Born for Silk (The Cradled Common)

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Aster

It has been two weeks since my whole body crumbled in Rome’s arms. I let go of something inside… Something I have been trying to get back with each passing day.

Hope.

Hope that I can dance in my love for Rome like rain coating me in the chill of winter and put aside the certainty of watching Daisy and Blossom lose their babes…

And even me.

I know what he says—I will keep my baby—but I don’t know what that looks like. It is as foreign a picture as the ones I’ve seen of the Missing Moon.

A huge rock in the sky?

Surrounded by twinkling lights?

Sounds like a fairytale.

A baby in my bed? In a cot? In a hammock? Surrounded by strangers and on display?

Also a fairytale.

I have not been present. Not with my heart or my body, and my Rome has seen this. Felt it. He hunts until he is bloodied each day and gives me that beautiful feeling between my legs each night in the dark without words, but I am half there and half… Not.

I did find a little hope today; I was able to convince Ana to see the Windmill Forest with me.

Outside, red dirt stirs in the air.

Inside the tank, the machinery surrounding me vibrates, low but strong, sturdy and protective, like the growling that comes from Rome’s chest when he thrusts into me each night…

I ignore the longing.

Focus on the tank.

On Ana and Tuscany.

This is not my first time in a military vehicle, but it might as well be. I was dazed and feverish the first time, distracted, too. By Rome…

Feels like forever ago.

Rome sits in the centre of the great fortress, a square portal offering him a view of us. One he takes every chance he can.

I don’t return his heavy gaze. Can’t. Even as I feel the pain beating from his flesh, the distance I enforce affects him— me, too.

You took her baby.

If I look at him, I will show him the wrong emotions, the angry ones threatening to blast and incinerate. If I open my mouth to him, I will say hurtful things; he will let me cut into him, claw at him because I need someone to blame for this… injustice. This… painful reality.

It is his fault?—

And it isn’t.

He didn’t create The Trade, nor did Master Cairo. They only manage what was handed to them, both the product of thousands of years of generational conditioning. Like me.

And he is right—I do not know how to rule or what is best for a baby. It makes sense that a child is raised by a skilled, mature caregiver, but… No one will love my baby as much as I will.

Then again, love is not a virtue.

I cannot decide how to feel. Cannot decide what I want. So, I refuse to look at him.

My emotions are too raw. Like weeping flesh, I need time to self-heal.

Snuggling into Ana’s side and she into mine, I wrap my arms around my swollen belly as the tank moves up and down the terrain. We agreed to see today as a detail in the puzzle of our lives and will ourselves to appreciate it.

Appreciate the air which smells like oil and metal. The cramped but tolerable space we share with Tuscany and a member of The Queen’s Army.

Appreciate the working art of jumbled textures. Smooth metal surfaces, various viewports, firm, green seats, and woven straps that bind utilities to the walls. Tools. Gear.

It feels like a hidden realm.

We both like tanks.

The queen’s attention does not dwell inside the tank; instead, it is captured by the blasting Redwind outside. It howls. Whistles. Builds.

Her eyes are pinned to a viewing window.

“Are you nervous?” I ask her and feel Rome’s gaze again, as if the sound of my voice is an arrow, and his attention, the target.

A small smile touches her lip, and her amber eyes flick to the graft on my wrist before returning to my face. “Not with you here. I can be brave, too.”

“We are just entering the Aquilla Windmill Forest. Look through your periscopes,” a motorised voice says from somewhere further inside the tank.

With a big breath, I look through the scope that has a better viewing capacity to the ports. At first, I see nothing but Redwind, then?—

Then I see them.

The Windmills.

One after the other.

Encroaching as if they are inches away from colliding with the tank, but then gone in a blur of grey.

Awe fills my chest.

The first time I jumped into the pond at the Silk Aviary, eager to fish out a broken bird, the weightlessness of being in water that deep threw me into another reality. I remember it distinctly. The shift imprisoned my breath. And in the presence of this vast forest of powerful machines, that is how I feel.

