It was a long night, even by Aelin's standards. She danced with Rowan and Aedion and Dorian and even Chaol, talking for hours with the Adarlan party. Dorian was brimming with happiness; the last pocket of rebels in Adarlan's southern territories had been dealt with, he was about to become a father, and he was visiting one of his closest friends. Chaol had informed her, after considerable coaxing, that things with Nesryn were "fine" and "no, we are not getting married yet", which he had been telling her for years. He'd let her kiss his cheek as she danced off, though, which meant he was in good spirits. She'd heard all about Aedion's ventures in the North, and while he radiated distraction, he managed to circle the party with convincingly unbothered cheer. And of course Rowan was Rowan.
He didn't dance much, but he knew how happy it made her to swirl under the glittering chandeliers with him. His hands, at her back and entwined with hers, touched her differently now. He was infinitely gentle, and while it irritated her, it made her warm inside, as though the embers within her glowed brighter.
Aelin was particularly pleased with how she looked tonight. It was getting increasingly hard to dress as she liked; this gown had been tailored with the utmost secrecy. These past few days she'd discovered that more and more of her clothes grew tight and uncomfortable; each new realization was thrilling and terrifying. Rowan had caught her sitting on their bed the other day, crying into a puddle of chiffon, and had gently extricated the gown from her hands before calling the seamstress up. The woman, whom Aelin had personally hired, had crafted a masterpiece of amber and gold, the draping of which was both dramatic and strategic. She'd also made the dusky red dress Aelin had worn today; it was gathered carefully at the ribs and covered in embroidery. Thankfully Aelin's guests were all male and didn't notice the difference. She'd yet to detect anyone in her court with suspicions, although her inner circle—which included bloodhound Lysandra—seemed to have noticed something.
The evening was still lovely, even with all the careful disposal of the wine glasses she took for show and the angling away of her torso. She'd been dancing with Dorian—one of the livelier waltzes she'd risked—and had wound up brushing directly up against him. Her breath had caught in her throat but Dorian hadn't noticed a thing. She planned to tell the bunch of them before everyone left, but she wanted to do it her way, with style. Doing so would take some artful maneuvering.
By the end of the night she was so rutting tired she nearly fell up the stairs on her way to her rooms. She sat on her bed, removed her exquisitely painful shoes, and collapsed on the pillows with a gusting sigh.
"That," she groaned, "was an ordeal."
Rowan snorted. "That was nothing compared to the battlefields."
"You're not pregnant," she said crabbily, poking his massive shoulder as he laid down next to her. He give her an exasperated look and she grinned, curling up next to him.
"You love me," she reminded him in a croon.
"Remind me to have my mental health checked."
"Very funny." She kissed his cheek. He made a sound very like a purr, then tensed, sitting up.
"What is it?" She asked, instantly alert. The nearest weapon was either the dagger in the mattress or the blades strapped to her legs.
"It's Aedion," Rowan said, and she groaned, flopping back again. Rowan said nothing, stripping off his shirt and heading into the bathing room as a knock sounded at the door. Aelin quickly unbuttoned her gown and reached for a robe to pull over her shift, not wanting to be draped in heavy satin one moment longer. Grudgingly, she padded to the door, pulling pins from her hair.
It was, of course, Aedion standing there, looking thoroughly impatient. "Yes?" She said angelically, setting a hand on one hip and leaning against the door.
"You have some explaining to do."
"Do I?" She smiled infuriatingly. "About what?"
His reply was suspiciously like a growl. She sighed dramatically. "Fine. Sit." She pointed to her couch and he obeyed, fixing her with the intense kind of gaze one could not ignore. She continued pulling pins from her hair, doing her best to avoid him.
"You're awfully crabby," she remarked.
"You owe me an explanation," he said sullenly, pouting like a spoiled toddler. She did, in fact, owe him an explanation; she'd been keeping secrets from him. She'd hated it, every letter she sent without mentioning anything amiss had weighed on her. Telling him would only have brought him running in from the Staghorns, and for what? To witness twelve weeks of nausea, aches, pains, sore breasts and secrecy? Rowan took care of her, not that she needed much taking care of. She did like to be pampered by him. She'd liked it since Mistward, and it was tremendously luxurious to have someone bring her chocolates and sit and even read to her while winter storms blew outside her window. The worst of the nausea had passed; now Aelin wandered the halls in an increasingly exhausted state, feeling fat and sore and irritable. She missed Aedion, had missed Dorian and Chaol, had missed Elide and Lysandra and Evangeline, all residing over their own lands. Now, she was surrounded by those she loved; it did nothing to suppress the nervous excitement that built in her ribcage like birds about to take flight every time a dress didn't fit or nausea overtook her or her ankles hurt a little more. She was fairly certain that, when that first kick came, she would either burst into tears or go insane.
