There was something to be said for a woman's intuition.

Esti awoke with nausea and a faraway remembrance of Iñaki leaving early that morning, rolling over to see a heel of hard bread already set out for her. She smiled, latching onto the bread and biting down, waiting to feel the sickness abate as her sharp teeth sliced through the hard crust. But even with Amaya's remedy resting solidly in her stomach beside the baby, Esti still felt vaguely sick.

As she sat up and her stomach didn't roll uncomfortably and her head stayed where it was instead of lolling all over with dizziness, she realized that this was an entirely different kind of sickness. Something was wrong.

Her heart began to beat a little faster, and she got up and pulled a long, undyed tunic over her head, covering to her knees and hanging loosely around her shoulders. The silhouette of her breasts and belly was still visible, but barely, in an effort to hide what was growing more obvious each minute, it seemed. Slipping out of the tent they shared, Esti didn't even have time to appreciate what a kind husband she had, because the air was full of an unspeakable wrongness that she couldn't quite place. She pulled at her hair nervously as she walked, sliding her fingers through it in the unfamiliar way Renna had taught her, the makings of a braid she wouldn't have time to finish, because a pained noise had caught her attention. It was soft and far-off in the distance, but the interested looks of people around her indicated she hadn't imagined it.

Iñaki's bow had been missing from the tent; the thought struck her and she was off like a shot, running for the archery field, just in time to watch a ropy, dark-haired warrior swagger away. She thought for a moment, but couldn't place him with a name, and then the red glitter of blood on his knuckles brought her back to herself.

"Iñaki?" she called, moving tentatively closer -- the bow was discarded on the ground, and Iñaki was -- Esti began to run, dropping to her knees at her husband's side, hands hovering over him, afraid to touch.

"Iña! Iña..."

Iñaki'd thought it would be fine if he just had a few moments to himself, lying back on the dew-wet grass and recovering his breath. But his ribs still stabbed painfully. He palpated them with care, and decided they probably weren't broken; he couldn't feel anything that seemed to be a break, not that he really knew what that felt like anyway. Probably he was just bruised.

Still, his whole body hurt. Against his back, the chill of the grass mixed with the heat of his throbbing wounds to create a sort of unpleasant alchemy of agony, as though he were torn between the ice of Hell and the fire of Eguzki's wrath. So just a little longer, and then he'd get up, limp home, and tend his wounds.

Then he heard Esti's voice. They'd always had uncanny intuitions about each other. Iñaki recalled that night in the field, when she'd been lying inside a circle of horses. The night they'd first made love, and certainly the night they'd conceived their child. It felt long ago now.

"Esti." His voice was gravelly and a little choked by blood and phlegm. "Don't worry. I'm fine." She looked older than usual, her face drawn and pale, her eyes worried. He sat up slowly and found that his body didn't want to remain upright. Instead he tilted sideways, coming to rest against the new softness of his arreba-emazte's bosom. "I lost a fight." Her warmth, and her embrace, were comforting, but in a jangling way. A sort of uncertain way.

"Oh," she said as he fell against her, mumbling about having lost a fight. Well, obviously! Still her arms hovered around him, encircling but not approaching. Looking at his bruised body, the blood on his face and gurgling in his voice, Esti didn't want to embrace him -- not because it was ugly, though it was clear the fight had been brutal -- but because he was hurt, and she didn't want her touch to cause him any extra pain.

Quietly, her eyes sought for any unbloodied patch of skin, hands eventually coming to rest, clasped, against the crest of his shoulder. "Well, let me..." It was no secret Esti knew very little about healing, mostly because the sight of blood made her squeamish. "Let me clean you up, at least. I'm not really going to be good for much else... we should go to a healer, I guess."

Something felt unreasonably awkward, and she rested her chin on the top of his head, another spot that she reasoned was probably less painful than the rest. Esti didn't like blood or fighting, but when she was little she'd had a mouth too quick for her own good, and she'd been in a few tussles. She'd lost them all, and she knew that while it was always most painful the day after, the stinging feeling right that came right after the scrap was almost as bad.

"Thanks for leaving me the bread," she murmured, feeling the need to chase the strangeness between them away with chatter.

"Thanks. I don't need a healer--I'll be fine." Gergori wouldn't be seeing one, and Iñaki didn't want the ignominy of summoning a healer for something as simple as a tussle between warriors. Besides, he could deal with the pain of his body. The pain of inferiority, too, had become a constant over the years, always in the background, and no longer threatened to overwhelm him. "Come on--just--I'd like to go back to our tent, please."

