• ꒰ ۶ৎ ꒱ ::. waking husband!sukuna up to tend to your pregnancy cravings :: cw mentions of pregnancy.
sukuna woke up to being shaken harshly by his heavily pregnant wife, her strength surprising him.
“babe.” you said softly as you continue shaking your 250-pound husband with all your might.
“mnh?” sukuna murmured, still asleep.
“im hungry..” you whine, still shaking his moveless body.
“theres food in the kitchen baby.”
“i dont want any of that…” you whispered. “wake up. you have to go to the gas station.. seven eleven. i want a hot dog from there.” you murmur, punching at his chest to wake him up.
“okay! okay! im up, im up baby. where ‘ya want me to go?” he asked, getting up to put a pair of sweatpants on.
“seven eleven.. i need a hot dog. and mayo. and pickles.” you say to him, sitting up to watch as he starts putting his shoes on.
“is that it?” he asked staring at you in disbelief.
“a minion popsicle too..” you said, pulling the covers over your chest and laying a pillow under your swollen belly.
“okay baby ill be back just don’t fall asleep please” he said, kissing your cheek as he left.
he stood shirtless in front of the teenage cashier, holding a hot dog, a jar of pickles, a packet of mayonnaise, and a minion popsicle.
“dont ask” he murmured, shaking his head as he payed for everything.
sukuna arrived home at exactly 3:19 am, drowsy but alert.
“baby, im home.” he said walking throughout the house to find you.
living room? no.
bathroom? no.
bedroom? yes.
he found you laying in the bedroom completely knocked out as if you’d never woken up and sent him outside at 3 in the morning.
he sighed heavily, put everything in the fridge, sat on the bed and ate the popsicle by himself while he scrolled on instagram.
Baby!Yuji realizing his resemblance to dad!Sukuna.
°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔*⋆⭒˚｡⋆°❀.࿔
You noticed that six-year-old Yuji had been looking in the mirror a lot lately. He was constantly studying his face and playing with his hair. As he did the exact same thing right now, a fond smile touched your lips. You walked up behind him, resting your hands gently on his small shoulders.
"Looks like someone really loves looking in the mirror."
He turned to you and smiled.
"Mommy! I look like Daddy!" he said.
"Ah, so that's why. You were discovering how much you look like your dad."
"Look, my eyes and my hair... just like his!"
His excitement made you giggle. You ruffled his hair and kissed his rosy cheeks.
"Yes, baby. You're a mini version of your dad."
Lately, everyone who saw him kept saying how much he looked like his father. The boy had heard it so many times that he actually started to notice the resemblance himself.
When Sukuna walked into the room, Yuji shared his discovery with him too.
"Daddy, look at me!"
He widened his tiny eyes as if to prove it and pointed at his pink hair.
"Look, we're exactly the same!"
A small, smug smile appeared on Sukuna’s face.
"You're your father's son, kid."
Hearing his dad's words, Yuji's face lit up. But then, a sudden thought about you seemed to cross his little mind.
"I don’t look like Mama."
You pouted slightly.
"You didn’t have to say that right to my face, Yuji."
Sukuna let out a short chuckle, a lazy, playful smirk on his lips.
"Sorry about that," he murmured. "My genes are just a bit too stubborn."
You rolled your eyes.
Encouraged by his dad's laughter, the little boy turned back to the mirror with a proud grin.
"My lips, my nose... all Daddy!"
You let out a soft laugh.
"Yeah... You really do look like your dad."
"I didn’t know you loved your father quite this much," Sukuna teased, a hint of deep amusement in his voice.
Yuji hugged Sukuna's legs tightly and looked up at him.
"I love my daddy sooo much!"
Sukuna ran his hand through Yuji's pink hair, ruffling it gently.
having ryomen sukuna as your boyfriend is like having your own six foot four two hundred thirty pound body guard and you absolutely love it.
“seatbelt.” he’ll say when you hop into the passenger seat of his truck and immediately go to fix your mascara in the mirror instead of ensuring your own safety.
“is your location on?” he’ll ask as you’re actively using his forearm as a support beam to hurriedly slip on a pair of dangerously high heels so you can meet your friends waiting outside.
“when i call ‘n check up on you, you answer, got it? y’know i’ll come find you if you don’t.” he’ll kiss into the crook of your fragrance oiled neck before you leave.
and whenever you’re in public with him you can literally just turn your brain off, because why would you need to think when your boyfriend can do it for you?
like when you’re strolling outside on a summer day, features illuminated gorgeously by the sun’s golden rays. lips freshly glossed and phone held out in front of your face as you try to get the angle right for your selfies. just as you go to snap the picture you distractedly take a step towards the asphalt to cross the street without looking, only to get photobombed by a large hand reaching out, palming your forehead like a basketball and pulling you back onto the sidewalk.
or how about when you’re tugging him through the mall and on your way to your seventh store, your shopping bags laddered up his left arm and your arm looped around his right, dainty finger tips brushing against the slightly raised lines of his tattoos as he follows your lead and listens to you go on and on about whatever the fuck.
and you’re just strutting beside him without a worry in the world in one of those skimpy little skirts he absolutely fucking despises (but paid for anyway) when your lip gloss accidentally slips from between your manicured hands and clatters onto the ground.
as soon as sukuna hears you go ‘oops!’ he’s already stepping behind you to shield your backside from view with his body because you’re bending right over to pick it up without even thinking about who you might flash, or who’s ass he might have to beat for looking too hard. and as the ever yearning man he hates to admit he is, he can’t help but let his head weigh down a bit to selfishly steal a glance at those pretty pink panties you’re wearing and lick his lips at how deliciously they cling to your cunt.
he’s suddenly grateful for your shopping addiction, as he can now use one of your many bags to hide the bulge tightening within his pants as the two of you continue walking. maybe that skirt isn’t so bad, he thinks.
✮ sukuna married your mother just to be closer to you.
cw: stepcest
stepdaddy!sukuna first saw you when he stayed in another country for a business trip. you swam in the pool, laughed with your head back, and water ran down your neck. he couldn't take his eyes off you, your tiny swimsuit barely covered anything: your ass literally hung out, and wet hair stuck to your neck, showing a line he immediately wanted to lick.
stepdaddy!sukuna knew you were too young for him. but he didn't care about that, he only worried that his business and reputation wouldn't forgive it. so the very next day, he found your mother — a lonely, miserable woman who was used to men being a disappointment. sukuna was perfectly polite, charming, and scary patient. three weeks later, they moved in together.
stepdaddy!sukuna quickly realized your mom was always annoyed with you. she constantly tried to put you down, and you two fought all the time. she wanted to feel young and envied your youth with almost animal-like spite. plus, she saw your father in you — the man she couldn't get along with — and took that pain out on you.
stepdaddy!sukuna never touched your mother with real passion. for him, she was just a ticket into your life: a pass to family dinners, a way to know your schedule, and a chance to buy a house across the street from your college.
stepdaddy!sukuna rushed the wedding to finally get closer to you — to see you every day. you officially met at a dinner where he invited you and your mom to "get closer as a family." but you had no idea he knew everything about you and followed you for much longer than you could imagine.
stepdaddy!sukuna insisted you went on the honeymoon with them after the wedding. he said he worried about your safety and didn't want to leave you alone for so long. when your mother hissed after another fight that she couldn't even get rid of you on her honeymoon, sukuna cancelled all plans, saying he didn't want to spend his time like that.
stepdaddy!sukuna let his touches linger on you much longer than was decent. whether it was your fingers when he handed you a plate, or your back when he gave you a "fatherly" hug. walking past you in a narrow hallway, he put his hand on your waist to let you through — and kept it there for an extra second, squeezing a bit harder than necessary. he stood behind you when you were at the window, leaned close to your ear to ask something, and hit your neck with hot breath that made your knees weak.
stepdaddy!sukuna jerked off in the shower or his home office, thinking about how you would look on his dick. how you would ride him while your perfect tits bounced in front of his face, and he sucked them while his huge cock tore your sweet pussy apart from the inside. he came faster than ever in his life.
stepdaddy!sukuna came home early one day and heard weird noises from your room. when he walked up to the door, your sweet moans and wet splashing sounds reached him. he froze, already taking off his belt to masturbate with you right there by the door, when he suddenly heard his name. "sukuna... hmm! daddy... please..." in that moment, he realized the fish jumped right on the hook.
stepdaddy!sukuna waited until your mother was out of the house. he walked up behind you while you made tea in the kitchen. you felt his strong body press against your back, his hands landed on your waist, and his lips leaned to your ear. "someone was way too loud yesterday." you froze, a blush creeping up your neck. "i didn't..." you started, but couldn't finish: he pushed his hips forward, pressing into you, and you let out a moan. "my girl needs her daddy?" you shook your head, whispering that it was wrong, but he thrust his hips again, making you automatically press your ass against his crotch. you felt his heavy, hard cock through the expensive fabric of his pants and whined pitifully. he rubbed his hips against your short shorts, feeling the soft meat of your ass, and groaned low. "don't worry, baby. daddy needs his little girl just as much as she needs him."
you two started rubbing against each other, he took your chin, turned your head, and kissed you — hungry, dirty, and wet. his other hand slid inside your shorts. his fingers immediately found your clit and started rolling it, making you press your ass into him even harder. his mouth ate yours, and your chins glistened with spit. you came loud, shaking right on his fingers, and he came in his pants like a damn teenager — just from rubbing against you.
stepdaddy!sukuna came to your bedroom every night after that day while your mother slept. he got into your bed, and you already lay there naked, whining with impatience. "such a dirty little girl — waitin' for her stepfather like this, huh?" you just nodded aggressively, pulling him by the neck because you needed him. "i need u, daddy," you whispered, and he groaned, pressing into your lips. "i know, my baby. daddy needs u too. so much." he carefully entered you, remembering that his girl was still too sensitive — despite how many times he'd already been inside you. "there we go. missed my perfect little girl so much... mmhx... wanted this for so long." you moaned and scratched his back while his cock hammered into you like crazy. "this sweet pussy... these perfect tits... mine. all mine. everythin' belongs to daddy. no one else." he didn't stop until you came on his cock at least twice, then he filled you up with hot, thick seed.
stepdaddy!sukuna fucked you in every possible place, not scared that you would get caught. he knew your schedule by heart and picked you up from college in a fully tinted car. on the back seat, he sat you on his cock. "there u go, babe. daddy missed this sweet pussy. did u miss me?" you nodded, kissing his wet lips. your panties were pushed aside, his huge hands squeezed your cheeks, and he hammered into you with primal speed. "missed u so much, daddy... couldn't go without u... hnngh!" you already came, but he didn't stop until you turned into a messy whining heap, only able to moan his name. "yeah? couldn't live without daddy's cock?" you squeezed him inside you, your mascara ran, and tears flowed down your cheeks. "fuck, yeah... that's it, my little girl. squeeze my cock like that, it's all yours."
stepdaddy!sukuna refused when your mother called him on a business trip. they fought, and she left alone, leaving you two for a whole week. he planned to use that time to the max. you fucked almost every hour. "that's it. come on daddy's cock. ruin it, baby." you started with the morning shower, where he fucked you in the air, lifting you up and sliding you onto his hard dick. "such a perfect girl for daddy... made for me." you ended on the living room couch, when he buried his face deep in your pussy. "mmmnh... look at this little swollen clit... wanna eat it." he started sucking so hard, moving his fingers inside you, that you arched your hips right to his face. "ha...ah! daddy! i'm gonna cum! i'm cummin', i'm cummin', i'm cummin'!" he pressed even harder. "go on, my little girl... cum right on daddy's face... let me taste it." and you made a mess of his face, shaking and screaming.
stepdaddy!sukuna ignored your mother's calls when he was on his own business trip. "i'm busy," he snapped and immediately called you. "babe, show me how wet u are. c'mon, lower the camera a bit." you did what he told you: lowered the phone to your wide-spread legs, to your wet, glistening pussy that was already soaking for him. he groaned, pulled down his pants, freeing his hard cock, and held the phone with one hand while the other wrapped your panties — which he stole last week — around the shaft. "shove three fingers in, babe. that'll make u feel closer to daddy." he hammered into his fist, growling low when he saw your thighs shaking on the screen. "it's not enough, daddy... it's not u... i want u... can't come..." you whined, because your three fingers didn't give even half the feeling his two did. you definitely got greedy. "i know baby, i know. i wanna be there too. wanna feel your tight pussy squeeze around me. i want my little girl to make a mess on me." you almost cried, you needed him so bad. "come home faster, please... nngh-h! i can't without u... i miss u." he spilled into his fist with a hoarse groan, his hips twitching. "i miss u too, my baby. i promise i'm gonna fuck u on every inch of house when i get back."
