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"The foal will likely be born tonight," Frederick says. "I do not expect my love to sit up with me, but I ask your forgiveness if I need to forsake my duties as a husband tonight."
Rosella looks at him across the breakfast table, and then her expression brightens when she realizes his indirect invitation.
"I'll come," she says. "I've never seen a horse being born before."
"It will be a long night," Frederick warns, but he feels warmed by the notion that she wants to join him. He looks forward to the birth of new potential warhorses more than he looks forward to the birth of most people, and to have his wife by his side would be most wonderful.
"Horses are still scary but I love them just for you," Rosella says brightly. "Can I name the baby?"
He pauses.
Frederick has named every single one of his warhorses, and he has seen the birth of most of them, too — he would be a fool not to be so involved in the care and training of the creatures that carry him into battle, the creatures that are fearless even under the thrust of spear and the cries of the dying. His knighthood has only been possible in the service of such fine creatures, and it is only right to see them into the world and christen them, especially when he so often sees them off to the next when they die beneath him, in his service. Frederick cares a great deal about these noble beasts, and naming them is near sacred.
That and he knows exactly the kind of ridiculous names she'll come up with.
"Perhaps," he says, to her evident disappointment — her simplest pleasures are the most dear to her, at times. "There is convention, my sweet, and it must suit a horse as much in battle as at home. It must speak to his noble purpose, and impress upon his enemies that he is born for warfare."
"Well," Rosella offers, "can I name it if it's a girl?"
"A mare?" A subtle correction, but a distinct one.
"Yeah," Rosella says. "You don't train the mares for battle, do you?"
"I do not," Frederick says. "But if a mare bears a son who I ride into battle, should she not have a name befitting her station, too? As the mother of a champion?"
Rosella laughs, and though Frederick finds himself a touch exasperated, he does not think it cruel of her. That's just her nature: she rides a griffon with a great cruel beak and a fearsome set of claws, one she has named Lady but has dozens of high-pitched, baby-talk nicknames for. She loves her mounts like pets more than beasts of burden, and she cries with wild abandon when they are injured. (Frederick has never wept once for a horse. There is no weeping for those who die in the line of duty, after all.)
"I like Apples," she says. "For the baby horse's name."
"Apples," Frederick repeats.
"Yeah," she says.
"No," he says.
She laughs again, louder, and then she leans her elbows on the table to rest her chin in her hands. She's playing at being cute. She's good at it.
"Or Haybale," she says. Now he knows she's teasing him, finding the most quaint, childish names she can. Freddybear and Horsey-worsey, he expects her to sing. "Bale for short."
"Apples," Frederick repeats, still stuck a step behind. "Apples, sired by Dauntless out of Marengo."
"It's cute," she says. Of course she thinks so. "How about it, though?"
She stares him down with a big smile on her face, and he insists to himself that he will not capitulate, he will not agree to such a preposterous name for a horse that should be named for the great destriers of history. He will not crumble, his resolve will not fail him, but her eyes are so large, and she is his charming wife, and her words are like honey to him--
And five years later, there he is, still astride a great black warhorse named Apples.