He didn't want people to see him like this, as if they needed another reminder of their Warlord's heir's weakness.

At length, Iñaki gathered the strength to push himself away from Esti, and put his arm tentatively around her shoulders. "Just help me stand up." He leaned over to kiss her cheek, a bare brush with his bruised and bloody lips, but sweet for all the pain. Then he levered himself to his feet, groaning at the ripping sensation that coursed through his ribcage, as though a sheet inside were pulled taut over bone. "I won't put too much weight on you." Soon he would have to treat her even more carefully. Some of the men he'd been talking to, who had pregnant wives, had told him a few things he could do to make things easier for her, and Iñaki had been listening and learning.

"Thanks," he added, looking down at her. His legs were shaking, and his head ached, but he was starting to leave the pain behind if he didn't think of it. They had water in the tent. He'd wash up, and then--crawl back into his bed for the rest of the day, probably, and watch Esti cook.

Esti scrambled to her feet when he asked her for help, offering her hands as leverage to help him pull himself to his feet. As soon as he was on his feet, Iñaki was wavering, looking like he was about to fall any minute. Maneuvering closer, Esti ducked into the space at his side, slinging his arm over her shoulders. He still looked shaky, but promised not to put much weight on her, and she smirked at the oddness of it. "I'm not -- you're welcome -- I'm not worried. You can lean on me."

But even though the promise was there, she didn't know if she'd be able to deliver. Esti was not like her mother, strong and solid -- she'd grown up wispy and fragile and wirey, good for stamina and small things but not carrying the weight of a grown man on her shoulders. Still, she took his hand in hers, looking up in time to catch his eye.

"Come on." Esti lead the way back to the tent even though Iñaki knew where it was. The going was slow, with him leaning on her a little, but it didn't matter -- it was early enough that few people saw them, though Esti knew somehow that whoever had bested Iñaki would be telling people about it. Even she was tired by the time they got back, but once they were inside and she had helped him to sit, Esti was moving again. Dipping a large bowl from the cask of clean water, she got herself a rag and set to work cleaning off the blood and dust. It took a long time, because the blood from his lip and nose had spattered, and she wanted to make sure she wasn't missing any cuts or abrasions.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather see a healer?" she murmured, face close to his as she cleaned the grit from a scrape on his collarbone. "At least to give you something for the pain. Does it still hurt?"

"No--I'm fine." Iñaki's tone slid toward petulance, and he probed a loose tooth with his tongue, tilting his head away from Esti. She meant well, but the water on his bruises and abrasions just worsened the discomfort. "I'm fine, I'm just going to smoke a little."

He had some datura near his bed, saved from last time he'd smoked with Mikel and Peru. Mikel--Mikel would be so happy to hear about his latest humiliation. Maybe he'd even try to kill him again. "I'll be fine, Esti." Even if his one good eye was half-closed and blurry, and his mouth stung so badly he knew drawing in the smoke would hurt. But everyone knew datura could be palliative in small doses, and send him to sleep, or simply distract him. And that was good. He needed the distraction right now.

Turning away from his sister-wife's concerned helping hand, he took out his pipe and sprinkled in all the datura mix he would need, then leaned forward, grabbing a twig and stealing some flame from the fire to light it. He sat back somewhat painfully on his furs, and tried to ignore the sting that coursed through his battered mouth.

It was, at least, relaxing.

"Ugh. That was awful." Gergori sem'Unai--the bastard, the sem'Zakur. "I don't want to talk about it. He just--" Iñaki bit down on the step of his pipe, and fancied he could feel the smoke rerouting itself to issue from his ears. "I hate people who are just mean," he muttered. She'd know who he was talking about--their father.

A funny little twitter of anxiety started in Esti's belly at the mention of smoking, but he was hurting and she knew it would help to ease the pain a little. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little nervous. She wished he wouldn't; she didn't want there to be another Warlord like Zeru. Esti went about cleaning the rag in silence, wringing it out over the bowl a little harder than was necessary and splashing herself in the process. While Iñaki lit his pipe, she went outside to dump the water into the grass, taking her sweet time before going back inside.

The scent of the datura hit her and she wrinkled her nose -- he hadn't smoked much, she knew, but the scent was distinct. Going to the other side of the tent, Esti gathered a flat plate made of wood and some fresh fruit, bread and cheese. As Iñaki talked, she drew a small knife from her belongings and began to cut the food for lunch, nodding quietly as she worked.