Aelin was adrift. She was torn between bubbly, uncontrollable happiness and sheer terror. She had no clue how one dealt with all this. Surrounded by healers and friends she felt incredibly lonely, and—especially on the mornings she was up early, warring with her stomach—indescribably sad. It was a sadness that ate at her, as it had since she was eight years old. More than anything else, she wanted her mother.
Aelin stood in her luxurious sitting room, in the palace she had built from the ground up, with a lost cousin before her and a warrior who loved her in the next room, and an entire court outside her walls, and fought her tears.
Aedion's expression changed, softening as he took in her distress. She hadn't intended to cry. She'd been crying all too much lately. Aedion stood up and surrounded her, enveloping her in the strength of his arms. She leaned against him, letting those few damn tears slip through, catching her breath and gathering her thoughts.
"Aedion?" She whispered.
"Yes?"
"How well do you remember my mother?"
Aelin had been eight when Evalin was killed. Aedion, five years her senior, possessed memories of the old Terrasen that were infinitely more vivid than hers.
Aedion was silent for a moment, then, in a strange voice, "Aelin, step back for me."
Puzzled, she pulled apart, frowning up at him. "Why?" His eyes were silver in the flickering light of the fire as he shook his head. "Please," was all he said.
Confused, she obeyed, tilting her head and studying him with some anxiety. He cleared his throat. "Sorry," he whispered, in a voice like gravel.
"What's wrong?" She asked, looking down at herself. She understood then. Only that morning she'd caught her breath, turning in the mirror as she realized, not for the first time, this is really happening. There was a bump between her hips, hidden by artfully tailored clothes during the day but now, in her thin nightdress, clearly visible. It damn near took her breath away every time she brushed a hand against it, every time she realized where she ended and began had changed. Aedion had not been here as she and her baby had grown; he hadn't had it made real to him. Now it was real. She understood completely. She gave him a wry smile, planting her hands on her hips. "Yes, I'm bigger now, aren't I?"
He laughed, a gravelly sound, and she knew to give him a moment. She went and sat down on the sofa then, and he joined her in a minute, the sofa creaking under his weight.
"Are you determined to break my furniture?" She asked. He made an exasperated noise and she grinned, a real smile.
"I do remember your mother, you know," he said after a while. She'd stretched out like a cat, curled against him, absently running circles over the hard surface of her abdomen with warm fingers. She looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat.
"I wish I remembered more," she whispered.
"I wish there was more to remember."
"Some days," she said, soft as a whisper of wind, "I feel as if I'll never get through it without her. As though I need her now more than ever before."
"She should've been here," Aedion said, a quiet grief in his voice. "They all should've been."
"Would we be here, like this, if they were?"
"Everything would be different if they were here."
Everything would. There would be no Rowan in the next room, or Dorian downstairs; no witches skirting Terrasen's borders on truce agreement with the queen; no Lysandra or Evangeline or Nesryn or Chaol. And yet the jewel-like future that might have been—it would be so gloriously wonderful, so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, that it could've been worth it. There was no option now. It would do no good to dwell on it; she told that to herself every morning as she awoke and every night as she fell asleep. Even so, she let herself dwell upon that lost dream, let her mind wander to a future where her mother was by her side, her father hoisting his grandchild upon his shoulders, the age-old palace—the one Adarlan burnt—glowing in the rosy light.
She made a decision then. She vowed it with such fierce love thatany person who stood against her would feel the full force of the Fire Queen's anger. Aelin vowed, in that small, quiet moment, that her child would never have this pain. They would never wonder what it might've been like if their childhood survived. Aelin had built a beautiful world for her people, and now it would welcome her own child, a fresh generation of jewel-box nurseries and child laughter in halls protected by steadfast Fae guards.
"Aedion?" She asked, her eyes on the fire before her.
"Yes?"
"You'll help me build that world again, won't you?"
He understood as only a child of a lost realm could. "We'll make it even better," he vowed, a solemn promise. Aedion made other vows, deep within him as Aelin fell asleep beside him, her hands curled around Terrasen's future. He vowed to keep Aelin's child safe. This time, when trouble came, he would not leave their side. This time he would not be days away in Orynth. He and Rowan and the whole of Aelin's court would not let history repeat itself. Never again.
Few survived what Aelin had. Her child, Aedion promised, would never even come close to the horrors their mother survived.
Years later, almost two full decades after the night still early in Aelin's pregnancy, Aedion would stand with that child, keeping them safe. He would stand at the gates as they slipped off to their own whirlwind, world-changing adventures; would keep eyes on them as they made their own name nearly as great as their mother's. Aedion would become their ultimate ally, their confidant and their protector, both in secret acts and in public deeds.
It was a promise to build a realm upon.
Hope you guys enjoyed my rather sappy addition; 5 DAYS UNTIL EMPIRE OF STORMS! I'd just like to say that whatever happens in EOS, this story will continue on unchanged. Also, bets on baby gender? I'm taking names, guesses, theories, whatever. Have a great end of summer!