In Which Farilon Is Weighed

January 8, 1188

"I know it's rough now, but you'll feel better when the birth is over."

Lonriad neither looked nor sounded too convinced of his own statement. Farilon's mother had invited his brother-in-law to sit with him so he could have the benefit of a man who was already a father, but Farilon doubted Lonriad had been the best choice. His daughter had died young, and his son was just as sickly and likely wouldn't live too many more years, even with the benefit of a royal upbringing. Riona was pregnant with their third child, due in May; Lonriad was probably more occupied with his own upcoming baby that he ever could have been with Farilon's.

Not that Farilon blamed him. He may not have understood the worry over sickly children, but he got now--he'd got when Danthia had told him--that a pregnancy could weigh heavily on the mind.

In Farilon's case, it was worry over what Danthia planned to do with the poor child--and how she might take it if it dared be a girl. "I guess..."

"I hope so." His brother sighed. Conant was in Dovia for the university's winter break, as was Lily, currently assisting. Not that the eternal optimist Conant was much help either. "You'll be a great father, bro."

"I don't know..."

"You would, though. Especially to a little girl, I think." Given how much Danthia wanted a boy, he guessed he'd have to be.

"You think?"

"I know. You were always so good with our nieces. Our nephews too, but especially our nieces."

He must have just been saying that. Farilon couldn't recall being much different with his nieces than his nephews, nor had he been a particular favorite. He hadn't been disliked, but he hadn't been liked either. Fittingly with the rest of his life, he'd just happened to be around.

Who knew if someone as insignificant as he was would ever be enough for a kid.

"Maybe..."

"Farilon?"

His mother--fresh from the birthing room, baby in arm. "Someone wants to meet you."

A nudge from Conant and he stood. The polite thing to do would be to inquire about Danthia, but he just couldn't manage it. What sort of father couldn't work through his distaste for his own child's mother? What sort of horrid example would that set? "Oh?"

"Yes. Come hold her."

Her. Farilon stepped forward, both relieved and dismayed. If he didn't have a son, then Danthia couldn't wreck him. If he had a daughter, then he'd spend the rest of his life making up for her mother.

She was so small. So delicate, so full of potential. How did he go about doing this? Not breaking her?

"She's... she's beautiful."

His mother nodded. "She is."

"Congratulations, bro," Conant chipped in from the bench. "Your first child."

"Actually..." His mother smiled, and not one she meant to be malicious. But why then did that pit of dread weigh down his stomach? "She's his second child."

Second? "Mother...?"

"Alas, it'll be a while before Danthia lets your son out of her sight."

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