Just because you did something wrong in the past doesn’t mean you can’t advocate against it now. It doesn’t make you a hypocrite. You just grew. Don’t let people use your past to invalidate your current mindset.
you were minding your own business, prancing around your apartment, cleaning up the mess while reorganising everything you saw fit, and you only momentarily bent over to pick up the papers placed on your floor right before—
smack!!
your perverted mess of a boyfriend found your ass almost instantly, your poor butt red and stinging from where his palm had just slapped it—you swore he was in another room before this, completely out of your reach, but the second your ass was up in the air it was like free reign to him.
“toji! where the fuck did you come from?!”
“seriously doll? that’s how you greet your boyfriend?” he said while sporting a stupidly smug pout on his face, trying his best to jut out his bottom lip and look innocent in the scene of the crime.
“you’re a gremlin.”
“a gremlin who’s very much in love with your ass.”
you roll your eyes at him moving along. but this was just routine to him—the second your hips tilted in the slightest, he was right behind you, his massive palm smacking the curve of your butt every single opportunity he saw fit.
you practically yelped and jumped into the air a little each time, and all it did was have him giggle like a teenager before walking away from you.
his arms always found the curve of ass no matter what—always kneading the flesh of your thighs and butt every opportunity he was given. every cuddle session ending in him poking your butt until you were giggling against his chest.
you always just let him have it—not this time though.
but right as he was walking away, you paced behind him, angling your hand to perfection before—
smack!
you hit him square on his ass, watching the flesh recoil a little with your hit and you instantly understood why toji did it so often.
“gah dayum how long have you been hiding that from me?” you said whistling while ogling at your own boyfriend’s butt.
he yelped like a surprised dog, his face tinged pink while he almost squealed at the sharp pain spreading through his cheeks.
“never do that again.”
“it jiggles. toji why did you never tell me it jiggles.” you say making a grabbing motion before he backs away from you.
“you’re worse than i am.” he says almost afraid.
“damn straight i am.” is all you said before trying to chase him around the house while this comically large man tried to hide behind your couch to escape his fate.
yall aint getting nothing new i have writer’s block now sorray. @yoonsucks @yorikae
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
“why do you hang out around my uncle?” is all yuji asked while you were sat at his coffee table, books spread over the place while sukuna found the two of you something to eat.
“im tutoring him, yuji.”
“whats thaf mean?” he says plopping onto your lap while you pinch his little cheeks, looking up at you with gigantic doe eyes. you’d built your persona around hating most things, but when this pudgy pink haired toddler was so insistent on being your friend, i mean who could say no to him?
“it means i teach him things that he doesn’t understand, baby.” you cooed while yuji giggled trying to grab your face and smush it together.
“does this mean he’s stupid?” yeah. you were going to get along with this kid just fine.
“i heard that, brat.”
“uncle kuna!! is stupid!!” yuji yells sticking his tongue out while he blew raspberries at him. while sukuna set down his snacks, seating himself next to you, glaring at the poor boy.
“i thought you hated kids?” sukuna says tilting his head, while slowly trying to pry yuji off of your lap—
“well, i dislike most kids, not yuji though!”
“pretty lady likes me!!” he clapped his hands together, curling into your lap while trying to evade his grumpy uncle who seemed dead set on prying him off of your lap.
“an enemy of my enemy is my friend. who’s my enemy, yuji?”
“uncle sukuna!” he cheers while sukuna was practically fuming next to you, trying to find out if there was a legal way he could make a kid disappear until the girl he liked who definitely didn’t like him would finally pay attention to him.
you gave yuji a little high five, the boy giggling against you while you looked at him, and for a second sukuna swore he saw your eyes soften a little—the walls that you’d spent so long building were starting a crumble and if having his gremlin of a nephew meant that you’d ease up a little, he could bite his tongue and take it whenever yuji gave him a smug look while being curled up in your arms.
LAST ONE FOR NOW. i’m tired huuuhhhgh @yorikae @yoonsucks
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
yuji was sukuna’s worst nemesis—yes, you’d heard him say this a million times before, and he’d say it again, and no, he had no shame that he was quite literally trying to outsmart a toddler to get your attention.
the pink haired boy always clung to you like a parasite—always throwing a fit and sobbing if he wasn’t in your arms, and every single time he had a nightmare he’d crawl into your bee, plopping himself right between sukuna and you, and wailing until you gave him attention.
“sukuna quit staring at him.”
“he’s manipulating you and you’re falling for it, pretty.”
“sukuna he’s four!!” you were whisper shouting at him while yuji was curled up against your chest, drooling on your silken nightgown while sukuna eyed the kid like he had personally offended him.
what you never seemed to notice were the smug glances that yuji would throw at sukuna behind your back—sticking his little tongue out at him while you had yuji plopped over your shoulder while you cooked, while sukuna tried his hardest just to grit his teeth and mind his own business while the brat just hogged your attention.
the worst of it was when yuji would subtly bite sukuna’s hands when he tried to reach for you. he didn’t need to be that close to you, he practically got to see you all the time. so it was only fair that yuji always got your unbridled attention while he was around.
he would always wail, and cry a little louder if sukuna got too close—he knew pouting at you and blinking his brown eyes while they welled with tears always got you to pick him up and spin him around while sukuna managed to spiral on the couch, wondering if abandoning a child on the streets would be worth it.
but sukuna couldn’t deny the way his heart swelled when he saw you treat yuji with such care—always so gentle while you had him in your arms, ruffling the kid’s hair, and carrying him around everywhere as if he were your own.
the way you just seemed to love absolutely everything, the way you were just so patient with the both of them, had him confronting feelings that he didn’t know he was capable of.
and before he could stop his brain he was already picturing you in a flowy wedding dress; a bouquet in hand, only to be immediately snapped out of his daydream when a very chubby hand smacked him across the face, giggling.
“i’m gonna kill this brat.”
“step away from the child, kuna.” you said pointing your rolling pin straight at him. yeah. he was definitely gonna marry you. and at least then he’d have all your attention to himself.
reupload. @yoonsucks
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
“sorry toji we can’t—not tonight.” is all you manage to say before his lifts his head from between your legs, looking like a kicked puppy while he pouts.
“ ‘m more than willing to stop if you aren’t in the mood, ma.”
“no it’s not that it’s just that i haven’t shaved…in a while.”
“say less—” he says dragging your shorts to your ankles before you offer another weak protest against him.
“WAIT—you aren’t turned off by that?” you cock your head almost confused at the way his finger tremble near your hips. just itching to rip your stupid panties off of you and shove in face in your pussy until he suffocates.
your panties do a poor job at trying to hide the bush you’re sporting, the hair peeking out from the edges and toji almost feels like a dog with a treat laid out right before him.
“if i’m ever turned off by a little bit of hair, that ain’t me.”
“this isn’t a little hair toji this is an entire BUSH!”
“are you trying to sell me on this? im convinced already, lay down.” his voice was almost pained, his face warm and flushed almost as if he were sick.
“you’re into this, aren’t you.”
you barely get your sentence out before he rips your panties off of you, the thick hair almost covering the entirety of your slit, you almost cringe until you hear him groan.
“oh my god you are.”
and before you know it, his mouth is latched onto your cunt, his nose deep inside your bush while toji inhales as if he’s in dire need of air.
“you—fucking weirdo—why are you ah—sniffing me?!”
“smells good, doll.” is all you get before he’s back at it, his tongue sloppily kissing your cunt while his nose slowly bumps your clit while you moan into the mattress trying to hide your face.
he’s licking stripes in the hair, practically munching on it, it’s gross, it’s perverse—and it’s absolute heaven to toji. and he’s eating you out as if he has a point to prove—well, to never have you shave the bush again, of course.
you can feel your body spasming around him, your cunt coated with his drool and your slick, and he looks up momentarily, his face dripping while he has the most ecstatic smile on his face.
“maybe…i should shave—” you joke your body recovering from the high while he kisses your inner thighs. taking another whiff of your pussy before you push his head away.
“just say you want me dead next time.”
“toji i can’t keep the bush forever.”
“my girlfriend hates me and she wants me dead.”
this was inspired by da lovely @yoonsucks mwah @yorikae @sugusplaything !!
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
your poor, unsuspecting boyfriend was seated on your couch, his hair messy with his arm slung on the backrest, his entire body relaxed while he mindlessly scrolled through his phone. it was unfair how sukuna’s biceps always lured you in like a siren’s call, big, beefy and inked so prettily it made you wanna take a bite out of him. and he wasn’t even trying to flex his arms.
you always ignored that irrational part of your brain that told you to sink your teeth into his flesh, but your legs moved of their own accord and before you knew it—
chomp.
your teeth dug into his meaty bicep, while you started at the absolute horror on his face as he let out a sharp yelp.
“woman get off of me.”
“noh my mouf is full.” is all you mutter, your cheeks puffed out before you bite down on his arm again.
he tries to wriggle his arm free, while you slowly pull away from his arm, a string of saliva connecting you to the circular bite mark that now sat perfectly on his bicep.
his face was tinged the brightest shade of red, the flush creeping up his neck while you giggled at his reaction.
“aw kuna don’t tell me you were into that.”
and right as you eyes scanned his body you could see the boner straining his pants, his cock hardening at the mere action of you chomping down on his arm like a cat.
“OHMYFUCKING GOD YOU ACTUALLY ARE!!” you squealed before hopping onto his lap almost immediately while he groaned, tilting his head backwards while you grinned at him.
“my teeth have prayed for times like this, kuna.”
“that sounds like a threat.” he says, almost pained while you bite down on one of his cheeks, your teeth leaving tiny imprints while you moved down his neck to his shoulders, gently nibbling on the skin as you continued.
“it’s not a threat if i can feel your dick pressing up against me, kuna.”
“i—“
“your secret’s safe with me, baby.” you whispered into his ears, right before you bit him once again, his entire body flushed while he let out the softest whimper against you.
“you’re gonna kill me, woman.”
“mhmmm doesn’t matter ‘m too busy eating you up.”
last one and im DONE this is also an old ass reupload. @yoonsucks @yorikae
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
From @hajimeowmeow's prompt where Caleb receives a message threatening to hurt the person he loves the most, yet instead of staying with you, his girlfriend, he thinks mc is in danger and stays with her in linkon for weeks on end. He comes back but you're not the same-- more eerie, as a parasite takes over your brain.
nooooot proofread, just wrote this literally now hahah bc i am in my sad girl hours and i need smthng to hurt me.
warnings? tragic love, caleb being sad, pathetic, and begging; doomed love. also K by CAS, is the perfect song wrote this with CAS playlist :p
@youre-my-headliner @mia-menaceinaction
-----
There is the dim, yet warm light of a single lamp open in the living room; the TV is buzzing, words of characters that you’re only barely paying attention to anymore. A sitcom you really like rewatching. It was raining a little, so you look at your phone. A message you sent 2 hours ago, still left on delivered.
