Chapter 23 #2
I nod, but my body stays frozen, dumb and stiff as stone. Only when the silence stretches long enough to bruise do I turn on my heel and cross to the sad little hammock in the corner.
I strip with more drama than necessary. Shrugging off my shirt and throwing it over the chair, yanking my belt free with a sharp snap. I kick off my boots louder than I need to, glancing at Amara between each move, but she doesn’t look at me once. Not a flicker.
With a quiet curse, I pull off the last of my gear and stare down the hammock like it’s an enemy formation. I’ve commanded fleets, conquered cities, survived the void, and yet climbing into this damn thing might be my undoing. I grip both sides, brace myself, and hurl my body at it.
It sways violently. My arms flail. My dignity dies a swift, merciless death.
Finally, it steadies.
A soft giggle escapes from Amara.
It’s faint. But it’s something. I cling to it like a lifeline.
Still, the words spill from me, uninvited and unforgivable.
“I noticed your nightgown was wet,” I say. “Did you go below deck? To see him?”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. The shame of even asking knots my throat. But I hear her heavy, exasperated sigh.
“I did,” she says flatly. “Am I not allowed?”
I shrug, the hammock groaning beneath me. “He’s dangerous. Our prisoner. I’m just not sure why you’d want to see him.”
She doesn’t answer.
Only the sound of our daughter nursing, the soft rhythmic pull and swallow, fills the room between us.
I clear my throat, trying to pretend this doesn’t matter to me. Trying and failing.
“Well,” I say, with a cough. “Why do you want to see him?”
“Husband,” she says at last, but it sounds more like a reprimand than a vow. “Does it matter?”
I shift in the netting, trying to get comfortable, but it’s like curling into barbed wire.
It does matter. Gods, it matters more than anything. But I can’t say that. Not if I want her to look at me again. Not if I want to be allowed within three feet of her heart.
“No,” I lie. “You’re right. It doesn’t. I trust you.”
That earns a dry, mocking scoff. “Oh, do you?” she mutters. “Well thank you so much for trusting me, considering I’m not the one who tried to sacrifice the other to a demon god. Goodnight, Daedalus.”
And just like that, she blows out the candle. A soft whoosh, and the room is swallowed by shadow.
Silence creeps in. The hammock rocks with every breath I take, every regret I cradle in my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, wide awake.
I don’t think that could have gone any worse.
I may be a prince. A commander. A legend in battle.
But when it comes to being her husband, I am endlessly, irreparably, fucking lacking.
The sea is fickle this far out. Some mornings break clear and blue, the sun gilding the waves with gold, so bright it almost blinds.
Other days come in gray and low, with wind that claws through the sails and rain that drums like war on the deck.
On those days, everything is soaked. Boots, mood, spirit.
We make steady progress, but each day stretches long.
Amara and I speak little. What we say is often about our daughter, nothing more. She keeps her voice soft when she hands me the child, keeps her hands from touching mine. I hold the baby close, trying to memorize her warmth, her smell, the small sounds she makes when she wakes in my arms.
I carry her on deck when the sun is gentle. Show her the sea. Point to gulls. Tell her stories of leviathans and cloud serpents and all the things that once lived out here. Her eyes, still too young to focus, seem to follow the sway of the sky.
Amara watches from a distance, sometimes. Sometimes she doesn’t.
One night sleeping apart folds into several, without discussion or apology.
Each night, I return to the hammock.
Each morning, my back aches and my pride aches worse.
I bring her food. Fresh water. An extra blanket when the wind cuts cold. She accepts them all with polite nods, never cruelty, never warmth. I wonder if I should be grateful for the courtesy.
One afternoon, I find her lingering outside the door to the brig, where the Golden Son is chained like a dog.
She doesn’t go in. Just… lingers. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides. Her hair whips in the wind, loose and wild, her back rigid and tense.
She turns before I can call out to her.
Later, I pass by again and see her there. Again.
She never speaks of it.
And I never ask.
Once, I try. I brush her shoulder gently as she passes me on the stairs.
“See him if you must,” I say, reluctantly giving permission if that is what she needs. Anything to bring her some semblance of joy.
She looks at me then, not with anger, but with exhaustion. Like I am something she once loved, now worn threadbare, and then she’s gone.
I throw myself into the rhythm of the ship. I spar with Zyphoro on the upper deck, play dice with Reon, watch Orios train Solena, oil my weapons, scrub the rust from my old gauntlets. Anything to move, to sweat, to keep from looking at that closed door to the brig.
