Honestly Komugi is happy with their new life, just the two of them, smothered by feelings and a place that is just their own. Because when she was with her family, surrounded on all sides with the clutter of rakes and the stampede of noise that constituted their daily routine, she was alone. There was hardly enough space to think, to let alone open a gungi board up between them. And where else could she go? The only place she could be free were the tournaments, the one she got her father and brothers to take her to when they weren't busy working.

So Komugi has had no other friends to gossip with, not really. No one to gift her with a traditional tale, not one, to warn her of the way it will feel as though there is a parasite digging its way into her life, rolling into her stomach with all the subtleness of a stone. At night she rolls and shifts, gasping in her sleep, but it still feels difficult to breathe, even when the weight comes from inside her instead of against her chest. Sometimes it feels as though the very air itself is the one pressing down and hurting her.

Meruem is as attentive as always, bringing her a pan of warm water in the night and stroking her hair softly as she bends over to breathe ripples into its stillness.

'What is it?' she asks afterwards, touching her nose with a grateful finger. Her nostrils have never felt so clear; it is as though something has burrowed its way into them and shoved aside years-worth of snort and flower-sprung allergies.

'Menthol crystals,' he says. 'I sprinkle them over the water and let them dissolve. It is their vapour that you are breathing in.'

'Oh...I wondered about the smell.'

He chuckles softly and despite herself, Komugi feels herself preen, pushing up under his fingers as though she were no bigger than a cat. His laugh is a wonderful thing and she delights in prying it from him whenever possible.

Then she turns quiet. 'Meruem,' she begins tentatively. 'I am sorry; I cannot read books and I have never been taught all the old stories about how to bring a child into this world. I know...nothing.'

'I am far from an expert at nurturing either,' says Meruem and Komugi perks up; beneath his tone there is a sense of uneasiness, as though he is holding back other impulses. But his hand remains warm and careful on her head, pressing against her hair with a reassuring firmness and later, in a few moments, she relaxes. It is not for her to know the dark deeds he once did, no doubt to protect his kingdom.

'I talk to them sometimes,' Komugi says with a flush, pressing her hand down against the stomach that rapidly now, is beginning to feel like a shackle. 'You may think it foolish. But I feel closer to them when I do so.'

'Ah,' says Meruem. 'A parent's sentiment. I can understand the instincts behind such a thing.'

He is silent for a beat, and then Komugi finds herself reaching over to take his hand. She trails her fingers over his joints carefully, as though the bones beneath are fragile, just as swift to crack as an uncared-for gungi tile. The bulky weight of muscle beneath shifts, smoothing out under her palm as though abruptly relaxing.

'It will be more than instinct that moves you,' she assures him, half-marvelling at the confidence that seeps into her tone. 'You will love it, the way I do.'

He doesn't move. But within his silence, Komugi can hear the unspoken question, one he is still a little too proud to ask; how can you be sure?

She smiles.

'Because of the same protectiveness I have felt whenever I breathed life into a new move; my heart trembles in the same way now, as it has done all those other times before. You see, this is the first time it has done so for something other than gungi. And you are the same way; you would not get so distressed in our games, if you felt nothing when I destroyed the moves you put so much thought into.' She lowers her voice. 'Creating something, I think, is a powerful thing; you give life to it and it is painful when you feel it die, whether it is a move played in a game or something...more. And you hate to lose, Meruem.' She breathes a little more firmly. 'You put your heart on the board, just as I do.'

He does not reply other than with a small sigh, which, for him, Komugi decides, is the closest he can manage to something that, in a human, would sound more choked-up. She gives his hand a feeble squeeze and then attempts to settle herself at his side, thumping her head down upon his knee with an awkward bump.

'Oww...'

He simply gives her head a rueful stroke in comfort. It's kind of him, Komugi thinks. Her parents would have simply heaved out a put-upon sigh. It's not long however, before her musings give way into an uneasy slumber, although she can't help the occasional wince of movement she gives as her stomach pulls at her, despite her mind being buried in dreams.

Meruem watches her for a while, before his hand move from her hair to her neck, carefully depositing her head onto the floor. Almost bashfully he tucks a bale of straw beneath her, hesitating each time she lets out a little 'mprf', and then, almost unceremoniously, he sprawls out beside her, propping his head up upon her belly. He finds himself listening carefully to the shift of movement inside, eyes narrowing as a half formed limb pushes through liquid to carelessly drag on the outskirts of Komugi's womb. He winces as she stirs, gritting his teeth at the snivelling whimper that escapes her.

It's a strange, almost craven impulse that grips holds of him then, and it tells him to speak into the thin, flimsy barrier of skin that shields his child from the world he once attempted to rule, to speak, even if the one he is addressing cannot listen.

'You must treat your mother better than I did my own,' he tells it. 'She loved me enough to give me a name, and I did not realise what a travesty it was that I threw both it and her life away, before it was too late. So it may be hypercritical of me not to ask you to do the same. But I will ask it nevertheless. No, I will demand it.' He hesitates. 'Komugi is not like me. I doubt she will even be like you. She is weak, weaker than most humans. I ask you, as humbly as any parent can ask a child...no a life-form can ask another life-form, not to harm this one.'

Komugi turns with a sigh, more snores rolling free from her gaping mouth. Meruem smiles fondly, reaching over with a single finger to lift the line of drool away from her chin.

'There will be pain of course,' he murmurs. 'Many things in life come with it, I find. But I must ask you to treat her as gently as you can, all the same. She has put her heart into you, you see.' He pauses to stroke his fingers over her belly, letting them rest briefly above the dip of her navel. 'And, though it may be foolish, I shall strive to do the same.'