It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.
It would be bad if you got sick.
Love you. Come home soon, honey.
Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.
Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.
There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.
“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.
“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.
You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”
—
You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.
“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.
“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.
You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands.
“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.
He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.
You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”
He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”
“So it’s fine, then?”
He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.
You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”
His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.
“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”
Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.
“Caleb–”
“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”
You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.
Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.
From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.
His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.
Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.
“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”
The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.
But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”
He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.
You smile again. “That’s… soon.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”
—
Days pass. Then weeks.
You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.
During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.
Evenings are harder.
The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.
You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.
Messages sit half-written in your terminal.
Did you eat?
Don’t forget to rest.
The plants miss youuuu.
Coco puff too.
I miss you, Caleb.
You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.
Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been.
By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.
One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!
“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”
The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.
You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists.
“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”
One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”
You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”
The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”
You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”
The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”
Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!
“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”
The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long.
He didn’t come back for you.
He didn’t even think to.
Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.
The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”
Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.
He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.
He always comes back.
Then, a void.
—
Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.
Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.
MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”
“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.
But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.
MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly. “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.
MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.” She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.
Her words hang in the air longer than they should.
When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.
It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.
We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.
He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments.
His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?
Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave.
It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.
He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.
MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.
The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:
“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”
He doesn’t hear the rest.
The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.
“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”
He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.
“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.
MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.
—
His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.
He thought it meant MC.
He thought wrong.
And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.
—
The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.
Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.
But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.
The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.
And you’re there.
Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.
When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”
The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.
He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”
Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”
He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”
Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”
He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.
“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”
You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”
He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”
“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.
Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”
He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”
“Why would I be?”
It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.
When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.
He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.
But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.
Your fingers stay on your lap.
And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.
—
At first, he tries to restore normalcy.
He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.
You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.
“Good morning, honey.”
“Welcome home, honey.”
“Sleep well, honey.”
The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.
Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.
He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.
A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.
He clings to that lie.
Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.
On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.
He follows the smell into the kitchen.
You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.
“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”
“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.
He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves.
“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”
You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.
The scrape of metal fills the air again.
He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out.
He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.
That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing.
Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion.
Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.
“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.
You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.
He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.
Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.
And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.
Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.
—
One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.
The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.
“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”
You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”
He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”
You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”
“It was gray.”
“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”
He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”
“I guess I do.”
The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.
So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”
You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”
“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”
“Oh… right.”
He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”
“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
You smile back. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you, the last time.”
He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.
Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.
Untouched.
He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:
You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.
—
You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.
The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.
Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.
“Honey, you’re–”
He’s already kissing you.
It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise.
But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”
You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”
His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”
You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”
He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”
“I always–”
“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”
Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”
He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”
You tilt your head, almost curious.
“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.
Silence.
He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”
You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”
“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”
“I waited,” you say gently.
He freezes.
The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.
Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”
Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”
You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”
He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.
You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.
He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.
Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”
He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.
You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless.
—
Later.
He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.”
When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.
He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.
You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.
Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.
There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.
His stomach drops.
He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.
The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.
Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.
He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.
“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”
You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”
He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”
A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”
He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”
“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”
He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.
He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.
If he fights it, it kills you.
If he leaves it, he loses you.
So he does the only thing left.
He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.
“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”
You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.”
“So did you the last time.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.
Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying.
Because if he does, you die.
And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.
—
Another night, he comes home late.
The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.
“Honey, you’re home,” you say.
He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.
He came home late again. And you were waiting for him, just like always.
your loser ex has your name tattooed on his chest. and he isn’t above begging to get you back.
you stared at your tv, a tub of ice cream in hand while watching the ridiculous boxing match play on the screen. and just like clockwork, the pink haired man won, pumping his fists into the air while everyone cheered him on.
sukuna fucking ryomen.
your pathetic ex, the sad sloppy excuse of a man (or so you liked to tell yourself), the self centred prick who still thrived off of the chaos and adrenaline of a good fight, was unfortunately still as hot as ever. sweat slicked down his back, his tattoos catching the lights around the ring while he was declared the winner. it was all the same until you noticed the fresh letters carved onto his chest.
pretty letters that unmistakably spelled out your name. and knowing his body and every inch of it, you knew that that wasn’t there before. this fucking loser. had you permanently etched on your skin. and just as you were about to frantically dial his number to give him an earful, he looked riiight at the camera—
“hey y/n. i know you’re watching this. stop ignoring my calls, baby.”
oh he was dead fucking meat.
you knew that it’d be mere minutes before he showed up at your doorstep—the same cycle of him begging to have you back, only to go back to his theatrically crafted suave persona.
and just like clockwork, about an hour later—riiiing!
you opened the door only to find sukuna, still drenched in sweat, standing at your doorway with a comically large bouquet in hand.
“are you fucking insane?”
“i take it that you saw my tattoo.”
you eyed him up and down, barely hiding your distaste—until he dropped to his knees before you.
“what the fuck are you doing. GET UP.”
“please, baby please i’ll do anything to get you back.”
he was down on the ground, your neighbours whispering while the renowned boxer hugged your legs, his head buried in your thighs, the bouquet he got long forgotten on the floor.
“please.”
he was begging now, kneeling before you while his eyes brimmed with tears. and a sick sick part of you made your heart skip a beat.
he was desperate, your name etched on his chest, on his knees, hugging your legs as if that’d ground you to him.
“is this because no one wants to fuck you anymore?” you snorted and he looks at you almost as if you slapped him across the face.
“c’mon doll, you know that’s not true.”
“pathetic.” you spat out, his face flushing a deep shade the moment you said it.
“you still have they repressed degradation kink i see. stupid fucking masochist.”
fuck.
“please—.”
“your begging needs improvement. we’ll see how good you do when i have you gagged and sobbing.” you cooed and you swore you could see his sweats tent just the slightest.
you were going to turn the boxing ring’s forbidden ryomen sukuna, into your pathetic, whiny little slut. and he was going to enjoy every second of it.
GRAAH. i like pathetic men. hehe. @yoonsucks @yorikae @rosiestrudel
dividers: @/pixopix .
all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.
♱ summary: Your sister abandons her sons with a worthless brooch and broken promises. Twelve years later, you are desperate and bleeding, and you accidentally summon the archfiend trapped inside the brooch. He saves your dying nephews. Between magic and survival, between rose gardens and freedom, you learn some bonds transcend death and time.
♱ c/w: MDNI; non-mc reader; female reader; fairy tale au; mix of rumpelstiltskin/aladdin/beauty and the beast; historical au; fantasy au; sex worker!reader; archfiend!sylus; DARK ELEMENTS including: tw implied noncon (not with sylus), tw underage prostitution, tw underage pregnancy (not reader); mc is mei; reader has a sister; HEAVY ANGST (only in part one); angst with a bittersweet/hopeful ending; major character death/s; reincarnation; also inspired by sylus' third myth; most of the tags (dark) here will only be in part one, unbetad & unedited, 12k words.
♱ a/n: please mind the tags. the first part of this fic is going to be dark and angsty. the title is inspired by aimer's song hana no uta/花の唄 and partially by fate heaven's feel iii: spring song
♱ part one ➤ part two
♱ lads masterlist ♱ fairy tale aus masterlist ♱ AO3
I
There is a rose garden in Velmure that belongs to the merchant families on the hill.
You have never been inside it, but you know it exists because Amara brings home stolen petals sometimes.
Pink and white and deepest red, tucked in her pockets from the mornings she works in the merchant quarter.
She lays them on the windowsill of your shared room and they curl and brown within a day, but for those few hours they make the space smell clean instead of unwashed bodies and chamber pots and the acrid stench of poverty that gets into your clothes, your hair, your skin.
Your mother kept a rose cutting once.
A single pale stem in a cracked porcelain cup, roots suspended in water she changed each dawn. You remember watching her tend it, the gentleness in her roughened hands as she touched the thorns.
She died before it could take root properly.
The cup shattered three days after they buried her. You were six years old and clumsy with grief, reaching for it without looking. The cutting died on the floorboards in a puddle of cloudy water as you stared at it with teary eyes and helplessness.
Amara swept up the pieces without speaking.
Your father would be dead by the end of the week and neither of you knew it yet, though perhaps Amara suspected. She was always better at reading the signs.
He holds on longer than your mother, perhaps because he is stronger or perhaps because he is stubborn, but the outcome is the same.
The neighbours bring soup that no one eats and offer sympathy, but by the following Tuesday, a week after your mother died, the visits stop entirely.
People in the lower quarters cannot afford extended mourning.
There are living mouths to feed and rent to pay and the dead do not care whether you weep over them or move forward.
Amara understands this before you do.
She is ten years old and she sells everything.
The table your father built from scrap wood he traded for at the harbor. The cooking pot your mother brought from her village when she married him. The jade comb that belonged to her mother and her mother before her, its teeth worn smooth from generations of use. The bolts of silk your father imported from the Southern merchants, the ones he swore would make your fortune once the right buyer came along.
She sells it all to pay debts you did not know existed.
She keeps one thing.
A brooch, another one of your mother’s heirlooms.
A ruby set in tarnished silver, old enough that the origins have been forgotten. The clasp is sharp and catches on fabric and draws blood if you handle it carelessly. Your mother wore it once a year during midsummer celebrations and kept it wrapped in cloth the rest of the time, tucked in a drawer like a secret.
"We should sell this too," you say, watching Amara wrap it back in its cloth. "The jeweller said it might bring enough for two months' rent."
"No." Your sister’s voice leaves no room for argument.
"But we need..."
"It is ours." She closes her hand around it, careful not to be pricked by the clasp. "Everything else belonged to them, to the debts, to the people who are owed. This is the only thing that is really ours. We are keeping it."
She puts it in her pocket and that is the end of the discussion.
You move to a room in the almshouse in the streets behind the harbor, a space barely large enough for two sleeping mats and a small cooking area. It has one window that faces the alley, the glass is cracked and does not close properly, so wind comes through even when you stuff rags in the gaps. The walls are thin enough that you can hear everything from the rooms on either side, the arguments, the crying, the rhythmic creak of bedframes, the endless coughing.
Amara holds your hand on the first night and makes you a promise in the dark.
"I am not going to leave you," she says and her arms wrap around you and pull you against her chest, her voice earnest despite the way it shakes. "We are all we have now, just us. Do you understand?"
"Just us," you whisper into her shoulder.
"We are all we have," she says again, and it sounds like an oath. "Always."
You fall asleep believing her.
The lean years teach you what it means to be hungry.
Really, truly hungry.
The kind of hunger where you learn to make five copper coins last seven days through careful rationing and making choices about which meals to skip.
Amara works.
She is eleven, then twelve, then thirteen, and she works every hour the sun touches the sky and many hours after it sets.
She washes silk robes for the merchants' wives, standing at the public washing stones with her hands raw from the harsh lye soap they provide. Her hands are raw within the first week, red and swollen, knuckles split, fingertips cracked so deep you can see the pink beneath. The wives inspect her work with critical eyes, pointing out spots she missed or places where the fabric has been rubbed too hard. They pay her in copper that barely covers the cost of the soap.
She carries crates at the harbor where the trade ships dock. The work is brutal and the men do not want to hire a girl, but Amara is strong for her size and willing to work for half the pay. She hauls boxes of tea and spices and bolts of silk that smell like the East. She always comes home walking stiffly, her shoulders hunched forward, one hand pressed to her lower back.