"I hate people who are just mean," he said, and it took a moment for Esti to realize what he meant. When she finally did, her focus wavered and she cut her finger as the knife slid easily through a ripe peach. "Ow," she muttered, sucking at the blood and cutting away the bloodied peach-skin. It gave her time to think -- should she defend her father? Should she agree?

"Did you ever see the interloper murroi-emazte, Iñaki? She's Izotz sem'Hibai's concubine. Father met her and he brought her to meet me. She said she found him very kind." There: change the subject.

"Father asked her to make a blanket for the baby."

Her knife slipped, and Iñaki's heart jumped to see the welling of blood against tender, dusk-hued canescent flesh. The peach's ripeness and the wavering delicacy of her fingers, whose bitten nails hearkened back to childhood--

Iñaki realized he'd started forward, his body canted toward her. He wanted to comfort her. But she'd already moved on, matter-of-fact enough. He settled back against his furs, wincing as pain overtook desire, and looked down at his pipe. Only the ghost of smoke drifted out, and he found it suddenly an unappealing prospect.

"An interloper, really?" he said, his eyes sliding away from his sister. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? I didn't know anyone else was running raids--except that one--oh, the Hibaii." He shook his head, adopting his best 'future Warlord's tone. "That won't do us again good with the Endikai. But then, now that their old Warlord's dead--" He was trying to make himself sound well-informed. "Uh, anyway. So does that mean Zeru's told more people about--" His gaze moved toward the loose gathering of Esti's tunic.

Esti very nearly cut herself again as she was slicing the last of the cheese and heard Iñaki's question. With a frustrated squeak, she sheathed the knife before tossing it aside and looking for a moment at her damaged hand. Flapping it flimsily, she picked up the bread and began to break it into hunks with her hands. "Yes, an interloper," she replied. "And really, I like her. She's very nice. She taught me how to make a new kind of braid and told me a story about an archer. It was nice, to spend time with another woman for once."

She didn't want to show too much outward affection toward Renna, for fear that people would look badly on Iñaki for it. But with her privately, and here with her husband, she could be kind. "They're the Izotzi now. Hibai's dead, apparently." Getting up, Esti brushed the dirt off her knees and picked up the tray, going to sit beside Iñaki. "I hope you don't mind -- I didn't sleep well, I felt too tired to make a stew. I'll make something nice for dinner tonight." She folded her hands in her lap quietly, because she was about to reach for a piece of fruit when she remembered that she was supposed to wait until he had eaten to take anything.

"No, he hasn't been telling. I don't know why he told Renna -- that's her name, Renna -- exactly. Except that he wanted her to make a blanket, but I think I'm just a fine weaver." Her brows furrowed as she glanced at the bed, where the blanket she'd woven for their wedding rested. It made her fingers ache just to look at it; she'd made colorful tassels and tied them onto the ends, which had taken days. "Maybe he thought I wouldn't want to make it a blanket."

Forgetting herself entirely in her thoughts, Esti absentmindedly picked up a slice of peach. She didn't realize what she'd done until she'd swallowed, and quickly looked at Iñaki, startled -- worried he hadn't eaten yet, worried he'd be angry.

"Don't worry," Iñaki said, frowning at the thought that she'd assume he cared if she ate first. "You need it more. I'm barely moving around at all as it is, it'll just make fat." He glanced ruefully down at his hollow chest. Gergori'd had no problem moving him around as if he were a child's doll. And now it would be another few days before he could even begin to get back on his feet.

"As for aita, here's what I think, I think he just had her make you a blanket to get at you--" Iñaki bit back the words. "We can't keep deluding ourselves about how he is, Esti. He may be a good Warlord, but I don't want to be like him."

Iñaki reached for a slice of peach himself, but he didn't eat it. Instead, he leaned forward, implying that she ought to take it in her mouth herself. It was kind of a mean thing to do, really--since he'd just said something that might anger her. But--childish, petulant--he wanted to make peace. "I'm only saying."

"I think he did it," she said, closing her mouth around the piece of peach and leaning back, "to -- thank-you. To tell me exactly what kind of mother he thinks I'm going to be." Esti crushed the peach between her teeth, tasting the fresh juice as it eked out of the battered flesh. The soft sweetness of it was a hard contrast to the bitterness of her words. "Ngh. Please, don't ever be like aita. I couldn't bear it."