Breath suspended.

Glee shapes my eyes.

I dart my gaze quickly between Tuscany and Ana, their attention fixed to the vision outside. Their expressions, soft and smiling, fill my heart with joy.

Healing—not healed. Merely taking a moment to appreciate a spectacular detail in the greater puzzle of The Cradle.

We watch the sky-scraping Windmills chew through the red haze; I don’t know how long we travel, from crown-light to last-light.

Time flies by.

But then?—

The tank suddenly slows.

I peer forward through the metal sections to find Rome with fierce brows set above dark eyes locked on me. Taking laps of my body from my hair to the swell at my hips, his stare is mine while his chin is turned. He listens to someone further down the giant machine.

His jaw muscles pulse.

Something is wrong…

Energy sparks. I don’t like it, but this could be irrational pregnancy senses, but?—

When Rome’s expression darkens, I realise I am not wrong. My pulse shudders in my neck. I feel I could cough up a butterfly.

Rome nods stiffly.

“There is a storm coming from due north, my queen,” the mechanical voice says, and Tuscany leans closer to the front. “We are unable to make it to the Upper-tower without hitting it head-on, so we will need to seek refuge.”

“The Trade-tower? Or follow the east coast to the Upper-Tower Port?” she asks.

My brows rise; shocked. I don’t know why I am surprised she knows the landscape. Of course, she does. Just as I know details about Rome, The Estate, the lords, and how to pleasure and provide.

She knows The Cradle.

Rome answers, his tone disturbingly even. “We won’t make it across the Red Decline before the storm hits. It is one risk”—he stares at me— "or the other.” I cannot read him. “We need to park the tank in a nearby Common community for the night.”

My eyes widen.

A Common community?

The Endigo boy’s face flashes in my mind, the stench, the meat, the wild unkempt scene.

I startle when a horrible, long scratch on the tank rooftop coils around my spine, near bringing bile up my throat. I stare up, surprised nothing has punctured the metal sheeting.

Another scratch.

And another.

Ana grabs my hand.

I turn to see her expression, eyes wide, dark hair tucked behind each ear. “Aster.”

“We will be fine,” I assure her.

“A Common community?” she whispers, before gazing at my swollen stomach. “You need to hide your belly.”

Another scratch.

Rome lifts from his seat, reaching a large arm up to unlock the hatch and standing until his head disappears through it.

“We know,” he growls. “Fly.”

Odio.

The tank veers, turning a hard left toward the west, the tracks eating at uneven terrain.

I’m looking out the viewport when a windmill comes out of nowhere— And another, and I realise we are travelling through the core of the Windmill Forest. No longer on a designated road.

Unable to keep my eyes away from him, I peer up to see his awaiting mine. Blue. Fractured blue. Far too turbulent, too menacing, to be peaceful and yet… I breathe deeply. At this moment, I realise Rome of The Strait is my gravity. The thing I seek when I am unsure. Steady ground beneath my feet. The light that guides me through uncertain darkness.

He is where I feel most safe.

If nothing else, that is hope.

“ My king…” I find my voice for him, a breathy cadence, in the midst of my nervousness.

“You’re safe, little creature,” he states. No— he declares, infallible in tone. I would hate to be the man or woman who challenges it.

I nod and gaze at the space between us with disdain, swiftly hating it as much as he seems to. But there is no room to move. We occupy the cramped metal fortress in its entirety.

A roaring wind engulfs the tank like a monstrous force attacking us.

I cup my ears.

Ana and Tuscany do the same.

Gripping my head, muting the gale, I look through the port. I blink.

It’s a dense, red vortex.

Spearing my gaze into the Redwind, I make out the shape of a building, quickly coming into view as we approach at a high speed. At the top of the building is a long barb and, atop it, a symbol…

We get closer.

I squint?—

It’s a cross.