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Petra tries to think of what she will say to him. It is such a tender, sensitive subject, and it is only made more delicate with Ashe’s love for the written word. His cult have been known to write sonnets and poems, retelling of his labours and sing them on the seventeenth night of the Wyvern Moon, throwing violets into a flaming hearth.
Petra vividly remembers the first time they did that, and how gold his face went, shimmering with a blush from the ichor that flows through his veins. The memory, even now, brings a smile to her face.
She shakes it off, trying to focus on the issue at hand. How can she phrase such important news to a man who handles his words with more care than a wine-bearing kylix?
There will be another joining us soon. It sounds too vague, may even set him on edge for intruders.
I am expecting. That’s much too forward and would probably frighten him.
The pantheon will welcome a new deity. Is too wildly formal; it is the phrase she would use at court, not before her husband.
Her eyes lift to the coastline that spreads before her, her husband, Ashe, still paying tribute with those silly violets that flourish at his touch, growing wildly to try and reach them.
No doubt he’d make a great father. She glimpsed him at the celebration of his apotheosis with the little goddess of spring, lifting her onto his feet to dance with her. He was so attentive, so gentle and kind with her. And he has been so kind to his siblings, always doting on them and granting them every earthly desire.
Her mind begins to wander towards the future, of what lies ahead in the hands of the Moirai. A god or goddess? Will their temple be here or far off? What will they carry patronage over?
Petra controls all the water in the land; Ashe is the patron of archers, devotion and determination. What can their future child pull from that—
“Petra, are you alright?”
Ashe has left the salty sea behind for her. His hands find her face.
The goddess meets her husband’s gaze and nods. “Yes, I am fine,” She says.
“Were you staring off at the sea?”
She smiles, taking him into her arms, relishing the feeling. “No, I was staring at you.”
Ashe, still a shy mortal at heart, blushes gold. He kisses her cheek. The waves lap at the shore gently, rolling up the sand in gentle spurts. His eyes turn to the salt, sand and shore, and Petra, as mesmerized as she was when she first saved him from the deep, stares at him.
Before thinking, she lets it slip.
“There will be an addition to the temple.”
Ashe turns his gaze back to her, his brow knitting. “Really? Have my siblings asked to come back?” He asks.
Petra shakes her head, her gold veil tinkling with the movement.
“Is Dorothea coming to visit?” Lower—with mild displeasure—he adds, “With Sylvain?”
“No, they will not be visiting.”
His brow furrows. Dense as ever. Petra takes his palm and rests it over her stomach. His brow furrows further before realization dawns on him.
“You’re…” His voice is so thin and quiet.
Petra smiles and nods. “Yes.”
The god scoops her up in his arms, taking her by surprise. She lets out a happy laugh, pressing her forehead to his as he cries happy tears.
And, months later, Astra, the goddess of the rainbow and patron of travel is born, the thrashing waves heralding her arrival.