She mends fishing nets for the old men who work the boats.This is the work she likes best because they are kind to her, these old men with weathered faces. They pay her in coin when they have it and salted fish when they do not. They tell her stories about the sea while she works, and sometimes she comes home smiling.
You help where you can.
You are small but you are quick, and quick has value in Velmure's harbor district. You run messages for merchants who need errands done. You sort through damaged goods at the market stalls, separating what can still be sold from what must be thrown away. You collect the roses that fall from the garden carts on their way to the merchant quarter, gathering petals for Amara because you know she loves them.
The work brings in copper, sometimes silver if you are lucky, but never enough.
Amara teaches you to read even though she can barely read herself.
She trades a full week's washing for a water-stained primer, the pages swollen and the ink faded but still legible. Every evening she sits with you by candlelight, sounding out the words slowly with her finger tracing each letter.
"You are going to be smart," she tells you one evening when you are struggling with a particularly difficult passage. She taps the page with one finger patiently. Her eyes are tired and she barely has any sleep but she is determined to teach you. "Smarter than me, smart enough to do something better than this."
"You are smart," you protest.
"I am stubborn." She grins at you, and for just a moment she looks her age instead of decades older. The grin makes her look like a child, and you suddenly remember that she is also a child like you, still just thirteen years old. "Stubborn and smart are different things. Smart finds a way out. Stubborn just survives."
"Then I will be both."
"Good. “ She taps the page again, more firmly this time. “Now read the next line."
You smile and read the next line.
You develop rituals.
Small things that make life bearable, things that belong to just the two of you.
Every Sunday at dawn, before the market crowds gather, you walk to the harbor together. Amara saves one copper coin each week for this. You buy two steamed buns from the vendor by the docks, the kind with pork and cabbage filling that are still hot enough to burn your tongue. You sit on the sea wall with your feet dangling, watching the fishing boats return, and eat your buns in silence.
This is your time, sacred and separate from the hunger and the work and the endless calculations about what you can and cannot afford.
Amara always gives you the bigger bun.
"Yours is smaller," you point out the first time you notice.
"I am bigger. I need less." She bumps her shoulder against yours. "Eat."
You eat, but the next week you try to give her the larger portion. She refuses. This becomes a small war between you, each trying to ensure the other gets more. Eventually you compromise by tearing each bun in half and trading pieces so you each have an equal share.
"There," Amara says, satisfied. "We are all we have. We share everything."
You laugh, and the sound feels strange in your throat, like something you have almost forgotten how to make.
On winter evenings when the wind howls through the cracks in the walls, you sit close together for warmth.
The cold is always brutal. Your room has one threadbare blanket and no fire. You cannot afford firewood and the landlord does not allow fires in the rooms to prevent the risk of the building burning down.
You lean against each other, shoulders touching, sharing the single threadbare blanket you own. Sometimes Amara tells you stories she remembers from your mother. Sometimes you read aloud from the primer, stumbling over difficult words. Sometimes you just sit in silence, listening to the wind and the distant sound of the harbor.
"What do you think about?" she asks you one evening when you have gone quiet for a long time.
"Different things. Better things." She squeezes your hand. "A place where we do not have to be cold. Where there is enough food. What about you?"
"I will be there too." Her voice is certain. "We are all we have. I am not going anywhere without you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
The words become a mantra, a promise you make to each other in moments both ordinary and terrible.
When Amara comes home with split knuckles from a client who got rough, you clean the wounds with water you boil on the communal fire. You wrap her hands in strips of cloth torn from your own spare shirt. You sit with her while she stares at the wall, not speaking, just present.
"We are all we have," you whisper.
She squeezes your hand.
"All we have."
When you catch fever when you are nine and spend three days delirious, Amara sleeps sitting up beside your pallet. She bathes your forehead with cool water she pays precious coin to have brought from the well. She does not eat so she can afford the herbalist's remedies. She holds you when you thrash and cry out, murmuring the promise over and over.
"We are all we have. I am here. I am not leaving you. We are all we have."
You survive.
Amara had not doubted you would. She has a way of willing things into existence through sheer stubborn force.
You are ten when you realize Amara has stopped growing.
She is still getting taller, still changing, but something inside her has hardened into the shape of a much older woman. She moves with the weariness of someone who has lived decades instead of years. Her smiles come less frequently and the light in her eyes dim a little more each month.
Amara is sacrificing herself.
You can see it clearly now.
Piece by piece, bit by bit, she is trading parts of herself, her youth, her hope, her chance at anything better, to keep you fed and safe.
You want to tell her to stop.
You want to scream that she should save herself, that you are not worth this, but you are ten years old and you know that if you said this, it would hurt her worse than any client ever could.
So you become useful instead.
You take every job you can find. You stop asking for things. You make yourself as small as possible so you cost less to keep alive. You learn to read faster, work harder, need less.
If Amara notices, she does not say. She just pulls you close at night, her arms around you, and whispers, "We are all we have."
And you whisper back, "All we have."
You are eleven when you start to understand what Amara does after the sun sets.
She does not tell you directly, she does not need to.
You hear the fishwives whisper while you are folding their linens in the next room. Their voices are low but not low enough to hide the words. Whore. Harlot. You do not understand all the words, but you understand the judgment that sits heavy in their voices.
You see the way they look at your sister when she passes in the street, their eyes sliding over her with disgust barely concealed.
You notice the money that appears when there should not be any. You notice the bruises she tries to hide beneath long sleeves. You notice the perfume she wears that is not hers, cheap and too sweet, the scent so cloying it makes your nose itch. You notice the way she scrubs her skin raw in the public bath as though she is trying to wash away something else apart from dirt.
One evening she comes home later than usual with bread from the baker on the hill.
It is the expensive kind, with honey baked into the crust and sesame seeds scattered across the top, the kind you have only ever smelled from a distance but never had enough coin to buy. Now, the smell of it fills your small room.
You sit together on the floor and eat it without speaking. The bread is still warm and sweet and the honey is sticky on your fingers. You lick them clean, not wanting to waste a single drop.
Amara's sleeve has ridden up her arm and you can see the bruise on her wrist, finger-shaped, and another on her forearm that looks older and already fading.
She notices you staring and pulls the fabric down quickly.
"It is nothing," she says.
You set down your piece of bread. You reach across the small space between you and take her bruised hand in both of yours. You hold it carefully and you meet her eyes.
"We are all we have," you say. "Remember?"
Her breath catches.
"You cannot," she whispers. "You cannot follow me there. That is not..."
"I am not asking to follow. I am asking you not to carry this alone."
"I am the older sister, I am supposed to protect you."
"You are protecting me. You have been protecting me since I was six years old. I know what you do, Amara." You squeeze her hand. "And I am telling you that it does not change anything. We are all we have. Even if I cannot follow, I am still with you. You are not alone in this."
She pulls you into her arms, and she is trembling, you can hear her heartbeat against your cheek, hard and fast.
"I am so sorry," The words come out strangled and she presses her face into your hair."I am so sorry you have to know. I wanted to keep you safe from it. I wanted..."
"I know." You wrap your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you can. "I know what you wanted. I know what you are giving up, and I am telling you it is not your fault. None of this is your fault."
She cries and you hold her through it.
When the tears finally stop, you are both exhausted. You lie down on the sleeping mat together, your bodies curled close for warmth. Amara's cold, trembling hand finds yours in the darkness.
"We are all we have," she whispers.
"All we have," you whisper back.
After that night, things shift between you.
There is a new honesty now, a shared understanding. Amara stops trying to hide the bruises. You stop pretending not to see them. You develop a system.
On the nights when she comes home shaking, you heat water for her to wash with. You sit with her while she scrubs her skin. You hold her hand after, gently and patiently, giving her time to come back to herself.
On the nights when she comes home with extra coin, you let yourself eat a full meal without guilt. You understand now that refusing the food would only make her sacrifice meaningless.
On the nights when she cannot make herself go out, when the thought of another stranger's hands makes her shake too hard to stand, you do not judge. You just sit beside her and hold her hand and remind her that tomorrow exists. That she has survived every terrible thing so far. That she will survive this too.
"We are all we have," you say.
"Even here?" Her voice is so small, so childlike, she sounds like the ten year old girl who swept that broken teacup.
"Especially here."
The neighbourhood women start to respect Amara in a new way after you turn twelve.
They see how young she is and how long she has been doing this work. They see how hard she fights to keep you fed and housed. They see that she has not given up, has not disappeared into drink or powders the way some women do when the work becomes too much.
An old woman named Agnes starts leaving soup outside your door sometimes. The widow Maeve slips Amara an extra coin when she can. The women at the washing stones save the easiest work for her, the cleanest garments, the ones that do not require as much scrubbing.
They are all poor, they are all struggling, but they recognize one of their own, a girl trying to protect the most precious thing she has in a world determined to take it.
"Your sister is tough," Agnes tells you one day at the market. "She will survive this. She will survive anything."
You want to believe her.
You do believe her, mostly.
But you also see the way Amara is starting to go somewhere else. The way her smile takes effort and how she flinches sometimes when someone moves too quickly near her.
You are twelve years old and you are watching your sister disappear one piece at a time.
And there is nothing you can do to stop it.
The lover appears when you are thirteen and Amara is seventeen.
His name is Jian.
He is different from the start, and the difference is what makes Amara believe him.
He is wealthy, not merchant-class wealthy but comfortable, a man who works in the Eastern trade and has access to imported goods. He dresses well without being garish. His hands are clean, the nails trimmed, the calluses in places that suggest he handles ledgers instead of cargo.
He is kind to Amara.
This is what catches her first, not the gifts he gives her. His kindness and the way he speaks to her like her thoughts matter, like she is a person whose opinions have value.
Amara is beautiful.
This is not vanity or imagination, it is a simple fact.
Men have been watching her since she was too young for such attention, their eyes following her through the market. The establishment where she works most often keeps raising her rates because clients will pay whatever the madame asks.
You are pretty yourself.
People have told you this, but you are not Amara. There is something about your sister that draws eyes, something that makes people want to possess her.
And Jian wants more than possession.
You meet him on a summer evening when Amara brings him to your room.
She is nervous. You can see it in the way she smooths her skirt repeatedly, her hands fluttering without settling. This means he matters to her and that she cares what you think.
Jian bows to you when Amara introduces you, a gesture of respect that takes you by surprise.
"Your sister speaks of you often," he says. "It is good to finally meet you."
He brings food.
Fresh vegetables and cuts of meat and autumn pears not scraps or day-old bread, the only food that you and Amara can usually afford. He brings a blanket for you, thick wool dyed deep blue, and when you stare at it speechlessly he smiles and says every person deserves to be warm in winter.
He also brings books.
Bound volumes with sewn pages and intact covers, not the damaged castoffs you usually find in the trash. He asks what you are studying and when you tell him about the primer, he returns the following week with a collection of poetry and a history of the Western kingdoms.
"Knowledge should not be locked away," he says. "Take these, learn what you wish."
You watch the way Amara looks at him and your chest aches.
She is glowing.
After years of exhaustion and emptiness, she is alive again, and the transformation frightens you because you know how fragile happiness is and you know how quickly it can be taken away.
For the first time in years, Amara talks about the future, an actual future with plans and possibilities.
"Jian says he can buy out my contract," she tells you one evening, her voice hushed like she is afraid saying it too loudly will break the spell. She is sitting on your shared sleeping mat, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. "It will take time. The madame will not want to let me go. She makes too much money from my work, but he is saving. He promised."
"And then?"
"Then I will have a trade. A shop maybe. He says I am good with numbers. I could keep books for merchants, or I could do fine sewing, embroidery for wealthy families." She is talking faster now, excited. "Something respectable and safe, and you could apprentice somewhere, and learn a proper trade. We could have real lives."
"We?"
