If At First You Don't Conceive

Standing on the beach that bordered Colony 9, she once again wondered if the ocean might be endless.

Ten years since the birth of the new world. Ten years since she had transitioned from homs to mechon to homs again. Ten years since all ended and all began. "Year 10" was what some people called this year. Others called it by whatever year befitted their calendars – the high entia calendar was longer than that of the homes, and the machina calendar longer still. The nopon didn't have a calendar at all, which didn't surprise her. To them, there was no time but the present. And even now, they saw the world as being cyclical – summer to winter. Hot to cold. Life to death.

Ten years, and she knew plenty about life and death. Rolling up a ball of sand, she tossed it into the ocean – no land beyond the horizon, as far as she could tell, aside from the corpse of Bionis. Melia had once told her that this new world was spherical, that they could only see so far because of the planet's (yes, a "planet," whatever that was) curvature. She could only take the princess at her word, or rather, the word of the machina and high entia scientists that sought to understand the world that Alvis had crafted for them. Already some worshipped him. Already there was a temple to him, much to her brother's despair. Even now, in a world without gods, some had the need to give prayer to the divine. Still homs returned the bodies of the fallen to the earth, even without a slumbering titan to feed. Some cried out for a return to the old ways. Some championed the new. Some, like herself, kept quiet. Gods and titans, they could worship as they liked. None gave praise to her husband as the one who had instructed Alvis, and for that, she was glad. Not so much for her sake, but for his.

She tossed more sand into the sea, noting how the light of the setting sun danced upon the waves. When she'd come here, it had been higher. Apparently, this world rotated, and the sun was kept stationary. Perhaps one day, the children of the new world would visit the moon, the sun, the stars. Whatever way, she'd be dead before that happened. She would be in the earth, her body rotting, her name forgotten.

"Fiora!"

She winced and closed her eyes. She would be happy to be forgotten in the here and now. She'd come to the beach to avoid company. To avoid the looks, to avoid the comments, to avoid the sight of fellow mortals who could be bothered to steer their gazes away from the divine. And most of all, she had come to escape Shulk.

"Fiora, I've been looking everywhere for you."

Either he was that thick, or he was that insistent. Neither boded well for her desire to be left in peace. Nevertheless, she looked up at the man before her, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, and brushing away her hair with the other.

"Hello Shulk."

He stood there. She sat there. Nearby, some seagulls sang the song of the sea as they always did. She figured "sandgulls" was a better name as they seemed to spend more time on the beach than in the water, but she didn't get to name the creatures of this world. People like Vanea and Melia did.

"Fiora…"

"I thought I made it clear that I wanted to be left alone."

"You did," Shulk said. "A month ago."

"Great," she snapped. "Then solitude is on a timer?"

"It is."

She blinked. "What?"

"Solitude has limits. And this isn't sorrow. It's anger."

She got to her feet, staring at Shulk. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"You heard me."

"So I hear you, and you don't hear me when I said I'm past discussion?"

"Fiora…"

"Don't, Shulk," she said, turning around. "Just…don't."

She began to walk up the beach. Ten miles north, she'd come to a cliff face. Twenty miles south, she'd come to another cliff face. Beyond that was the domain of those souls that had taken ships out onto the sea and charted what they could of their new land. So far, they'd yet to circumnavigate it. Right now though, on foot…she felt like trying. And doing it alone, thank you very much. She wasn't in the mood for anyone to follow her.

"Fiora, stop it."

To her frustration, Shulk had not only outpaced her, he was able to walk backwards and keep his gaze fixed on hers. What frustrated her even more was when he came to a stop, forcing her to stop in turn.

"Go away Shulk."

"No," he said. "Not now."

She folded her arms. "After what happened, you decide to stay with me? Now is when you don't go jumping off into the wild green yonder?"

"I was here," Shulk said. "I buried him just like you."