Our daughter grows more alert each day, a miracle I do not deserve. I sing to her, quietly, at first, then louder when I realize Amara doesn’t mind or maybe just doesn’t hear me. I’m sure my daughter is smiling, but Solena is always quick to point out it’s most likely just gas.
Still, I treasure those smiles like hoarded treasure.
Especially as each time I glance up, hoping to see Amara smiling, I find nothing but her turned back or worse, her empty absence.
The nights are the hardest. Not because of the hammock, not anymore.
But because I am beginning to understand something I didn’t before.
That you can be on the same ship, breathing the same wind, caring for the same child and still be drifting apart in every way that matters.
That night, after Amara blows out the candle, I wait in silence, listening to her breath even out, slow and deep.
Once I’m certain she’s asleep, I slip from the hammock and onto the floor, moving quietly.
When Ashen stirs at the foot of the bed, I shoot him a sharp look.
He blinks but stays still, sensing this isn't a moment for mischief.
I don’t go to my sister. I don’t seek out my companions. I head straight to the door that’s haunted me for days. The brig.
The wood creaks beneath my boots as I descend the narrow staircase.
The air turns colder. A lantern swings from a hook overhead, casting weak gold light that sloshes back and forth like dirty water, revealing little but shadows and damp walls, barrels, crates.
Then, in a sudden sway of light, I see him.
Ronin.
Asleep and slumped against the wall.
I step closer, the wet floor slapping under my boots. The ship groans around me, hiding the sound of my approach. My eyes catch a broken plank propped against a crate, and for a heartbeat, I consider it. One strike to the skull. Quick. Clean. Done.
But I leave it.
Because as much as I want him dead, he’s still the only man who might understand what’s happening to my wife. And right now, that makes him useful.
“Is this it?” His voice cuts the silence, hoarse but steady. “Is this how I die?”
He lifts his head and looks at me with one open eye. Calm. Curious.
“Sneaking up on a chained man. I thought you had more honor than that.”
I step closer. “It’s the best way to kill an enemy.”
He cracks a grin. “I figured you’d want a fair fight.”
“Chains or sword, the end’s the same. Me standing over your dead body.”
His grin widens. “So, we’re doing this now?”
“I don’t need you to bleed tonight. Just to talk.”
The Golden Son groans. “I think I would prefer to bleed.”
“Amara,” I say, and that does it.
His whole body tenses. His gaze snaps to mine.
“What about her?” His voice is sharp. “Is she hurt? The baby…?”
“They’re fine.”
His shoulders ease, and he slumps back against the wall. “Then what?”
I hesitate.
The words are hard to find, or maybe it’s just the pride I have to kill to say them. But if I can bleed for Amara, if I can kill for her, then I can damn well humble myself too.
“She won’t speak to me,” I say, flat and honest. “She barely looks at me. I don’t know what I’ve done.”
I pause, jaw tight, breath shallow.
“Tell me the truth.” My voice drops. “Is there something between you? Has she… chosen you?”
The silence that follows crackles. His face is unreadable, maddeningly blank, and the longer he holds it, the more I want to take him up on his earlier offer. Make him bleed.
Just when I’m ready to snap, he speaks.
“No,” the Golden Son says. “She hasn’t chosen me.”
Relief hits so hard my knees nearly give out, but doubt is a stubborn thing.
“How can you be sure?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound.
He dips his head, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Because in the void, when we were alone in the dark, when she was shaking from pain and that thing reached for her from the shadows, it wasn’t my name she screamed.”
His words soothe something raw in me, like a balm over a wound I hadn’t let myself touch. But there's a gentleness in them too, one he didn’t owe me.
“Then why won’t she fucking look at me?” I mutter, staggering back to lean against a barrel.
He snorts. “For someone who’s lived centuries, you’re dumb as shit.”
I glare, but he’s not done.
“Instead of skulking down here, why not just ask your wife what’s wrong?”
The simplicity stuns me. I search for something, anything, to say.
He raises an eyebrow. “You did think of that, right?”
I jolt upright, squaring my shoulders like an idiot caught off guard.
“Of course I did.”
He nods. “Good. Then maybe you can repay my wisdom with a bit more bread. I’m wasting away down here.”
I consider it. Grudgingly.
I give a curt nod, then turn on my heel and leave him in the dark.
Tomorrow, I’ll ask her. Tonight, I’ll prepare for the answer.