Then why do we have to?" She asked, frustrated. "She's our daughter."

"We can't look after a kingdom that way," he replied, rubbing his face. "I've gone over it in my mind a thousand times, Irene. We are on the brink of war, problems like that just cannot wait."

"I know," she replied sullenly. It was strange, for him to be the one arguing responsibility and her the one wanting to shirk it. "I just feel so…" she trailed off, gesturing to the baby, who was already falling asleep again.

He nodded. He understood how quickly royal houses were emptied in tumultuous times, especially of the youngest, most vulnerable members. But he had spent the last several months doing most of the ruling as his wife slowly removed herself from public view, and he knew that the war was pressing closer and closer, the Medes practically breathing down their necks at this point, and that deserved attention. He was also painfully aware that he was holding an infant, entirely unable to defend herself, and she deserved attention too. Throughout the last several months he had sussed it out in his mind, trying to find some way around leaving the baby with nannies or nurses who might not be as innocent as they seemed. The king couldn't rule alone forever. The barons had been antsy throughout Irene's entire pregnancy, and he had little patience for what she put up with from them. She also couldn't rule without him. Having been pushed into being some kind of king, he could not go back to being nothing without hurting the crown's stability. And they could not keep going as they were with a child in tow, unless of course the child was being taken care of by someone else during the day. Phresine was the best idea that he had come up with. "Do you trust Phresine, Irene?"

She sighed, "Yes, I trust Phresine."

"She'll have a whole squad of guards," the king said in a conciliatory tone, "Only the best." She pressed her lips into a thin line, trying to keep from comment. He continued, "And we'll see her every morning and every night, and between meetings and appointments. And you'll be able to stay with her for the next few months."

"You'll deal with the barons for a few more months?" She asked, sounding shocked. He had been very vocal about his feelings about the barons, both in private and in their sessions. He never enjoyed meeting with their barons, but when he had to deal with them alone his patience was always used up almost immediately. He had been looking forward to Irene coming back to these meetings, and they had agreed that a week after the birth she would begin to attend meetings again, but if he was willing to give her more time, she was more than willing to take it.

He sighed, almost regretting having offered it. "Yes, I'll suffer for even longer, I suppose."

"You'll have to announce her birth in the morning," she told him carefully, "To the barons and the public."

He groaned, "It's not as if they don't already know." The news would have spread through the palace and the city like wildfire.

"It's more a matter of tradition," she replied promptly, having already prepared for this argument. She was surprised, when just a second later her husband sighed and nodded, conceding the argument.

She kissed him, "Thank you."

He smiled when they separated before leaning forward and placing Ariadne carefully in her cradle. "You'll sleep now?" He asked, crossing his arms and looking at her critically.

"She'll just wake me up in a few minutes to eat anyway," she argued.

"Then sleep until she does," he replied, arching an eyebrow at her in a familiar gesture. "I'll stay here, between you and her. Nothing will happen."

She sighed and conceded the argument, walking slowly back to her bed but turning so that she could watch as her husband pulled a chair up to the cradle. Distantly, as she pulled the covers around herself she wondered if this new anxiety would fade away. No first born in her family had lived past twenty in the last several generations, and her court was just as tumultuous as it ever was. Ariadne had not been born into a safe world, and her position there would be the matter of envy and hate the world over. And there was the small matter of a war that may or may not entirely dismantle her country and subject them all to foreign rule. In short, she was at no loss of things to worry over, and reviewing them only made her surer that this gnawing feeling of unease would stick with her, as permanent as her ever-present attendants, who even now, stood hovering at the corners of the room, waiting for one of their monarchs to call to them. Still, watching the two most important people in her life sit quietly nearby, she couldn't help but feel some hope lighting in her stomach. She might not be able to keep Ariadne entirely safe, and gods knew that she couldn't keep Gen safe either, but she would try.

