The sun spilled soft over the slopes of Ida, warm on your shoulders, stirring the grass into a sleepy shimmer. Ahead, the sheep moved slow, unhurried as clouds, their bells a lazy hush over the hillside, and you walked beside Alexander in silence, his shadow brushing yours when he stepped close. He had been humming—some old lullaby he'd half-remembered in sleep, tuneless but earnest—and the sound of it fluttered in your chest like a startled bird.

The way his curls caught the light, wind-tousled and golden, the quiet joy that softened his face when he turned to look over his shoulder at the herd. He had not yet seen the way your hands lingered over your stomach lately. Had not noticed the way your paused when the wind caught your differently, when the scent of blooming thyme made your eyes burn without reason.

But he would. You stopped walking.

Alexander took another two steps before realizing you were no longer beside him, then turned, brows lifting in silent question. There was a smear of grass on his sleeve, and the hem of his tunic had been tugged loose from his belt. He looked like joy made flesh. Like spring itself had chosen to be a man and sing nonsense to the hills. You felt your throat tighten, said his name quietly.

He blinked at you. His smile tilted, puzzled. “Yes?”

“There’s something I need to tell you," you said, along those lines. And his head tilted, the sheep momentarily forgotten, voice gentler now. “Oenone?”

A breath. You pressed a palm flat to your belly. Only three words, barely a whisper—

“I’m with child.”

For a moment, nothing moved. The hills held their breath. The sheep paused, as though the earth itself leaned in to listen. Alexander stared, in disbelief, surprise etching lines into his features.

Then he laughed—a startled, disbelieving, radiant sound. And dropped everything.

The shepherd's crook fell, half-lodged in the grass. He crossed to you in three steps, maybe less, eyes wide, shining, unbelieving. Hands captured yours, gentle, reverent, like he feared you might vanish if he touched too hard.

“You—” His voice cracked around the words. “You mean—ours?”

You nodded, breath stolen by the wonder in his face. His grin bloomed like firelight. “Oh, Oenone, Oenone—gods—”

And then he was kissing your hands, both of them, warm lips brushing across your knuckles, your fingers, your wrist.

"A child. Our child. Can you believe—? You’re going to be—” He broke off, laughing again, wild and soft all at once, forehead falling to rest against your own. “A mother. And I—me—”

Alexander's hands took your face now, thumbing away tears you had not realized had fallen. “I love you,” he breathed, fierce, sudden. “I love you more than there are stars over Ida. I swear it, I swear it by everything I have, everything I’ll ever be—”

His eyes gleamed. “He’ll have your fire,” he said, “or her—” A breathless laugh. “They. I don’t care. Let the gods decide. I’ll sing lullabies so loud the wolves will weep. I’ll build them a cradle with my own hands. I’ll name every flower on this mountain if they want a crown!”

Alexander, herdman and lover, fool and beloved, was still beaming like the sun had risen just for him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yes. I'll do it. I'll do all of it—my sweet Oenone, my love."