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“The wine tonight is exquisite!” Ogedei’s voice clamors through Toregene’s yurt, the scent of mare’s milk following quickly. Shame. She’s usually fond of wine, but the thought of drinking with her husband is abhorrent, and the fermented aroma currently did not agree with her senses.
Ugh. His nightly visits have been frequent as of lately, and are even more annoying when he isn’t of sound mind. But she supposes it’s only natural. She is bearing his child, after all.
Ogedei waves the bottle in his right hand and reveals two cups in his left. He takes a seat on a cushion next to Toregene near the hearth, sets the two cups down and pours them both. Toregene prepares herself to refuse the drink, but Ogedei instead chugs each container with a frightening speed.
The action is not completely unexpected, but Toregene is so perplexed that she almost lets out a laugh. That is, until she remembers who her companion is and where her hatred stems. Still, there are some moments where she is reminded that Ogedei is only a bit older than her, where he still acts like a boy–full of drink and laughter and impishness.
But that boy was the son of a conqueror, one who destroyed her livelihood, the potential future she once had. How cruel it is that he is still human.
Instead of giving him delight, she looks away. Chuckling, Ogedei sets the cups aside and collapses along with them. “I know you probably don’t want to drink with me, but how wonderful it is to spend the night with you.”
Wonderful? She could laugh again, but out of a different feeling. She may have been bearing his child, but what was this union other than politics? Than the conqueror doing his diligence of spreading his seed to his conquered? There are times when she has had to swallow her pride to stomach being in the same room as him and all other Mongols.
Ogedei’s hands sneak under Toregene's robes to her stomach. His hands are cold from the wintry night air, making her shiver. He rubs his cheek against her protruding belly and hums.
“I hope our baby grows up healthy and strong.” That was something they had in common, at least. Perhaps the only.
Ogedei’s first child. The shamans predicted that Toregene would bear a son, and apparently Toregene’s physique reflected such. Her stride was long and despite the usual symptoms of pregnancy, Toregene felt surprisingly vital. The strength that signified a boy. Ogedei’s smile was never-ending when he walked alongside her, and it seemed that for once the other members of the royal family and the rest of the steppe regarded her with a semblance of respect.
How unlucky she was. This newfound honor also reminded her that she had fulfilled her duty of being a mare. She could feel Kirgistani glare daggers down her neck whenever Ogedei escorted Toregene anywhere, that she had been the first to bear fruit. Perhaps a target had been set on her back.
And, the foreboding question: would she love her child? Toregene does worry about its eventual birth. Though the drunken fool beside her earned her rage, this child would be her flesh and blood. Would she also carry that hatred for him, even if half of him would remind him of her pain and her loved ones lost?
…No. She has already decided that she would not carry her hatred of her husband to her children. Even if this child was a Mongol, he would also be a Merkit, a Naiman, another one in the world that was too cruel to them. If anything, she would protect him from those who thought he was a traitor by birth.
The first son. The eldest, the wisest. She would help him grow… and maybe, he would share her desire for vengeance and make living in this world easier.
“Thank you, Toregene. For being my wife.”
Toregene almost blushes when Ogedei looks up at her and interrupts her from her inner thoughts. His smile is so full of warmth that she almost forgets her hatred for him. They almost feel like a normal husband and wife as she huffs at his affection, tells him he's a babbling drunk. They almost share a quiet understanding as she strips off her outer robes, helps him get comfortable, and they soon lay in rest side by side.
She doesn’t roll to the farthest edge of the bed mat, for once. It would make her stomach uncomfortable, she justifies. “...Don’t vomit in my presence.”
“Oh Toregene,” Ogedei chuckles. He doesn’t invade her space, for once, rather settling on stroking the ends of her braid and basking in her compliance. He was so charmed by her–the anger in his eyes when they first locked gazes, her stubborn defiance in every small action. Her girlishness in the intimate moments they shared, and her hymns to their child when she thinks no one else is listening.
They are still young. She has time to grow fond of him, and even if that would never be true, he likes her hatred, too.
He hoped that her eyes would keep burning like the eternal hearth. She would always keep life interesting. “How kind you are.”