She grimaced and offered Iñaki a piece of cheese, held delicately between two fingers, and when he had taken it, darted quickly forward to kiss him fleetingly on the lips. "And he's wrong, by the way. He's wrong, thinking I'm going to be a bad mother. Because I'm going to try not to be. Even though I don't... really like it yet, I don't think it's very fair to make the baby suffer just because I didn't plan on having it." A little piece of cheese, then a bite of bread passed her lips. One thing she was finding out quickly was that once she got started eating, it was harder and harder to stop.

"Besides, if it's going to be the future of the tribe then I guess we had better take better care of it than Zeru took of us, right?"

"Right." Iñaki nodded grimly, and settled himself on the edge of his bed, reaching occasionally for more food but chiefly watching his arreba-emazte. She looked so much older and more serious than she had that day by the riverbank; the first day he'd kissed her. A little tired and worn, but still beautiful.

"No, you're right. I don't want to favor one son over another. I don't want to care less about daughters. But what if--what if the same things happens that happened with us? Eh!" Iñaki shook his head. "It was Eguzki's will. We'll have to trust Him, since we can't trust aita. I won't be like him, amaite--I promise. I don't think I even could. We're too different from our parents. Maybe that's good."

He eyed the last wisps of smoke issuing from the pipe, and knew what she was thinking--but Iñaki had never overindulged in that. It made him weaker, and he really didn't need that.

"Mm." Esti made an approving noise, and neither of them quite connected the thoughts but she felt exactly the way he saw her, at that moment, even though she had no idea he was thinking it. A conundrum. But instead of dwelling on the constant, tired ache in her back and the stickiness of peach juice on her fingers, Esti leaned back on her hands and sighed. Her eyes searched her anaia-emaita; he too looked older, but less tired -- wiser, in a way. She could watch him change slow, day by day, and she liked it. Iñaki was still very handsome, even with one eye missing. And he was hers and hers only.

For now.

Something changed inside of her, and Esti wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Iñaki and cuddle -- a feeling any Zerui would be hard-pressed to admit to. A look at his bruises and scrapes, though, made her reconsider; she didn't want to hurt him. "I think it's good that we're different. Parents... parents want their children to grow up to be just like them, but I'm glad we didn't. If everybody was the same as their parents..." She shuddered and moved closer to Iñaki, but it wasn't because she was thinking about being just like Amaya.

Esti shuddered because she was thinking about having a daughter. A daughter that was a miniature version of herself.

Iñaki reached for her and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her body to him. He planted a kiss on her head, near the fragrant part of her hair.

"Oh, Esti. You're nothing like Amaya, and our child won't be like either of us, because children are themselves. Even Xanti wasn't exactly like Zeru. No one is exactly like Zeru, and no one is exactly like me--or you." It hurt to move, but the palliative pleasure of her skin against him made it more than bearable to draw her closer into the circle of his arms. "You're the only Esti."

Leaning forward, he kissed her nose, her cheeks, one by one, and her lips, carefully, his own lips still stinging from his beating. "And we're still young. I know Zeru says that all the time. I'll practice more, and get stronger. We'll crush the interlopers. We'll make peace with the Endikai. We'll strengthen our people, and then we can just be happy."

If only they could skip to the last bit. Iñaki thought he would be a very good peace-time leader, but in war? He'd try.

"And you'll be a good mother." It was funny how this reassurance worked. The more he told her the more conscious he was that his words might or might not be true. He felt dishonest. But it was what he had to say, and it would help to make what he wished for more true.

It was confusing to lead.

Esti enjoyed being kissed by him, but her smile quickly turned to a sour scrunch of her nose. She didn't like the idea of crushing anybody, really. And the last time Iñaki had gone up against the interlopers -- well, that was Mikel, not the Thiasans. And that was not going to happen again, because... Esti wasn't exactly sure why. But it wasn't. She wouldn't let it.

Renna had proven to her that the Thiasans and the Baskar could get along if they only tried. They could probably learn a lot from one another. It was ridiculous to think, mostly because the Thiasans were not going to sit down and try and learn from them -- they thought the Baskar to be barbarians, when really it was them who... but that wasn't going to help anything.

She reached up and placed her hands carefully behind Iñaki's head, cupping the nape of his neck under her interlaced fingers. "You're the only Iñaki," said Esti. "That's why I had to be with you." Ugh -- it was sugar-sweet, and not like her at all. But her hard core softened, and she melted, supple and warm, in his arms. She didn't have to be cool with him, didn't have to be aloof, didn't have to be anything except his wife. His arreba-emazte.