Komugi breaks open with a cry a few months later, feeling a slick rush of liquid spill out between her thighs. It does not dry rapidly, or crust over that familiar itch of dried blood. But she knows, perhaps with something similar to a deep, animal instinct, that the wetness between her legs will thicken and run out with that familiar squelch of blood, this time running with something akin to a gallop; all in all, very different from the trickle that escapes her body each month.

But before the blood comes the pain, doused with the strain of waiting, as each interval before the earthquake inside claims her, shortens, making her buckle and grind her fist down into the waiting cusp of Meruem's steady palm. Even now, with the pain making her strong, she cannot hurt him. In this, at least, she is grateful.

But even with this relief warming her inside, she gasps and throws her head back as her body is wrecked with another bout of pressure; it is almost as though something is grinding down on her pelvis with the intention to shatter bone.

Well, she can't help but think wryly, it is not so far from the truth, is it? And there is more of a 'someone' hammering on the door down there, rather than 'something', a door I'm not strong enough to widen by myself.

Perhaps she gasps this out loud without realising or perhaps Meruem just knows her too well. Because he bends down towards her, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear as he whispers firmly, with no room for argument: 'you are strong enough for this. It is just another battle. Play, Komugi. And win.'

Had she not been a fool, with no room in her skull for anything but gungi, thinks Komugi, she might have come close to wishing him harm. But as it is, she finds herself, remembering the feel of the board beneath her fingers and the way each piece waits for her to move it, to make it burst into beauty that only a few, like Meruem, can truly appreciate. And now this baby, is waiting for her to do the same.

She grits her teeth and pushes.

Later, after eventually clawing her way back into consciousness, Komugi wishes she could see her child's face. It is an odd sensation, this wishing for something she can never really truly miss, at least, in the way one mourns for something lost. The closest she has come to such a sentiment is in the past, when she wished to be less of a burden on her family. Although she had been free to govern her own movements, it was always with the worry of bumping into a stray clay pot, or brushing aside something precious and grinding it into dust.

She can feel her child's features of course; her fingers play upon the bud of lips, the brush of eyelashes, with all the delicacy that she usually reserves for a game of gungi. But she also knows that across her child's body swims a wash of colours, things she knows that are sometimes used as guidance for seeking out a name. Something that is, of course, denied to her.

Colours, as a whole, have always confused her. She knows she needs to be mindful of her hair, that the 'whiteness' of it, as lectured to her by her mother, is stained easily, rendered dirty by something as simple as dirt. She knows it acts as a chameleon this way, turning either brown or black, colours that she gathers, by the disapproving tut of lips around her, that do not look good hanging down from her scalp.

'Meruem,' she finds herself saying, 'what colour is our child's face?'

She feels him freeze next to her, half-caught in the tentative prodding he is giving their child's cheeks.

'I was not aware it would mean anything to you.'

He sounds rueful, as though this is something he should have foreseen and Komugi hastily tries to correct her mistake.

'Ah, no! You're right, you're right, it will not mean the same to me as to you! I mean...simply...what do the colours make you feel? You see, I know colours like green and blue are supposed to soothe, and other colours look bold and strong, so I was just wondering, what they made you feel looking at our child...I do not want an unsuitable name, one whose sound clashes heavily with the way she looks.'

'I do not think it works that way,' says Meruem, now sounding, to her relief, slightly amused. 'But I can understand your viewpoint.' He pauses, before reaching over to trap her fingers with his own. 'Up here,' he says, carefully dragging her hand up to the back of the child's skull, '-these are white, the same white as your hair.'

Komugi feels her breath catch as her fingers touch feathers, soft like the down of a baby bird. They curl and tickle, still tentative against the sway of air that stirs them, as though unused to navigating an environment free from the liquid swirl of her belly. Perhaps, thinks Komugi, later on they will straighten, becoming stronger like an adult bird's as she grows.

'White, 'continues Meruem, more gently, as though mindful of the awe that makes her hand tremble beneath his own, 'is a colour that symbolises many things. It is blank, easily dirtied or torn in two by any other colour, no matter how pale or weak. But it is precisely because of how easily it clouds over and is lost, that when it is allowed to stand by another colour, it shines, bold and fierce. You and your hair, have always felt that way to me.

...We are so different, Komugi. But this child is what happens when we come together. And this white gives me hope that she will be as strong on the inside as you.'

Komugi sniffles and lets out a hiccup.

'Do you wish me to continue?'

'Y-yes,' she stammers, 'even if my heart breaks or I die happy, right now, p-please continue.'

He gives her hand an almost painful squeeze. Then pulls it down to slide over their child's neck, twisting it round to touch the tiny dip of a collar bone. He lets their hands rest there for a while, as though they've found a placeholder, as though their flesh have become brief bookmarks against their baby's skin, before he takes up their fingers once again and glides them down to the bludgeoning slope of his small chest.

'Our child's skin is a green colour, same as my own but lighter.' He pauses. 'In fact, a great deal lighter. This gives me hope once again, that she will take after you more than me.'

'But still,' says Komugi bravely, her voice trembling far more than her careful fingers, 'she is green enough to see yourself reflected there?'

Meruem pauses. 'Yes.'

Gently, Komugi tugs her fingers up against his own, and loathe as they both are to let the pulse of their child escape their senses, Meruem lets her draw away.

'I have a suggestion for a name,' says Komugi shyly, though the smile that twists her lips afterwards is anything but unsteady. 'I...it feels right. Not ungracious. Like naming a move.'

She feels a twitch of movement at her side; Meruem moving his tail in a curious curve, much like a cat.

'Let's hear it,' he says.