"And where were you prior to that?" Fiora asked. "Where…where were…" She took a breath as her throat quivered. She wanted to be angry. She was angry. But anger, as her brother had once told her, was like a spear with a burning tip. You had to know how to use it, and you better use it quickly, because anger inevitably burnt out. What followed anger might vary – regret. Sorrow. Loathing. Exhaustion. The best were able to use their anger, and move on from the emotions that followed.

As the tears ran down her face, salt covering her skin as surely as salt filled the sea, Fiora reflected that after a month, she didn't know what she felt anymore. If she had ever held anger's spear, she hadn't used it. Or if she had, she'd turned it on the person who was least deserving. Granted, of those months, Shulk had been absent, but he had been there at the moment that counted. He'd been there, when those moments had ended. He'd been there, when after a week's worth of moments, they'd lain their son to rest in the graveyard outside Colony 9, right alongside the grave of his sister.

She sat down in the sand. After a moment, Shulk sat down beside her.

"Sometimes," Fiora murmured, "I think this is where it began."

Shulk looked at her. "When what began?"

"Everything," she said. "The moment when you said how sure you were that we'd find the people of this world. New races. New life. When I…when all can bring is death and…"

She broke down. No wail from the sound of one who'd lost her children. Just silent tears being carried away on the breeze. In silence, she leant her head against Shulk's shoulder. In silence, she felt him kiss her on the forehead.

"As I remember," Shulk whispered. "Your hair was shorter then."

Fiora snorted despite herself. "Gods, I remember."

Silence lingered between the two of them. Ten years since the birth of the new world. Nine years since they'd declared themselves for each other, or as her brother had said, "decided to stop keep everyone waiting." Thinking back to the old world, to her old life, she reflected that she'd never thought about doing any such thing. And yet…well, homs got married. Homs had children. Homs lived and homs died, because that was simply how the world worked. Even now, without the threat of extinction from homicidal machines and genocidal deities, homs still did those things. Even Reyn and Sharla, who'd waited two years before declaring themselves for each other. And eight years after that, they had four children already.

She and Shulk had tried, without success. Until a year ago, she'd never conceived. And then…

"It's getting cold," Shulk said. "We should go."

"Go," Fiora whispered. She was still lying against Shulk's shoulder. "Go where?"

"Home of course."

"Home," she whispered. "Where's the heart then?"

Shulk didn't say anything.

"They should be there, Shulk," Fiora whispered. "Both of them. I…" She took a breath. "We never even named them."

"I think…maybe we shouldn't…. I mean…"

"I think of them Shulk. I can see them, and I can't even name them. I…" She took a breath. "Bionis, I can still see them…"

Only one of them had seen her. Her daughter, finally conceived after years of trying, had been stillborn. She'd never drawn breath. Never opened her eyes. Had never known the touch of her father's arms, or the milk of her mother's breast. She'd been returned to the earth of a world she'd never know. At the time, they'd wept. But they'd tried again. Ten months ago, she'd conceived a second child. One month ago, her son had been born.

He'd lasted a week. He, at least, had known the sight of his parents, however briefly. For the high entia couldn't save him. The machina couldn't save him. They could only explain that his lungs weren't fully developed, and that he wasn't long for this world. She had wept. She had shouted. She'd even dared to pray at the Temple of Alvis, but to no avail. Gods, it seemed, were much better at ending life than saving it. No god from on high as she laid her son to rest. No mercy from titans of old for a child who'd never even received a name.

"Fiora…"

She blinked – how long had she been sitting here? The sun had set. The sea was unlit. Even the seagulls had gone to sleep. And…by Bionis, it was cold.

"Maybe we should…"

She got to her feet. "Home," she said.

She let Shulk make them dinner. It was edible, which meant that he'd put in the extra effort. As they sat there together, a wooden table between them, she wondered if she'd even thanked him for it. She did murmur thanks as he ran the plates under the sink (indoor plumbing – another machina invention), but most of her attention was focused on the candle that remained on the table. No ether in this world, and therefore, no ether lamps. But the substance called wax was a good substitute. She'd have gladly kept her gaze fixed on the candle and not return them to her husband's. To see the grief and concern he was trying to hide behind his eyes. Grief for the children he would never know. Concern for the one before him.