Esti bent forward, pressing feather-light kisses to his cheeks, the corners of his lips and eyes, the tip of his nose, the graceful, bird's-wing arch of his eyebrows. She smiled at him, her eyes hooded and flirtatious.

"What -- we're not happy now?"

Iñaki grinned and her, and pulled her close in a swift motion, unworried about what pain it caused.

"Very happy." He kissed her mouth, her cheek, and down to her throat, and pulled her toward him, tumbling them both onto the bed. "I love you." His body still hurt from Gergori's pounding, but her touch was worth far worse. "I love you, and I love our son--"

He froze, and covered up the gaffe with another kiss, his hands sliding down the rivulets of her rips to the alluvial hollows at the base of her spine. Maybe she wouldn't notice. And she hoped for a son, too. She wouldn't think he'd disapprove of her if she had a daughter, first. "I love you," he repeated, burying his face childishly in her hair, his hands resting on her hips.

Esti tumbled down onto the bed beside him, merry laughter ending in a whoosh of impact. Her chest rose and fell quickly, breathlessly; she smiled between kisses, made an approving noise. And she found she no longer remembered the beating he'd been given, apparently Iñaki had forgotten all about it, too. She knew in the back of her mind that if she was hurting him, he would tell her -- there had always been a safe. Even as children, when they would tussle in the horse fields, there was always a safe. One of them would say something.

"I love you, and I love our son--"

They both froze, simultaneously, though Iñaki was quick to recover, or rather, to cover. His lips silenced hers, but while Esti could feel the heat of his hands on her hips and wanted desperately to forget the slip and give in, she couldn't. "I love you, too," she murmured, kissing the bony ridge of his jaw, "but will you still love me -- and will you still love our son, if he's a girl?"

Even as she said it, she knew it sounded funny. But her head was muddled. She knew that Iñaki had said before that he wouldn't mind either way, boy or girl. Could he have been... no, that wasn't like him. Was the word 'son' reflexive, bred into Warlords, to put the son first and the daughter second? She didn't know. But she couldn't just let it go, and walk around wondering.

"If he's a girl he wouldn't be our son," Iñaki whispered, trying to defuse the moment with humor. "No, no, of course I won't care--" But he would. He was a coward. He'd care, because everyone would laugh at him and ridicule him, for being a weak sem'Zeru, only able to sire women. It was a peculiar stigma for a future Warlord's first child to be female, because it meant, among other things, that she would be older than her future husband.

"I don't care." He tried not to care. "Or at least," he added, at the bidding of his natural honesty, "at least I would never blame you if we had a girl, and I would love her despite what everyone thought..." Probably. But his arousal was seeping away, and he kissed her again, trying to get back in the mood. His hands fumbled for the hem of her tunic, seeking to lift it over her hips. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, between kisses.

She didn't believe him.

"They think what you think, Iñaki. You're going to be their Warlord. And if you love your daughters just as much as you love your sons, they will too." Esti had seen the way people fawned over Zeru, even though he could be a really horrible man. And it was because he thought himself great that the people considered him great, and it was because he thought Iñaki was nothing, and Iñaki reinforced it by thinking the same thing, that the people thought he was nothing.

His hands were tugging the hem of her tunic up over her hips, and he kissed her and said sorry, but Esti barely heard him. "They're like -- they're like sheep!" she sputtered, helplessly angry. "Like stupid animals, with no thoughts of their own. The Warlord might have the Ear of Eguzki," she looked at him pointedly, "but the rest of them have the Ear of Iñaki -- and if you believe you're not good enough to be Warlord, then they will too. So stop believing it!"

Well, that had really had nothing to do with children or love or anything of the sort, but it needed to be said.

Iñaki pulled away from his arreba-emazte, totally taken aback. She was right, of course. He had even thought the same things. But! Still!--he was offended, his infantile ego was crushed, and he wanted to shrivel up and die. She was younger than he was. She was his little sister, never mind his wife.

She probably was going to have a boy. The extra spirit in her was definitely male!

"Fine," he said shortly, turning his head away, all sexual energy dissipating into shame. "Fine!" He rubbed his forehead, and felt a twinge of pain coming from both battered eye-sockets. "But excuse me for caring about what people think--sometimes--when that sem'zakur just almost killed me! And we do need a boy! I need to know that Eguzki doesn't hate me! I don't have his Ear yet--my father does--and I don't know."

