Chapter 21 - say please
For a long moment after he finishes speaking, after the last of his words settles into the quiet and refuses to leave, I find myself unable to move, unable to breathe properly, unable to do anything except sit there beside him and feel the weight of everything he has just given me.
The clearing does not feel the same anymore.
It is no longer simply a place tucked away from the rest of the world, no longer just a quiet patch of earth beneath a sky that has watched too much.
It feels sacred now, as though grief itself has taken root here and grown into something too vast to disturb without consequence.
The moonlight spills gently across the stone, softening the carved name without erasing it.
Achilles sits beside me like a man divided, one part still caught in the past, still kneeling at the edge of a wound that never closed, and the other stubbornly alive, refusing to surrender entirely to something that has already taken too much from him.
I can still see the remnants of it on his face, the faint shine of tears not yet fully dried, the quiet exhaustion that follows the kind of honesty most men never allow themselves.
And I have no idea what to do with it.
I want to say something. I want to comfort him, to offer something meaningful, something that might ease even the smallest fraction of the weight pressing against his chest. But every word I consider feels too small, too weak, too easily broken beneath the reality of what he has lived through.
So I stay quiet. I sit with him in that silence, letting it stretch, letting it breathe, even as it begins to suffocate me.
"What's in the box?"
The words land so abruptly that they almost feel unreal.
I blink, startled out of my thoughts, and turn toward him slowly, convinced I must have misheard.
But I didn't. His gaze is fixed on the long, dark-wrapped box I had set beside the tree, his expression sharpened with unmistakable curiosity, as though grief has.
.. stepped aside for a moment, making way for something more interesting to enter his reach.
"Oh," I say, the sound leaving me softer than intended.
"That is not an answer," he replies immediately, his tone already edged with impatience.
"It's nothing," I try, though even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds.
"It is clearly nothing."
I hesitate, my fingers curling slightly in my lap. "...it's your birthday gift." I expect resistance. I expect discomfort. I expect something quiet and heavy to return to his expression.
Instead
He lights up.
It is not subtle. It is not restrained. It is immediate and almost jarring in its intensity, like a completely different part of him has taken control without warning. His entire focus shifts, locking onto the box.
"...do you want it?" I ask carefully.
He turns his head toward me with slow disbelief, like I have asked the most ridiculous question imaginable. "Why would I not want it?"
"Well..." I gesture vaguely toward the grave, toward everything that just happened, toward the quiet ache still lingering in the air. "The fact that we are currently sitting beside your brother's grave..."
He waves a hand dismissively toward the stone without even looking at it. "The bastard is dead. Do not use him as an excuse to deny me, my gift woman."
I stare at him.
"But you were..."
"Gift," he says loudly, interrupting me
"Achille, this isn't.."
"Gift," he says again, not breaking eye contact with the box
"How do you do that, change your emotions so quickly ?"
"Woman, my gift," he says, as though that explains everything. "I also want my gift. preferably for this birthday and not the next one ."
I blink slowly. "...you are unbelievable."
"I am efficient. Now gift"
I let out a quiet breath, reaching for the box again, but something stops me. A thought. Small. Sharp. Curious. I pull the box back instead.
"...no."
The shift in him is immediate.
"...no?" he repeats, his voice lowering slightly.
"Ask nicely."
His eyes narrow. "I i hope you're not insinuating I beg because i do not beg."
"Well, today," I say sweetly, tilting my head just enough to make it clear I am enjoying this. "Will be the day you try something new ."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he might refuse entirely, might stand there in stubborn silence and let the moment pass to prove a point. Instead, he exhales slowly through his nose.
"...pretty please," he mutters, flat and unconvincing.
I smile wider.
"That's not enough."
"...excuse me?"
"I would like a speech."
The groan that leaves him is immediate, low, and deeply offended. He drags a hand down his face as if reconsidering every decision that led him here. "You are being cruel for no reason."
"I'm waiting."
He stares at me, long and hard, before finally straightening slightly, resignation settling into his posture.
"Fine," he mutters. "Ophelllia may be..."
"on your knees."
The silence that follows is almost comical in its intensity.
"...excuse me?" he says slowly.
I smile.
"You heard me on your knees."
He stares at me like I have lost my mind. "You cannot be serious."
I don't answer.
I don't need to.
I look at him.
Wait.
The groan that follows is louder this time, heavier, filled with long-suffering irritation. "If anyone ever finds out about this," he mutters, lowering himself anyway, "I will burn this kingdom to the ground."
"I'm still waiting," I remind him.
He looks up at me from where he kneels, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant compliance. "My beautiful..." he pauses, visibly struggling, then forces the rest out, "....gorgeous wife, I am politely requesting that you give me the box."
I hum thoughtfully, as though considering it seriously. "I like that."
His shoulders ease slightly. "Good."
"But you need more passion."
He closes his eyes briefly, something dangerously close to exasperation flickering across his face. "...you are unbelievable."
"Try again."
His patience fractures in real time. "Ophelia, give me the goddamn box for God's sake..."
"You forgot to say please."
He stares at me like violence is becoming a reasonable option.
"...please," he grinds out.
And I laugh.
I can't help it. The sound escapes me warm and bright, breaking the heaviness of the clearing in a way I hadn't thought possible just minutes ago.
There is something absurdly satisfying about this, about seeing him like this, powerful, dangerous, feared by kingdoms, and yet kneeling in the dirt because I asked him to.
"I always wondered," I murmur, tilting my head slightly, "what it would feel like to have a man grovel at my feet."
His gaze sharpens. "And?"
I smile slowly. "...I quite like it."
He rises in one smooth motion, towering over me again, his presence shifting instantly into something darker, something far more controlled.
"Give me my gift," he says quietly.
There is a warning in it now.
A reminder.
"Before I show what true begging sounds like ."
My pulse stutters.
Because I know that tone.
I know what it means when his voice drops like that, when his gaze settles on me in that particular way.
"Don't let this get to your head," he continues, softer now, closer, "because just as easily as i give you control, I can take it away ."
My breath catches.
"I can take away your breath, I will remind you of who you are while you cling to me, like saying my name like a prayer ."
Heat rushes through me before I can stop it.
"Desperate for relief," he continues, "before i stop so i can hear you beg for more so you know who holds the true power here."
I narrow my eyes at him.
And hand him the box.
"Good choice," he murmurs.
"But."
"But?"
"It's not enough, I will still have to remove that little power trip mindset you have... before the sun rises."
"Achille."
He ignores me as He unwraps the box slowly, carefully, his attention shifting entirely, his focus sharpening into something precise and consuming. The blade catches the moonlight as he lifts it free, dark steel threaded with veins of silver-blue that seem almost alive beneath the surface.
He goes still.
Completely still.
"Oh," he breathes.
The sound is soft.
Reverent.
His fingers trace the blade, the balance, the edge, until they find the inscription.
Come back to me. Always.
His thumb lingers there.
"...you made this for me."
"Yes."
"This is my favorite thing."
I blink. "You've had it for ten seconds."
"And I have already decided."
"That's not how decisions work."
"It is for me."
I laugh despite myself.
"You're impossible."
"I'm delighted."
He tests the blade again, smooth and natural, as it belongs to him in a way nothing else ever could.
"I can't wait to see how you top this next year."
"...next year?"
"Yes, birthdays do come every year."
"You hate your birthday."
"I do, but i do also love getting things from my wife ."
I sigh.
"I worry about you."
"Well," he says calmly. "I have already decided what I want next year."
"...what?"
"Another heir."
I stare at him.
"...you're joking."
"I am not."