In Which Meraleene Is Held

June 12, 1193

There was a distinct, almost supernatural connection between twins--Meraleene knew this for a fact. Not all twins felt it, likely because not all twins believed in it, but Meraleene did and did, both because of the other and yet independently all at once.

She knew when Renata was happy, when Renata was angry. When she was jealous, relieved, crushed. Based on her sister's good timing over the years, Meraleene got the sense that the unspoken intimacy was mutual--but she'd never asked, because she'd never had to.

She ought to have this time, though. She should have written Renata months ago, asked if she wanted her to come to Dovia, just to be by her side. But, she hadn't wanted to upset her.

It was too late now. Meraleene knew, but the soul-sucking emptiness she sensed in her twin a kingdom away, that her sickly niece had finally succumbed. A letter would arrive any day now, but Meraleene didn't need it.

"I'm sorry." Her husband, at the foot of the bed. She'd scarcely noticed him. She doubted he was the type to believe in her and Renata's bond, but he hadn't said anything in the four days since the passing had occurred. Now that his beloved Riona was a grandmother, he seemed to have finally resolved to get over her. That, to Abrich, had meant an attempt at ideal husbandhood, or what he saw as that.

Meraleene didn't not appreciate it, she supposed.

"Can I sit with you?"

She shrugged. He took the invitation tentatively, but joined her nonetheless.

"I... I don't know what it is to lose a niece or nephew, but I do know loss." He did. His stepfather and his sister, mere months apart. "If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"Thank you." Meraleene closed her eyes, trying to picture how her niece might have looked in her final months. She'd last seen Cladelia when she was four; the girl was nine now, or would have been. She'd taken more after Jadin than Renata, which was a blessing and a curse all at once.

"Would you like me to hold you?"

It was the first time he'd asked her that. Obviously, in thirteen years and three children later, they'd had some physical contact, but it had been of the dutiful, obligatory variety, more of a chore than any pleasurable pursuit on either of their parts. Neither of them had 'liked' any of it.

But, right now, an arm around her would have been nice. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I don't." He may have been trying to convince himself just as much as her. But, today, she supposed she appreciated the effort. "You're my wife. You're the mother of my children. I don't mind at all."

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