He let out a long breath and turns his face from her, trying to hold back the tears that welled in his one good eye, and stung.

oops. :ph43r:

She knew instantly that she had hurt him, and, in a way, she had meant to. He was crestfallen now, but Esti was sure that if he was given time to think about it, her words would only strengthen his convictions. "Iñaki," she said quietly, "listen. I only say so because I believe you're good enough to be Warlord. You're more than good enough. And I want you to believe it too, because I love you. I love you very much." Esti sat up on her elbows and let her hair hang loose around her face. She rolled onto her belly so she could talk to him, but found it too uncomfortable, and moved back to her side.

Still, his words -- And we do need a boy! -- stung like a slap. "I think I'd rather like to have a girl," she murmured sheepishly, sitting up. She thought of the tribe, of the babies that had been born, and the ones that had died, since last midsummer. More boys, she recalled, had been taken by sickness or the cold than girls. "A daughter to sing to, to make dolls for and braid her hair, and teach her to hunt and cook and weave... a daughter so you could chase the boys away..." She smiled, but she knew he wasn't in the mood for teasing or lighthearted talk. And she also knew that she shouldn't wish for a daughter, because he was right. They needed a son.

"A boy would be just as nice." Esti rubbed at her arm, but she didn't know if it was true. Little boys were always scrapping, and they were loud and dirty and always hurting themselves -- not that little girls were much cleaner, but she doubted it would be as easy to relate to a boy as it would be with a girl. She looked at Iñaki, but he wasn't looking back, and suddenly, she felt the nausea coming back. Pushing off the bed, she went to the fire and put on a pot of water, with goldenrod and maple in it, the recipe Renna had taught her to ease the sickness. Slumping to the ground beside the fire, she poked at it half-heartedly.

"When did everything get so hard?"

"When Xanti died," Iñaki muttered, rolling over to watch her. He wanted her to come back, and wished for the warmth of her body next to his, even if he wasn't in the mood for sex anymore. His eye moved over her body as she knelt beside the fire. She still looked tired and ill, all the time, and too thin, despite the slow expansion of her stomach. He felt like a horrible person.

"I'm sorry, Esti. I just said how I felt." If he was just going to get punished for whatever he said, whether honest or dishonest--! Then, really, what was the point of any of it? Petulance overtook compassion, but he fought it down.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry. Come back."

At the mention of Xanti, Esti felt her eyes begin to well up with tears. The realization sank in, slowly, that she had never actually cried over him, and at the same time, that she was not crying for Xanti even now. She whimpered, even as Iñaki apologized. "I didn't come over here because I was mad," she replied. "I came to make tea, because I don't feel well. And before now I wished it would die, Iñaki. I wished our child would die, because we're young, and I'm scared, and now that I've finally overcome that and want to love it, all I can think about are all the terrible things that might happen to it--! There are so many things..."

She shook her head, wringing her hands together. "It'll be winter when he's born. What if he gets too cold, or he gets sick with something, or there's not enough food for him? And babies are so little, I'm sure it would be so easy for him to fall into the river, or to get stepped on by a -- by a horse. Or for a wolf to carry him away." The water began to boil, and Esti took it off the fire with shaking hands, rubbing at her tear-stained cheeks. She poured herself a cup of tea, but just stared at the golden tea instead of drinking it.

"They put everything in their mouths," she mused, looking into the cup. "He could eat nettle and sting his mouth. Or datura -- or nightshade. And there's a -- Iñaki, there's a war going on! What if an interloper...?" She didn't finish the question, because it didn't really matter. Her worries really meant nothing now, but she couldn't stop herself from having them, and the more she said the better she felt. Esti wrapped her arms around her knees and held them tight to her chest, chin resting on one knee.

Biting back a groan at the sting of his wounds, Iñaki slid upright, his hands on his bent knees, looking at his arreba-emazte. Her worry was touching, and it made him ache somewhere inside. With pleasure--that she didn't have the product of their love, however ill-advised it had been at the time--and with horrible fear. Any of those things could very well happen. He, Iñaki, preferred not to think about them. But he felt so responsible for being a failure in every arena, it would be just exactly his way to kill his own child through negligence.

"Esti." He slid off the bed and moved to kneel beside her, his hands going around her waist to rest on the warm swelling where their child was growing. "And I will not let an interloper close to him, believe me. I've fought them! They're nothing." This bit of braggadocio at once thrilled and shamed him. As if this were about him, a blow at his ego. He lowered his lips to the softly straggling wisps of hair that had escaped Esti's braid, and kissed the back of her neck. "I love you. Everything will be fine."