"Fiora…"

"I'm fine being a godmother," she said suddenly. She leant back in her chair, looking at everything but her husband's eyes. "Taran, Ostia, Nerith, L'Arachel…they're all good children. They like me, I like them."

"Fiora, I…"

"Besides, with Reyn joining you on your expeditions so often, Sharla needs all the help she can get. I mean, Juju's great and all but-"

"Fiora, I was going to suggest that I stay behind this time."

She met her husband's eyes. "No," she said firmly.

"Fiora-"

"No. We need food on the table. You're good on expeditions. One pays for the other."

"Other people can chart this world."

"Other people didn't save the old one. Nor can they swing a sword as good as you."

"That's not-"

"Besides," Fiora said, getting to her feet. "I'm the problem here."

"What?" Shulk asked.

She ignored him, regretting her words instantly. She hadn't meant to lay this on Shulk. She tried to head upstairs.

"Fiora!"

She felt him grab her arm. She was looking down on him, thanks to the increased elevation, but in truth, she'd never felt smaller – shame had that effect on people.

"What do you mean?" Shulk whispered.

"Shulk…didn't you ever wonder why I couldn't conceive? Why both our children passed away?"

"Of course I did."

"Then surely it must have entered your mind." Fiora tapped her stomach – a month ago it had been big and round, but now, she felt sick just touching it. "Why the problem lies with me."

"Fiora, what are you talking about?"

"Shulk, by all rights I should be dead. Thanks to the mechon, I'm not. Thanks to Linada, I'm a homs again. But…"

"But?"

"Have you ever heard of the walking dead giving birth to the living?"

A silence lingered between the two of them. Shulk's eyes were wide, but Fiora couldn't see past the irises. She couldn't read what her husband was thinking – a rarity, as the case was. As children, before everything changed, they could sense almost anything.

"Goodnight Shulk."

She turned to go up the stairs. Shulk didn't grab her this time. But as she reached the top…

"Fiora."

He called out to her. And so low, so reserved was the voice, that just hearing it threatened to make the tears return. Her eyes the ocean, her skin the sand, ever fated to be mingled. So through the tears, she met her husband's gaze.

"Don't think that," Shulk whispered. "Don't ever think, or say that."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"Fiora…" He cleared his throat. "Has it occurred to you that I'm the same? That I should have died in that cave all those years ago?"

"No," she replied truthfully. "And your body's never been changed."

"What about the soul?" Shulk asked. "What if that's what it takes to bring a child into the world?"

"You think that's it?" Fiora whispered. "You, without a soul, is the reason why our children died?"

"After all we've seen, I can believe anything."

"Then believe me when I say…that I can't do it again." Shulk went to say something but she interrupted him. "I'm sorry Shulk, I just can't."

Shulk didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at the woman atop the stairs.

"Goodnight Shulk."

The woman who left his sight and returned to her chambers.

She was still awake when Shulk came in. Her grip on the waking world was still strong enough to feel the touch of his lips upon her forehead. To feel the warmth of his body as he climbed in next to her. To be aware of the flickering of the candle that was left beside them. To be reminded, as always, that neither god nor mortal could ever separate them again.

In hindsight, maybe it was simply the reminder that was needed. In the moment, in the dying light, she couldn't remember how it started. The moments as their bodies drew ever closer. That moment where she removed her night dress and felt her chest against his. The moment where she opened herself up, and the same ritual began. That moment where all consideration of any other moment ceased, and all that remained was the present, again intermingled with thoughts of the future. The moment after, as they held each other, in the knowledge that both were among the living. That moment as she faced future and past as she held her husband in her arms. Wondering as she had so many times before, what it would be liked to hold a child in her arms. To see the eyes of one who would not leave this world before their time was due.

She got her answer nine months later.