In Which Tarien Isn't in the Mood

February 13, 1185

Tarien, as a man, knew only two things about the process of childbirth. The first thing was the only part that had ever involved him--that was, conception and how it came about, mysterious internal processes aside. The second was that it was dangerous, and sometimes women died.

And sometimes, not even the best of midwives could do anything about that.

He hadn't had to ask. He'd known when Arydath walked in the door, some hours later than he might have expected for a fourth-born if he could make an uneducated guess. He'd known when she stared at the ground, struggling not to blink, no more than a breath of "It's a boy" before she'd retreated to the bedroom. It had been hard enough with Asalaye, a woman who had almost--almost--been her daughter-in-law.

And not a month later, now it was her daughter.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No."

He could have guessed. But she'd appreciate him asking, in so much as she could appreciate anything right now.

He made for the alcove and joined her on the couch, mindful not to touch her; twelve years of marriage was long enough to know she wasn't one for touching she didn't initiate, and that went double for when she was upset. Triple for... well, grieving.

"Is there..." Was there what? There wasn't anything he could do, not to make it better. "If there's anything you want taken care of..."

"I don't want to think right now."

Fair enough.

He wasn't in much of a thinking mood either.

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