It occurred to him, subconsciously, that he was glad she'd taken the fear back on herself. That probably it had been on purpose, to make him strong again. When he was weak, she was strong. When he was strong, she was weak. The only problem was they seemed to fight over who got to play the role of the weak one.

Esti slumped against her husband's side and sipped at her tea. The taste made her grimace -- the sweet maple she'd added made the tea taste better, and was good for her frequent headaches, but the goldenrod was stubbornly bitter beneath the sugary sweetness.

As she drank, she wondered if she and Iñaki would ever be equal in strength.

They seemed to play off one another, although as she thought this she was blissfully unaware of his thinking it, too. When he was weak, she had enough strength for them both, and vice versa. It should have made them a better couple, and it did; but at times, they were like children fighting over a prized toy, both preferring to sit back and let the other one be the stronger figure. She decided she'd rather not think about it, and placed one hand over his. Esti imagined that under his hands, in her belly, the baby knew that this was its father. That it smiled and sparkled and set off shooting stars in the galaxy of her womb, and was happy. She liked to imagine it this way.

Everything will be fine. I love you. Everything is fine. This had become the mantra of their relationship, a daily affirmation ritual that they passed back and forth to one another, traded like furs and crops.

"Iñaki," she said, looking him in the eye steadily, and without fear, "Having him... I could die."

"No!" Iñaki jerked upright, stiffly, his head pounding once again from the sudden movement. "No, Esti, I won't let it happen. We have all the best healers. You're the Warlord's daughter, and Eguzki favors us. He took Xanti so we could be together, I--"

Iñaki froze at what he'd said. He too Xanti so we could be together? Was that really the God he worshipped, the benevolent yet harsh Eguzki, whose words, he could swear, had come from his mouth on that one occasion when he'd faced down his father? It sounded so cold. Surely, Xanti's untimely death had been nothing but a terrible, tragic accident. It almost sounded as though he'd planned it, now, planned it like Mikel had planned his death. Mikel! He and Iñaki weren't so different. They both thought they knew what the God wanted, but they were ignorant, ignorant...

It was only a split-second pause. "--I couldn't live if you were gone, Esti. Don't even mention it. So many women have children and stay perfectly safe, even women who are smaller than you are." He neglected to mention the sizeable number of those who didn't. "And if it come to it..." He recalled grisly stories he'd heard some of the men tell about their wives. "If it comes to it, and I have to choose between you or the baby, I'll choose you. There are things they can do..." He shut his eye, leaning his cheek against the silk of her hair. "After all, He spared my life in the skirmish. He'll spare your life when your danger isn't even harming anyone, just bringing another person into the world--He has to!" Iñaki was aware he sounded like a foolish child who insisted that life was fair, but he believed it.

His reaction touched her; it was exactly the reassurance she had needed from him most. Esti brought her hand up to touch his face, resting against her hair. "I hope it never comes to that. I don't know if I would be able to choose for myself..." And the revelation that those unbidden words brought was amazing, as though she was standing on the brink of a ravine for a long time, and the thought of her own death had shoved her over the shining edge.

And she had landed on the other side to find out that there was never a ravine there at all -- only the soft, sweet, horse-scented grasses of her own meadow.

Esti was no longer just pregnant -- she was going to be a mother. And the mere consideration of whether she would give up her life for her child's, and the responding 'yes', was a welcome shock. "...I like..." she wasn't sure how to say it. "I like the name Txori for a girl. I don't really know about -- I think ama would want us to name a boy Xanti, but I don't know if I... want to." She kissed Iñaki's brow, resting their heads together so she could look at him, and smiled.

"I thank Xanti every day for the sacrifice he made, letting us be together like this. I love him for it. And if it was Eguzki's will, then it was -- and he was honored by it. I just don't want the tribe to have that reminder. Do you think?"

"Oh, I agree." Iñaki pulled Esti backwards into his arms, so she half-sat in his lap, and buried his face in the soft, warm skin between her neck and shoulder. "I don't think it's right, just yet. To make that kind of statement. I thought--Alesander or Aitor... or..." The second one was for him; it meant 'good father.' It would be a reminder, and a hope. "I like Aitor a lot. I like Zuzen." Fair; just--that's what he wanted from his son. "But I also don't want the name to be too big a burden. That's why Aitor is just right... I don't think you can expect more of a man than that he be a good father, or more of a woman than that she be a good mother... but we do. I'll have to be a Warlord one day. This will be practice, though. I think aita would be a better Warlord of he were a better father."