"Of course we." She takes your hand, threading her fingers through yours. "We are all we have. Remember? That does not change, even when things get better."
You want to believe it so badly it hurts.
You watch them together over the following months and you cannot find fault with Jian.
He is consistent. He visits regularly. He keeps his promises. He does not press Amara for anything she is not ready to give. He treats her with respect, speaks to her with affection, and includes you in their plans.
He describes a house with a red door and a small garden where Amara can grow things.
"Roses," he suggests one evening. He looks at her, his eyes soft. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "You like roses. We could plant them, as many as you want."
Amara's eyes fill with tears.
"Roses."
"Dozens of them, hundreds, every color that exists."
She laughs and cries at the same time, and Jian pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Over her shoulder, his eyes meet yours.
"You will have your own room," he says to you. "With a proper window and a door that closes. A place to keep all those books I keep bringing you."
"You do not have to..."
"I want to." You can hear it in his voice that he means it."Amara loves you, that means I want good things for you too. It is that simple."
You believe him.
This is your mistake.
You let yourself hope. You let yourself imagine it.
The three of you in a house with a red door. Amara finally free from the work that is slowly killing her. You with books and time to read them. Safety. Warmth. Enough food that you do not have to think about every bite.
You let yourself believe that maybe, finally, something good is allowed to happen.
Amara stops taking as many clients.
She is saving herself, she explains. For Jian. For the future they are building. She still works enough to pay rent and buy food, but she is more selective now. She refuses the rough ones, the ones who leave her shaking. She sets boundaries she has never been able to set before.
The madame at the establishment is not pleased, but Amara is beautiful enough that even working less, she brings in more than most of the other women. The madame tolerates it because losing Amara entirely would cost more than allowing her this small rebellion.
You watch her come back to life.
It is like watching spring arrive after an endless winter. She smiles more. She hums while she works. She talks about what kind of flowers she will plant, what colors she will paint the walls, whether the market is better on Tuesdays or Thursdays for buying fabric.
One evening she takes your hand and says, "In the new house, we will have a proper kitchen. I will learn to cook real meals, the ones Mother used to make. Do you remember?"
"I remember." You still remember the smell of them. The warmth. Your father’s laughter in the small kitchen in your old house and the way your mother hummed while she cooked.
"We will make them together. You and me. Just us. Like always."
"We are all we have," you say.
"Not for much longer." She squeezes your hand. "Soon we will have more. Soon we will have everything."
You lean against her and let yourself believe.
The establishment discovers Amara is pregnant in late autumn.
You are not there when it happens. You are at the market, trading your morning's work for rice and vegetables, when Amara's friend Cassia finds you.
"You need to come," Cassia says, her voice shaking. "They threw her out. The madame found out about the baby."
You run.
You find Amara standing in the alley behind the establishment with everything she owns stuffed into the same canvas sack you have carried since your parents died. Her face is blank, empty of emotion, and that terrifies you more than tears would have.
"What happened?"
"The madame found out I am carrying a child." Her voice is hollow. "She says pregnant women damage business. She says we owe her money. For the room. For the clothes. For breathing her air while I worked. The debt follows us."
The amount she names makes your stomach drop.
You reach for her hand, her fingers are ice cold.
"Did you send word to Jian?"
"I sent word this morning." She is staring at the wall across from you, her eyes unfocused. "He will come. He promised he would take care of us. He will come."
He does not come that day.
Or the next.
Amara writes letters on paper she can barely afford, ink she borrows from a scribe who takes pity on her. She addresses them to Jian's place of work, to the trade house where he said he keeps an office.
The letters return unopened.
The red wax seals are intact, unbroken. He has not even looked at them.
You watch the light drain from Amara like watching a candle burn down. Slowly at first, then all at once, until there is nothing left but smoke.
She stops talking about the house with the red door. She stops mentioning the shop he promised. She stops saying his name except in moments when she forgets and reaches for hope that is no longer there.
She sits with her hands on her swelling belly and stares at the wall for hours. You try to talk to her and she does not respond nor does she react if you try to touch her shoulder. It is as though she is not quite here anymore.
"Amara," you say one evening. "Talk to me. Please."
She does not answer.
"We are all we have," you try desperately. "Remember? You and me. We are all we have."
She turns to look at you finally, and her eyes are empty.
"I know," she whispers. "I am sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"For believing we could be more than that."
Winter comes.
You find a room in the streets behind the pleasure district. It is smaller than your last place, barely large enough for two sleeping pallets, but the rent is cheaper and the landlord does not ask questions.
The neighbourhood is dangerous.
You learn this quickly.
Men who drink too much and get violent. Women who disappear and are found days later in the harbor. Children who vanish and are never found at all.
You start taking precautions.
You walk home before full dark whenever possible. You keep a gutting knife tucked in your boot, the one you stole from the fish market, small but sharp, enough to injure and give you time to rum. You make friends with the other women in the building, trading favours and information, who to avoid, which streets to never walk alone,where to hide if someone comes looking for you.
You bar the door at night with a plank of wood wedged beneath the handle. You check it twice. Three times. You do not sleep well. Every sound makes you jolt awake, your hand already reaching out to the gutting knife.
Amara is too pregnant to work.
The weight of the child, or children, as the old midwife who examines her suggests, makes movement difficult. She cannot stand for long without her back aching. She cannot lift or carry. She cannot do any of the work that kept you both fed.
You take over everything.
The washing at the public stones, your hands cracking and bleeding from the soap. The hauling at the harbor, crates that make your shoulders scream. The mending, working by candlelight until your eyes blur and you fall asleep with a needle still in your hand.
It is not enough.
You eat once a day and give the rest to Amara because needs to keep her strength for the baby. You skip meals until the dizziness becomes normal, until hunger stops being a sensation and starts being a state of existence you cannot remember being without.
An old woman named Aislinn lives in the room next to yours.
She is ancient, her face a map of lines and her hands knotted with age, but her eyes are kind and she easily notices things.
She notices when you go days without eating. She notices when Amara cries quietly at night. She notices when you come home limping because you twisted your ankle hauling cargo and could not afford to stop working.
She brings you soup sometimes. Thin but hot, made from bones she boils multiple times to extract every bit of flavour. She asks nothing in return. She simply appears at your door with the pot, hands it over with both hands, and then walks away.
"I had daughters once," she says one evening, handing you a bowl. "They are gone now, but I remember what it was like. Trying to keep young ones alive when the world is determined to take them."
"Thank you," you whisper.
"No thanks needed, child. Just promise me you will eat it instead of giving it all to your sister."
You promise, though you still give half to Amara.
The twins are born in early spring on a night when rain hammers the roof of your rented room.
Amara's water breaks just after sunset. The pains start immediately and she grips your hand so tightly you feel bones grind.
Aislinn comes when you knock on her wall, appearing in her nightclothes with her grey hair loose around her shoulders. She takes one look at Amara and starts giving instructions.
"Boil water. Find every clean cloth we have. Bar the door so no one disturbs us."
You do as she says. Your hands shake. The fire will not catch at first because the wood is damp. You have to blow on it and waste precious time waiting as the water takes forever to heat.
The labour lasts hours.
Amara screams until her voice breaks.
She curses Jian, curses you, curses the gods who let this happen. She begs for it to stop. She cries for your mother.
You hold her hand through all of it. You wipe the sweat from her face. You tell her she is strong, she is doing well, she is almost there. You lie when necessary. You tell the truth when you can.
Aislinn remains calm throughout, her weathered hands steady as she guides the babies into the world.
The first twin comes just after midnight.
He is loud from his first breath, wailing, his face red and furious. His fists clench and unclench like he is already preparing to fight.
The second follows minutes later.
He is silent and does not cry. His eyes open immediately, dark and watchful, as if taking measure of the world he just entered.
Aislinn cleans them and wraps them in the cloths you found, old shirts torn into strips, worn but still clean. She tries to place them in Amara's arms but Amara turns her face to the wall.
"I cannot," The whisper is broken. "Please. I cannot."
Aislinn looks at you.
You are fourteen years old and you do not know what to do, but you hold out your arms anyway.
She places the first twin in your arms. The loud one.
He is impossibly small. He fits in the crook of your elbow perfectly and weighs almost nothing. When he grabs your finger his grip is strong. He stops crying when you hold him.
Then the second, quieter but no less present, his unseeing newborn eyes somehow turn toward you as if he sees you.
You hold them both, one in each arm, and you think, I will die before I let anything hurt both of you.
Amara does not look at them.
"She needs rest," Aislinn says quietly as she squeezes your shoulder gently, "Let her rest. We can try again in the morning."
But morning comes and Amara still will not look at them.
The first months are impossible.
The twins need constant feeding, constant changing, constant holding. They cry in shifts so there is always one of them screaming. They sleep in fragments so you sleep in fragments. Minutes stolen here and there between feedings and changings and the endless cycle of need.
Amara cannot help.
Something broke inside her during the birth. She bleeds for weeks. She cannot stand for long without getting dizzy. She sits and stares at nothing.
You try to get her to nurse the babies but her milk never comes in properly. You have to supplement with goat's milk bought at prices that make you want to scream.
You ask her what names she wants for them, she does not answer.
You ask her to hold them, just once, she turns her face away.
You beg her to help you, she closes her eyes.
After a week, you stop asking.
So you name them yourself.
Luke and Kieran.
Names from one of the books Jian gave you, the ones you have already sold to buy firewood. Characters in fairytales, heroes who were loyal and brave and good. You hope the names will protect them somehow, give them strength for the hard world they were born into.
You work during the day while Aislinn watches the twins.
The old woman refuses payment, waving away your attempts with a gnarled hand.
"I am old," she says. "I cannot do much anymore. Let me do this. Let me hold babies and tell them stories. It keeps me feeling useful."
So you work the harbor, the washing, the mending while Aislinn watches the twins in your sister's place.
You work every job you can find. You come home at dusk and take over so Aislinn can rest. You feed them and change them and walk when they will not stop crying. Pacing the small room, bouncing them gently, singing songs you half-remember from your mother. Your voice is hoarse. Your arms ache. You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
Your body hurts in ways you did not know were possible.
Your breasts ache from binding them too tight while you work. Your shoulders scream from carrying heavy loads. Your hands crack and bleed. You are so tired that sometimes you forget where you are, standing at the washing stones and blinking at the water until someone asks if you are well.
But the babies are alive, and that is all that matters.
Amara watches nothing.
She sits. She stares. She breathes.
You try to reach her.
"We are all we have," you say, kneeling beside her sleeping mat, one late evening after you have put the twins to sleep. You take her limp hand in yours, rubbing warmth into her cold fingers."Remember? You and me. We are all we have. Please come back."
She does not respond.
You try again.
"The babies need you. I need you. Please, Amara. Please."
Nothing.
"I cannot do this alone," you whisper and press her hand to your cheek. "I am fourteen. I do not know how to keep them alive. I need help. I need you."
She pulls her hand away and turns to face the wall.
Amara stops eating unless you force food into her hands. She speaks rarely, and when she does, it is only to whisper Jian's name, to ask if he has sent word, if he has come back.
He has not. He will not.
You know this, but you do not say it.
The twins are three months old when you wake to find Amara gone.
You know immediately something is wrong.
The twins are sleeping in their basket, tiny fists curled against their faces. They have started smiling recently and making small cooing noises.
Amara's pallet is empty. Her blanket is folded neatly at the foot, the way she always folds it. Her shoes are missing and her shawl is gone.
There is something on the table.
The ruby brooch, the one she swore would never be sold, sitting next to a note written in her careful handwriting.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you. I am sorry. I will come back. I promise.
You read it three times.
Your hands are shaking and the paper trembles, making the words blur.
We are all we have.
Except now it is just you.