Nearby, her king had begun to sing, quite softly. She did not know the words, but the tune was familiar and she wondered if she had heard him humming it before. The scene in front of her was undeniably sweet, but even that wasn't enough to keep her eyes open much longer, and soon, with her husband's lullaby in her ears, she fell asleep.

Eugenides stopped singing shortly after he noticed that his wife was asleep. It was an old song, an Eddisian lullaby that he remembered from his childhood. In his earliest memories he could hear his mother crooning it to him and his siblings.

He had seen the small birthmark on his daughter's shoulder when she had been handed to him the first time. It was about an inch long, a strangely shaped darker mark on her already tan skin. To anyone else it may have seemed entirely unremarkable, he had asked Petrus about it briefly in the aftermath of the birth, while Irene was still distracted. All the physician had said was a very short, "Just a birthmark." Gen had recognized it immediately though, a little feather. Whether it was a mark of favor or approval or a warning that she would be just as subject to the gods' capricious will as her father had been, he couldn't tell.

Irene would notice it. It was almost miraculous that she hadn't already, and he knew that this luck was mostly due to the fact that the child had been swaddled in a blanket since birth. He had only seen it because the little girl had been naked when she was presented to him. He also knew that his wife would see it soon, probably before morning, and that there would be questions asked that he had no way of answering. It was partially because of the presence of this birthmark that he asked to name her after his mother. The god of thieves had marked his firstborn, it seemed natural that he name her after one of the god's best supplicants.

He glanced between his wife and his daughter, feeling a strange and entirely new, but not unwelcome, pull on his emotions. Throughout his wife's pregnancy, he had nursed a strange sense of denial about the outcome. It had seemed unlikely, hardly possible, that they had somehow created another person. Now, it seemed impossible that she had ever been absent from his life. His first instinct upon seeing her was to take her up in his arms and run. Their palace was not safe, and their subjects not entirely loyal. He had agonized over the many ways that one of his enemies, or his wife's, could so easily take their child away from them. All the guards in the world couldn't protect against the ambitions of someone with deep pockets and a long reach. He knew from personal experience that someone with enough motivation could get around all the walls thrown up in front of them, he had just never been on this side of the problem.

The guard was mostly loyal, and the men that would be around Ariadne would be made up entirely of the right kind of blockhead soldier. Men like his father and brother and cousins, who had pledged themselves to their work and would do anything to see the will of their monarch seen to, men like Costis. He smiled wanly at the thought of his old confidant, currently being called back from some distant post. He needed people that he could trust around.

Phresine walked over to him, her sudden presence breaking him out of his reverie. "This will be my new charge?" She asked gently, gesturing to the infant. The king smiled, reminding himself that this was, after all, a happy occasion, and nodded. "She's quite lovely. Have you named her, sir?"

"Ariadne," Gen replied, "It was my mother's name."

"A lovely name," Phresine said reassuringly, reaching out to squeeze the king's shoulder. "For a lovely girl."

The king nodded, looking again at the baby, and then back at his wife, quietly sleeping a few feet away.

"Don't worry so much," Phresine admonished in a motherly tone, following her king's gaze. "You'll give yourself gray hair," she nodded knowingly.

The king snorted, running his hand through his dark hair and thought of his father's steely gray hair, no doubt at least partially his fault. "I'm not quite that worried."

"Good," Phresine said, turning away to shoo the other attendants out of the room. They had all had plenty of time to coo over the baby, it was time to leave the little family entirely alone, as they should have been all along. "Goodnight, my lord."

"Goodnight Phresine," he replied, watching the eldest of his wife's attendants as she gathered the younger ones about her and leave, shutting the bedroom door behind her. He had left his attendants in one of the antechambers, where they probably still were, honor bound to wait for his call that they all knew he wouldn't give. He shrugged at the thought, before standing up and saying a very quiet, "Goodnight," to his daughter for the first time, who would, no doubt, wake him and his wife up before dawn. Then, setting aside all troubling thoughts and worries for the night, he climbed into bed with his wife, between her and the cradle holding his daughter, and fell asleep.