Iñaki sighed into Esti's hair. It wasn't, maybe, the best thing that the two siblings were united against their father. They ought, he thought, eventually to start building something new, some idea of how the Zerui would be when (if) they were the Iñakii. But maybe what was best was simply this; that they find balance, peace, and happiness with each other, and somehow let that be the beginning of things.

It was hard enough.

"It's silly, but I'm already thinking of what it'll be like, after I'm gone, when our people are the Aitori or the Zuzeni or--whatever. It won't be for years. But it's a nice thought. I think Father thought they'd be the Xantii, I think his heart was set on it. I can see why he's so sad. I can. I just wish he didn't think so little of me; even if I have ten sons, I'll try to love them all."

But that brought his thoughts around to the danger of childbirth again. If they were lucky, after she had one or two sons, Esti wouldn't be able to conceive any longer. The more children they had, the greater the chance of her death. Like his own mother. Iñaki sighed, and kissed the corner of her jaw.

Her eyes widened a little bit as it hit her -- they were actually talking about the baby, and what was more, they were talking about what they would name it when it came! Even young and ignorant Esti took this as a step in the right direction, and she cuddled up against Iñaki (ignoring his injuries) and smiled. "Zuzen is nice. Aitor... I like the sound of it -- Aitor sem'Iñaki. And you're right. You can't expect more of a man than that he be a good father to his children."

She tilted her head up like an owl, pressing a kiss to his lower lip, the closest thing she could reach from upside-down. "You'll be an amazing father, I can tell. Patient and kind, but firm -- and a worry-wart, like me..." Esti laughed. With all the worry she was feeling already, before the baby was even born, it would be all she could do not to kill her child with her over-protectiveness. "It's hardly silly to think about the future. I do it, too, though I have to say what I imagine isn't half so grand as what the tribe will be like when our son is Warlord. I just like to imagine, that Aitor will have my smile and your eyes, and be every bit as kind as you but without my nervousness. Or our daughter... I like to imagine her having my skin, because it would be unique to us... and your soft hair and strong jaw, and I would put her hair up in braids every single day and sew feathers and beads to all of Aitor's tunics, and... I don't know. It's silly, like you said, but it makes me feel better to imagine the good things, and not the bad ones."

"My eyes? It'll be worth losing one of them, to see two in my son or daughter." Iñaki pressed a kiss to his arreba-emazte's cheek once again, inhaling her scent until he got dizzy. It didn't hurt as much as it had to talk about the loss of his eye. The eye didn't hurt as much, either. And women still looked at him, despite his wasted body and scarred face.

Probably just because he was going to be Warlord, or seemed as though he would; but he didn't care, because Esti was enough for him. He only prayed to Eguzki she would survive childbirth. If only she weren't so young.

"It's still funny to think--sem'Iñaki. Alab'Iñaki. It doesn't sound right. I feel as though everything is moving so fast..." And not just this, but the war. Soon, sacrifice, which he would attend. He would stand just below the mound, and he would watch his father devour the beating heart... and he would pray that someday that would not be him. As for death--both he and Esti were in danger. She wasn't the only one whose bodily frailty worked against her. Iñaki was not made for war. He hoped so fervently for a son partly because if Esti had one, she would, at least, be safe from scorn if he died.

"I love you." He pulled her closer, twisting so they half-reclined together, his lips finding the curve of her neck, just below the ear. His words were plaintive. He was scared.

He wanted comfort.

"Right?" Esti smiled and leaned back against him -- her husband, she thought with a sigh. She nuzzled into his shoulder, her head cradled by the curve of his neck. "It sounds perfect. And I know things are going very quickly right now, but... it'll get better. I know it will. And..." She smiled, kissing the base of the scar as it ran, river-like, over his cheek. Iñaki's voice vibrated under her lips, and she giggled.

"I love you, too," she replied quietly, feeling his fear slowly seep into her. It was a tension, a tightening that began in her chest and worked its way down into her bones. And then it sat in her belly, where it began to curdle and boil. Esti reclined beside Iñaki, running her fingers through his hair in that soothing way her mother had always done. "Don't laugh," she whispered, teasingly, and then began to hum a tune:

"You will grow, until you go,
I'll be right there by your side;
even then, a whispering wind
will call me to you in the night.
I hear all the people of the world
in my one bird's cry.
I see them trying, every way that they know,
to make their spirits fly...

Can you see her?
Moonlight in her eyes,
coming from under my wing,
you were born to fly."