You sit on the floor with the note in one hand and the brooch in the other. The twins are sleeping peacefully, unaware that their mother has left them.
You do not cry.
You cannot cry, because if you start you will not stop, and there are two babies who will wake soon and need to be fed, and you are the only person left in the world who will feed them.
You fold the note and put it in the drawer.
You wrap the brooch back in its cloth and place it beside the note.
You stand and start preparing the goat's milk for when the twins wake.
Days pass, then weeks, then months.
Amara does not send for you. She does not write nor does she come back.
But you keep waiting.
You take the brooch to three different jewellers over the course of a month, hoping one of them will tell you it is worth more than the others claimed.
They all say the same thing.
The stone is flawed, they explain, pointing to imperfections you cannot see without a glass. The setting is old, tarnished beyond easy repair. It might bring enough to feed you for a month, perhaps two if you are careful.
You do not sell it.
You cannot.
It is the last piece of Amara you have.
The only proof that she existed, that she loved you once, that the promise she made was real even if she could not keep it.
You tuck it back in the drawer beside the note and you raise the boys yourself.
You are fifteen when you realize you cannot do this alone anymore.
The boys are six months old. They have started sitting up on their own, babbling to each other in a language only they understand. They reach for you when you come home and then cry when you leave.
They are beautiful.
Luke is loud and always moving, grabbing at everything within reach. Kieran is quieter, more watchful, but just as curious. They are starting to look like people instead of just babies, their features finally defining themselves. Luke has your father's nose. Kieran has Amara's eyes.
You love them with a ferocity that frightens you.
But love is not enough to pay rent.
Love does not buy goat's milk or firewood or the medicine Kieran needs when he develops a cough that will not stop.
You have tried every kind of work available to you.
The washing barely makes enough to cover soap costs. The hauling has dried up because the men at the harbor say you are too small and too weak, and they would rather hire boys who can lift more. The mending, however kind the old men are, only brings in copper but never silver.
Aislinn watches the boys during the day but she is getting frailer. Her hands shake more often. She falls asleep mid-afternoon and does not wake for hours. You know she cannot do this forever.
Eventually, the money you saved runs out.
You sit on the floor one evening with the ledger you keep, adding the numbers over and over, hoping they will change. They do not change. In two weeks you will not have enough for rent. In three weeks you will not have enough for food.
You look at the twins sleeping in their basket.
Six months old and too young to understand or remember if something happens to you.
You make a decision.
The Crimson House is a three-story building with crimson shutters and lanterns that glow like coals after dark.
You have walked past it a thousand times. You know what it is.
Everyone knows what it is.
You stand outside for a long time before you can make yourself climb the steps.
You think about Amara.
You think about the bruises and the empty eyes and the way she scrubbed her skin raw trying to feel clean after she returns home each day.
You think about the promise you made to each other, the mantra you whispered in the dark.
We are all we have.
This is what Amara did to keep you alive, the price she paid.
And now it is your turn.
You climb the steps.
The madame is a woman named Luo, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, draped in silk that whispers when she moves. She looks you over the way merchants examine fabric at the market.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," you lie. You are fifteen but tall for your age.
"Have you done this work before?"
"No."
"Good. Easier to train you properly." She continues her examination, tilting your face toward the light. "Pretty enough, not a beauty like your sister was, but still pretty and fresh faced. Men will pay for that. We can work with this."
She explains the terms.
Room and board provided on the upper floor. Clothes and cosmetics supplied. Training in the arts of pleasing men. All of it on credit. The debt starts today and grows with every meal you eat, every dress you wear, every candle you burn.
You will work to pay it down but the interest is calculated to ensure you never quite manage. This is how they keep everyone.
"I have children," you say before you can stop yourself. "Two boys. Babies. I cannot live here. I need to go home to them every day."
Luo's eyes narrow.
"Children are a complication."
"They will not be a complication. I swear it. I just need to go home to them after my work is done. I will be here every evening. I will work as many clients as you require. I will do everything you ask. Just let me go home to them. Please."
Luo considers this.
The calculation is visible on her face.
Women who live on-site are easier to control, but they also cost more to house and feed.
A woman who maintains her own lodging saves the establishment money, and desperate women work harder, take fewer liberties, and cause less trouble.
"You will arrive by sunset every evening," Luo finally decides. She grips your chin tightly, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You will work until dawn. You will accept every client I assign. You will not refuse anyone for any reason. If you miss a night, the debt triples. If you fail to satisfy a client, the debt doubles. If you bring your personal problems into this establishment, you are finished. Do you understand?"
"I understand." You respond, your voice distant.
"Sign here."
You sign your name in the ledger.
Your hand does not shake.
The training lasts for five days.
An older woman named Lira teaches you what to expect, how to move, how to breathe through it when it hurts. She is matter-of-fact and brusque but never cruel.
"You have to separate yourself from your body," she says on the second day. "Whatever they do, it is happening to flesh and bone, not to you. You are somewhere else. You are watching from a distance. You are untouchable."
"Does that work?"
"Sometimes.” She shrugs, but you see the pity in her eyes. “When it does not, you endure, that is all anyone can do."
She teaches you techniques. The ways to breathe, where to put your mind, how to make sounds that men want to hear even when you feel nothing, how to move so it ends faster, how to clean yourself after, how to hide the pain.
You think about Amara.
You think about the way she used to stare at nothing after coming home.
You think about the distance in her eyes.
This is what she learned. This is how she survived.
And now you will learn it too.
The first client is a merchant who reeks of wine and fish.
He is neither cruel nor gentle. He uses your body the way he might use a tool. You stare at the ceiling while he works.
You pretend you are somewhere else, somewhere far away. You think about the boys. About the way Luke smiles when you come home. About the way Kieran's hand feels in yours. About keeping them fed. About keeping them alive.
We are all we have.
The words echo in your head like a ghost.
This is what Amara did and now you have followed.
When the merchant finishes he leaves money on the table and goes without speaking.
You collect the coins and clean yourself and prepare for the next one.
The walk home at dawn becomes the marker of your divided life.
The Crimson House to your rented room, the woman men pay for, to the woman the boys know.
You shed one skin and pull on another in the space of twenty minutes walking through narrow streets that smell of salt and garbage and yesterday's fish.
Sometimes, you stop by at the baker on the way home. You buy two loaves of bread with your night's earnings. Milk when you can afford it. The baker knows you and what you do. You can see it in her eyes, but she does not say anything. She just takes your money, her fingers brushing yours briefly, and hands over the bread.
The boys are usually awake when you arrive. Luke cries because he is hungry. Kieran watches you with solemn eyes.
You pick them up, one in each arm, and hold them while you heat the milk.
This is your life now.
Two lives. Split down the middle. Night and day. The Crimson House and home.
The woman who endures and the woman who loves.
The months pass into years.
The boys grow from babies to toddlers, from toddlers to small children who run and play and fight and laugh. You watch them change, day by day, minute by minute, and you mark time by their milestones instead of seasons.
Luke's first steps at ten months, stumbling toward you with his arms outstretched and a grin on his face. Kieran's first word at eleven months, not mama or dada but "birb," pointing at something outside the window. Their first full sentences. Their first questions. Their first fights with each other that end in tears and reconciliation five minutes later.
You love them so much it hurts.
They call you Mama at first because you are the only mother they have ever known.
"No," you tell them gently, every time. "I am not your Mama. I am Big Sis."
"Why?"
"Because your Mama is someone else, someone who loves you but cannot be here right now."
"Where is she?"
"I do not know, but when she comes back, she will want you to remember that she is your Mama and I am your Big Sis."
They do not understand but they are young enough that repetition works, and eventually it sticks. You are Big Sis and the woman who is gone is Mama, a figure from stories, someone they wait for without really knowing who she is.
You wonder sometimes if Amara will come back and find her sons do not remember her voice.
You wonder if she will come back at all.
There is almost something with a client named Nishant.
He is younger than most of your clients, perhaps twenty-five, with a scholar's soft hands and a gentle manner. He pays Luo double to ensure he gets the full evening with you and no interruptions.
He requests you specifically every week.
He talks to you like you are a person whose thoughts matter. He asks for your opinions on the books he brings. He tells you about his work as a merchant's clerk, about his family in the provinces, about his dreams of eventually opening his own trading house.
He is kind.
He does not hurt you during the times when talk leads to what you are paid to do. He asks first. He checks if you are well and touches you ever so gently.
You start to look forward to his visits.
This is a mistake.
You realize it one evening when he smiles at you over a shared cup of tea and your heart does something it should not. A flutter, a pull, the beginning of a feeling you cannot afford to have.
You are falling for him.
Or you could fall for him, if you let yourself. If you allow the possibility and forget for even a moment what you are and what he is and the gulf between you.
You stop it before it can start.
The next time he comes, you are professional. You accept the book he brings but do not discuss it. Your answers to his questions are short and brief. You perform the services he paid for and nothing more.
He notices the change immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" His brow furrows. “Have I offended you?”
"No."
"Then why..."
"This is what I am," you interrupt curtly. "This is what we are. You pay. I provide a service. That is all this can be."
"It does not have to be..." He leans forward, earnest and hopeful and his hand reaches for yours.
"Yes. It does." You meet his eyes and make sure he sees the finality there. "I have two boys to raise. They are my only priority. There is no room for anything else."
He stops coming to the establishment after that.
You tell yourself it is for the best and that you made the right choice.
You tell yourself the ache in your chest is just fatigue and it will pass.
Twelve years pass.
You are twenty-seven years old now and you are aging out at the establishment.
Luo reminds you of this regularly.
You have a year left, perhaps less, after that you are too old. The men want younger faces. You will need to find other work.
The debt remains.
Twelve years of work and you have barely made a dent. The interest accumulates faster than you can pay and you will die owing Luo money.
You do not tell the boys this.
You do not tell them that in a year, maybe less, you will have no income and no plan and a debt that follows you like a shadow.
You just keep working, keep coming home at dawn, and keep pretending everything is fine.
The twins are almost twelve now.
They are no longer babies or toddlers or even young children. They are growing into themselves, into the people they will become.
Luke is loud and fearlessly blunt. He says exactly what he thinks and cannot understand why adults dance around the truth. He makes friends easily and gets into fights just as easily, especially when someone insults you or Kieran. He comes home with bruises and grins and stories about how the other boy started it but he finished it.
Kieran is quiet and watchful and reads everything he can get his hands on. He remembers everything he reads. When he looks up from a page of a new book he is reading, the gravity in his face makes you ache.
They think you work as a serving girl in a merchant's house.
You leave at sunset and return at dawn and tell them you are cleaning or serving dinner or helping with the household accounts. They accept this because they are children and children believe what their adults tell them.
You will correct this lie eventually, when they are older and when you find the right words.
But for now, you let them believe their Big Sis does honest work for honest pay.
Luke runs errands for the dock workers, carries messages, hauls nets when they need extra hands. He is strong for his age, quick and willing. He brings home copper and silver and sets it on the table with pride.
Kieran helps the apothecary, sorting herbs, learning remedies, reading from the ancient texts the old man keeps. He is paid less than Luke but he is learning skills that might serve him better in the long run.
They should not have to work.
They should be learning to read and write properly, apprenticing to trades, preparing for futures that are better than this.
But they work because you cannot give them better, because the system is designed to keep you trapped. And no matter how hard you fight, how much you sacrifice, it is never quite enough.
You keep the ruby brooch in the drawer beside your bed.
You take it out sometimes when the boys are asleep and hold it in your palm. The stone is dark and the clasp is still sharp. It has drawn your blood more than once over the years.
Beside it is Amara's note, the paper has wrinkled and ink is fading from time and handling. You unfold it sometimes, smoothing the creases with your fingers.
I will come back. I promise.
Twelve years and you are still waiting.
You do not know why, but you cannot let go of the hope, thin and threadbare as it is, that someday the door will open and she will be there and everything will make sense.
You wait anyway.
That is what love does.
It makes you keep promises even after the other person has broken theirs.
We are all we have.
Luke falls ill on a Tuesday.
It starts with a cough, nothing unusual.
Coughs are common in the cramped quarters of the lower districts, especially as winter approaches. You make him drink willow bark tea. He hates it but he drinks it anyway, his face scrunching. You wrap him in the blanket Jian gave you all those years ago, the blue one, that has become faded now, threadbare, but still warm. You tuck it around him, smoothing it over his shoulders. You expect it to pass.
It does not pass.
By evening, his skin is hot to the touch.
By midnight, he is burning.
You sit beside his sleeping mat with a basin of cool water. You wring out cloths. Press them to his forehead. They warm within minutes. You wring them out again. Again. Again. But the fever continues to climb. Luke tosses and turns, crying out in his sleep.
Kieran hovers nearby, watching with wide eyes.
"Is he going to be all right?" he asks.
"Yes," you lie. "The fever will break soon."
It does not break.
You work that night at the establishment because you cannot afford to miss. The debt triples if you fail to appear. You work with your mind elsewhere, counting the hours until you can return home.
Luo notices. Always. She grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"You are distracted.” Her eyes narrow.
"I am sorry. It will not happen again."
"See that it does not. Men pay for your attention."
You give them your attention. You give them your body. You give them everything they pay for, and when dawn comes you collect your coins and run home.
Luke is getting worse.
"How long has he been this way?" You kneel beside his mat. Your hand goes to his forehead. The burning is worse than before. You cup his face, feeling the heat radiating from him.
"All night." Kieran's voice is strained. He has not slept, eyes are red-rimmed. "I tried to give him water but he would not drink."
You try again. Luke turns his head away, delirious.
This is when you know you need a physician.
You count the coins you have saved. It is not nearly enough, but you go anyway, walking to the physician's house on the hill, the one who treats the merchant families.
He looks at you from his doorway, taking in your dress, your exhaustion, the desperation in your eyes.
"Twenty silver," he says, voice bored and crosses his arms. "For the visit and the medicine."
You have twelve.
"Please," you beg. "My nephew is very sick. I can pay half now and the rest..."
"Twenty silver. All of it. Now."
"I will have it in three days. I swear. I work every night. I can..."
He closes the door in your face.
You try two other physicians.
One will not even open the door. You can see him through the window. He looks at you then pretends he did not hear you knock. The other offers to examine Luke for fifteen silver but the medicine will cost another ten. Twenty-five total.
You do not have twenty-five silver.
So you go to the herbalist instead. She is kinder and does not look at you with contempt. She sells you a tonic that might bring down the fever, ingredients you recognize from Kieran's studies with the apothecary.
It costs eight silver, and now you have four left.
"Give him this three times a day," the herbalist tells you. "If the fever does not break in two days, come back."
But you will not have money to come back, you both know this. She is being kind, giving you hope that you cannot afford.
You hurry home.
You force the tonic down Luke's throat. He coughs and sputters but swallows some of it, but it should be enough.
You wipe his chin, his neck where it spilled.
"This will help." You brush the hair from his forehead, smoothing it back. It is soaked with sweat. "This will make you better."
Then you work that night, and the next, and the next. You work and come home and tend to Luke and work again. No sleep. No food. You work and worry and watch him burn.
Three days pass.
Luke's fever does not break. It climbs higher. You watch him burn, helpless, applying cool cloths that warm within minutes. The tonic is gone and you have no money left for more.
On the fourth day, Kieran breaks.
He has been so strong, so composed, helping you change the cloths, making Luke drink when he can, reading quietly in the corner to give you both something normal to hold onto, but on the fourth day, he looks at his brother's flushed face and snaps.
"He is going to die," Kieran whispers, sinking to the floor beside Luke’s sleeping mat.
"No. He is not." You believe it because you have to, because the alternative is unthinkable.
"He is going to die and there is nothing we can do." Kieran's voice breaks and he looks at you with tears in his eyes. "We do not have money for the physician. We do not have money for more medicine. We are just going to sit here and watch him die."
"Kieran..."
"We are all we have and it is not enough. It has never been enough."
You pull him into your arms and he sobs against your shoulder, eleven years old and terrified and so tired of being strong.
"I am sorry," you cry into his hair. "I am so sorry."
You hold him until the tears stop, then you go back to work.
On the fifth day, Luke's fever breaks.
You wake from a brief, exhausted sleep to find him looking at you with clear eyes. He reaches for your hand.
"Big Sis?"
You press your hand to his forehead. Cool. Still warm, but not burning. The fever has finally broken. Finally. You take his face between your hands, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose.
"You are all right." Relief floods through you. Overwhelming. Devastating. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him against your chest. "You are going to be all right."
Luke is weak, wrung out from five days of fighting the illness, but he is alive. He drinks the broth you make. He stays awake for short periods. He even smiles at Kieran when his brother sits beside him, taking his hand.
You allow yourself to believe the worst is over.
On the sixth day, Kieran's fever begins.
He wakes with the same cough.
By afternoon, his skin is hot.
By evening, he is burning just like his brother did.
No.
No no no no no.
You check your coin. Four copper pieces, not even enough for a single dose of the herbalist's tonic. Not enough for anything.
We are all we have.
The thought whispers through your mind like a curse.
We are all we have and it is not enough.
You work that night even though leaving Kieran feels like tearing off your own skin. Luke is too weak to tend his brother, too weak to do anything but lie on his mat and watch. You have no other choice.
You come home at dawn to find both boys feverish now. Luke's fever has returned, weaker than before but still there. Kieran is worse, thrashing on his sleeping mat, calling for you.
Seven days pass.
You do not sleep.
You work at night and tend the boys during the day, snatching minutes of rest when your body gives you no choice. Your hands shake. Your vision blurs. You stop eating because there is barely enough food for the boys.
Kieran is dying.
You know this the way you knew your parents were dying when you were six. The way the body changes when it is losing the fight. The way the fever stops being something the person is fighting and becomes something they are drowning in.
Luke watches his brother with terrified eyes. He reaches for your hand, gripping it.
"Big Sis," he whispers hoarsely. "Make him better. Please."
"I am trying."
"Try harder."
You have nothing left to try with.
On the seventh night, your hand finds the brooch.
You do not remember taking it from the drawer.
One moment you are sitting beside Kieran's sleeping mat, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow, labored breaths. The next moment the brooch is in your hand, the metal cold against your palm.
Amara left this.
Amara, who promised she would come back.
Amara, who lied.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you.
Your fingers tighten around it, the sharp clasp digs into your palm.
Why did you hold onto this useless thing for twelve years when you could have sold it? You could have used whatever money it brought for food or medicine or anything. Why? What was the point? What did it get you?
Nothing.
It got you nothing.
Amara never came back. She never sent for you nor did she keep her promise, and now Kieran is dying and this ugly useless thing is all you have left.
Pain.
It comes suddenly, making you gasp.
The clasp has pierced your skin and your blood wells up, bright red in the candlelight, and it drips onto the ruby.
The stone absorbs it.
You blink, confused, as the brooch suddenly grows warm in your hand, then it begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with a light that seems to come from within.
"What?"
The air in the room shifts.
Red mist pours from the brooch, thick and viscous, coiling up toward the ceiling. You drop the brooch, scrambling backward, but the mist does not dissipate. It gathers, condenses, takes shape.
A figure forms.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long white hair that seems to glow in the dim light. Eyes the color of blood, fixed on you with an intensity that steals your breath.
You know immediately that he is not human, because nothing human could be so beautiful and so terrible at once.
You are hallucinating. You must be.
Seven days without real sleep, barely any food, watching Kieran die and your mind has finally broken.
"Well," the figure says, his voice is smooth as velvet and amused. "It has been quite some time since anyone summoned me."
You cannot speak nor can you move.
He tilts his head, studying you with those crimson eyes. Red mist still clings to him, wisps of it curling around his shoulders like smoke. He is dressed in white, expensive fabric that does not belong in your shabby room.
"Let me guess," he continues when you do not respond. "You have a wish. They always do."
Your gaze darts to Kieran, still feverish, still dying.
"I..." Your voice comes out as a rasp before you can stop yourself. "I need help. My nephew…he is dying."
The figure follows your gaze, considers Kieran with detached interest.
"Death is common. Why should I care?"
“Whatever you are, wherever you come from, you have power. I can feel it.” The words are more frantic now. "I am asking, no, begging, please. Save him."
Something flickers across his face.
"You are not asking what I am? Not demanding answers first?"
"I do not care what you are. I do not care if you are a demon or a devil or something worse. If you can save him, I will give you anything."
"Anything?" His mouth curves into a smile that is not entirely kind. He crouches in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. "Dangerous words, kitten."
The endearment should feel wrong, but it does not. It slides over you like silk, intimate and possessive in a way that makes your chest twist.
"Will you save him or not?"
He regards you for a long moment. You have the unsettling sense that he is seeing far more than you intend to show, past the desperation and the exhaustion, past the walls you have built, and straight into the core of you. Into the parts you keep hidden.
"Very well," His voice is soft. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear you did not know you shed. "I will save the boy, that is your first wish."
"First?" you repeat, confused.
"I am an archfiend, bound to grant three wishes to whoever summons me." His smile widens. He stands, offering you his hand. "You have just used one. Two remain."
"I do not understand..."
"You will." He pulls you to your feet when you take his hand. "Both boys will live. I am feeling generous tonight."
"Both?" You look at Luke, still feverish in the corner. "But I only wished for..."
"Consider it an investment." He crouches beside Kieran, and the red mist flows from his hands, surrounding the boy in a cocoon of crimson light. "After all, you still owe me two wishes. I would hate for you to waste one on something I can provide for free."
The mist seeps into Kieran's skin. Your nephew gasps, his back arching, and you lunge forward without thinking, terror filling your veins.
The archfiend catches your wrist without looking, his grip firm but not painful.
"Wait," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you freeze. "Let it work."
You watch, helpless, as the mist envelops Kieran completely. It swirls around Luke next, the same crimson glow, and both boys go still.
Too still.
"What did you do?" Panic claws at your throat. "What did you..."
Kieran's eyes open.
The fever is gone. His skin is cool, his breathing steady. He blinks up at you, confused but he is alive, healthy, and whole.
Across the room, Luke sits up, the flush gone from his cheeks.
"Big Sis?" Kieran's voice is weak but clear. "What happened?"
You pull free from the archfiend's grip and drop to your knees beside Kieran. You pull him into your arms, sobbing, all the fear and exhaustion and desperation pouring out of you.
"You were sick. You were so sick."
"I feel better now." He sounds bewildered. "I feel good."
You hold him tighter, one arm reaching for Luke, gathering both boys close. They are alive. They are well. Whatever that thing did, whatever impossible magic he used, it worked.
"Thank you," you gasp, looking up at the archfiend through tears. "Thank you, I..."
He flinches.
It is subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it. It was as though your gratitude makes him recoil as if struck.
"Do not thank me," he says, and his voice has gone flat. "I did not do this out of kindness. We have a contract now. Three wishes. You have used one. Two remain."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He moves closer, and you are suddenly aware of how tall he is, how he seems to fill the space despite the cramped room. "The contract must be sealed. Give me your hand."
You hesitate.
"The hand you cut," he clarifies. "I need to close the wound properly."
Slowly, you extend your hand. The cut from the brooch's clasp is still bleeding sluggishly, a thin line across your palm.
He takes your hand in both of his.
His touch is careful. He cradles your hand gently, his thumb tracing the edge of the cut without pressing on it. The red mist gathers at his fingertips, and he looks up at you.
"This may feel strange," he says, his crimson eyes locked on your own. "But it will not hurt, I promise."
He waits.
It takes you a moment to realize he is asking permission and if you consent to what comes next.
When was the last time someone asked?
You nod.
He brings your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the cut.
The touch is feather-light.
It feels nothing like the rough, grasping hands you are used to, nothing like the men who pay Luo for your time, who use your body without thought or care.
This is different.
The red mist flows from his mouth into the wound, sealing it closed. You feel a warmth that has nothing to do with fever, a tingling that spreads from your palm up your arm.
It should frighten you.
It does not.
When he pulls back, the cut is gone. Your skin is smooth and unmarked, as if you were never injured at all. He releases your hand slowly, his fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go.
"There," he says, releasing your hand. "The contract is sealed."
You stare dumbfounded at this otherworldly creature with his white hair and crimson eyes and touch that asks permission.
"Who are you?"
"I have had many names. Most recently, I was Sylus." His mouth curves into that dangerous smile again. "And you are exhausted, kitten, when was the last time you slept?"
"I do not..."
"Sleep," he commands, and power rolls through the word like thunder.
Your eyes close without your permission. Your body sags and you feel him catch you before you hit the floor. The last thing you register is the strange gentleness of his hold as he lowers you to your sleeping mat.
Then darkness takes you.
And for the first time in seven days, you sleep.
♱ a/n: Sorry if the writing is not good, I got sick and was hit with another bad case of writer's block. Then we got short-staffed at work that I had to do several 16 hour shifts so I did not have enough time to recheck everything. I won't make any promises but I'll try to do my best to update the next part or finish the whole fic within the month then maybe finish warlord!sylus then take a break.
I hope you guys will still enjoy reading. I'll answer all your comments along with the comments on the other fics and the asks when I feel better.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Let me know your thoughts.
“fuck is this about?” he asked as his gaze stayed on the screen, the camera already recording. you giggled, a sound he’d once admitted was his favorite with all its sweetness, and he sighed deeply, already accepting defeat. because who the hell did he think he was, before his sweet girl he’d certainly burn the whole world for?
“you’ll see.” you mumbled, a playful grin stretching across your face. the camera angle was already perfect, catching both his figure and every grumpy expression, but you kept checking it just to be sure.
you had stumbled across the trend while scrolling, knowing your boyfriend probably hadn’t since he avoided social media like the plague, claiming that place was full of dimwits. from the moment you’ve seen the trend, you’ve always wanted to try it. and now, quite late to the trend, he stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, an amused look resting on his features, about to partake in a trend he wasn’t even aware of.
after checking the camera one more time, you made your way over, still giggling with a disturbingly joyous tone.
“you sound fucking evil.” he groaned at the sight of your grin since he was already familiar with the scene, aware that you were planning something.
you stopped in front of him, your eyes were sparkling with joy and you were barely containing your laughter. he, visibly defeated, also smiled warmly, a sweet gesture he only ever showed to you. the stretch on his lips could’ve looked unfamiliar to anyone else, but to you it was known and comforting. a gesture so unlike him yet so much of him. so much of a part of him only you knew.
you gently took his arms, lifting them above his head. “the hell?” he asked, but you simply shrugged, making sure he keeps them there. for a moment, you also enjoyed the vision, his tight tee clinging onto his huge biceps and stretching the poor fabric.
then you tangled your fingers into his short, pinkish hair, and rose onto your tiptoes to meet his lips. the moment your lips caught his, he let out a low groan, straight from his chest.
his hands dropped almost instantly. they smoothly found your hips, pulling you against him, his warmth seeping through his hands to your body.
you’d guessed he would probably lower his arms as he openly disliked listening to others, but then again he had built an habit of obeying you over the years you were together —and still, even if he did lower them, you hadn’t expected it to be this quick.
“kuna you are so weak-“ you barely breathed the words with a pleased laugh out before he cut you off, crashing his lips onto yours again with aggressive yet careful moves.
“babe, let me breathe— okay the trend’s over-“ you tried to speak, laughing against his moist lips, as his hands wandered all over your body.
“trend?” he muttered, merely pulling back as his lips still hovered over yours, his brows furrowing, and you laughed.
“mhmm, to see if you’d melt into the kiss. you are sooo weak baby.” he glanced at the camera, and rolled his eyes as he finally understood the situation. even so he kept his hands on yours again hips, his grip tightening just slightly.
“yeah,” he said, a wicked grin tugging at his lips, “so fucking weak.” he said, before leaning in to kiss you again, muffling your laughter with a warm look in his eyes, and an amused glint beneath his gaze.
⚜ cw: fem!reader, non-mc reader, arranged marriage, prince!zayne, physician!reader, angst, unrequited love, hurt no comfort, one-sided pining, medical themes, regret, no happy ending, unbeta'd, unedited
⚜ LaDS Masterlist | Arranged Marriage AUs | AO3
ancient china inspired au where zayne is the second prince and non-mc reader is the fifth daughter of a noble house, brought together through an arranged marriage that neither had one wanted but one of you has been silently in love since the beginning.
you met zayne when you're fifteen, in the imperial medicine academy where your parents had sent you because they think you are unmarriageable. you're not pretty enough, not graceful enough, not talented enough in any of the refined arts. you are the youngest child and the youngest daughter, your four older sisters already made powerful matches while you remain the family's disappointment.
meanwhile, zayne is eighteen, the emperor's second son who prefers medicine than politics. they call him the ice prince at court because while he is brilliant, handsome, and smart, he is cold and only dedicated to studying medicine and research.
on the very first day of your studies in the medicine hall, he finds you reading a medical text too advanced for your age and upside down. he doesn't mock you, instead, he patiently corrects you, explains the concepts, and offer to teach you property if you are serious about learning.
you were.
and you fall in love with him that day. completely and hopelessly in love with a prince who only sees you as a promising student.
for five years, you study under him. he's a patient teacher despite being strict and demanding, and you absorb everything that the teaches you because you feel that you are finally good at something. finally, someone treats you like you matter, unlike your manor where you are only an afterthought for being the youngest child. under his tutelage, you become one of the youngest full physicians in the imperial medicine academy's history, brilliant in your own right, but you mostly thank zayne for his patience with teaching you.
but zayne has never seen you as anything more than a colleague, a protégé, a student.
because zayne is in love with mei, a commoner herbalist from the outer city.
she's everything you are not, vibrant, confident, beautiful, and naturally talented. you watch him fall for her over the years, watch the way his eyes would soften when she laughs, watch him find excuses to be near her, watch him fall into conversation easily with her.
everyone in the court knows.
everyone except the emperor, who chooses not to see it.
when you're twenty, the emperor issues a decree. zayne will marry. someone suitable, someone with noble blood, someone who understands and would not disrupt his work with the medical academy and the bureau.
someone like you.
your family is ecstatic.
you, the forgotten fifth daughter, the unremarkable child, will become a princess to a second prince. its the greatest honor they could imagine.
but you know where zayne's heart lies.
he is devastated and tells you that he didn't want this marriage. you confess that you know he loves mei and you've always known this, but you both know you can't refuse the emperor's decree. the wedding proceeds and you both follow your duty and consummate the wedding night.
life as zayne's wife settles into a routine. you are colleagues who happened to be married. he's never unkind but he never touches you except when protocol demands it or when you are both in front of the court and the emperor. you continue your studies and medical research, treat patients, and slowly die inside from loving someone who will never love you back.
then the plague comes.
it spreads through the port district first. a fever that burns, lesions that weep, a cough that brings up blood. nothing helps. people died by the hundreds by the first two months. the imperial medical academy and bureau becomes a battlefield.
when mei contracts the illness, zayne falls apart. you watch him destroy himself trying to save her, trying every possible treatment, standing vigil outside the room she is quarantined in. it breaks your heart.
then some of your colleagues whisper about experimental trials. someone needs to be infected intentionally, given controlled doses of different treatments. everyone is desperate and its the only way they can think of to find a cure.
you don't even hesitate and volunteer.
when the head physician asks why you did it, you only say that you all need the data and you are not essential to anyone. he wants to disagree but then you made him promise not to tell zayne until you have results that are worth showing.
they inject you with infected blood. within eighteen hours, the fever begins. you document everything meticulously in your research journal. every symptom, every treatment, every response of your body, every observation. the disease ravages your body while you clinically record your own death.
on day four, zayne discovers what you have done. he's furious, terrified, and desperate. his voice is sharp with barely controlled panic when he asks you why you have done it through the partition meant to separate you from the non infected people. you answer him that the bureau needed a human trial and someone had to volunteer.
when he tells you that you have sacrificed yourself without telling him with anger in his voice, you asked him if he would have let you proceed. the answer is written in silence, of course he would have stopped you, you were his wife. you smile sadly and responded that you are a physician first and foremost and he was the one who taught you that.
over the next few days, he tries everything to save you. new compound formulas, more intensive treatments, experimental combinations. he stands outside the partition and talks to you about research, about cases, anything except what's happening between you.
on day seven, delirious with fever, you finally confessed to him that you have loved him since you were fifteen. since you got engaged, even knowing that he wished you were mei. that you have loved him during the wedding night and any nights that he had done his duty even when he was thinking of her. that you have loved him every single day of your marriage, even knowing that he could never love you back.
silence followed the confession. through the haze of your fever, you see his silhouette go completely silent against the partition. when he finally speaks, his voice sounds broken. you laughed sadly and told him its' fine, that you never expected anything different anyway. that you just wanted him to know before you die. that you wanted him to know that someone loved him that much even if its just you.
he repeats your words "just you" as if they have wounded him. but you don't hear it, you are already slipping away.
compound e shows promise. the lesions begin healing first, then the fever breaks in other patients. it's working. the experimental research you are sacrificing your life for will save hundreds of lives.
but its too late for you. the internal damage is too sever. your organs are failing one by one. your body is shutting down.
your final entry, written in characters and barely legible and shaking across the page "zayne. not your fault. never your fault. be happy. that's all I ever wanted. for you to be happy. even if not with me."
you die on day twenty four, in the hour of the dog. zayne is sitting outside your partition, reading your journal entries aloud, discussing treatment modifications for future patients. he doesn't even realize you are dying until he looks up and sees your chest has stopped rising.
that you have stopped breathing.
that you are gone.
three days later, he finally forces himself to read your journal completely. that's when he finally sees everything he missed. the small notes scattered throughout your clinical observations.
hour 12: wondering if zayne has noticed i'm not home. probably not.
hour 87: can hear him shouting at the other physicians about mei's treatment. he sounds so desperate. hope the experiment helps save her.
hour 156: told him I loved him. shouldn't have. whats the point. but wanted him to know that someone loved him so much.
hour 234: thinking about the first day we met. i was so stupid, reading text upside down. he was so patient with me. kind. no one else has ever been that kind.
the journal falls from his hands as realization grips him.
you had loved him since you were fifteen. through several years of studying together, through the arranged marriage, through the years of being treated like a convenient background character in his life. you had loved him while he was so busy looking at another woman that he never actually saw you.
his self-sacrificing and brilliant wife who thought she was disposable.
he had been given the most precious gift. someone who had loved him unconditionally. who had supported his work. who had never demanded more than he could give. and he had thrown it away because he was chasing someone else. he was so busy at looking at what he couldn't have that he never saw what was in front of him.
you were right there. kind, understanding, dedicated. and he never saw you. not really. not the way he should have.
your research had saved mei. your research had saved hundreds, no, thousands of others. the compound that worked became the standard treatment dropping the plague mortality rate from seventy percent to fifteen percent.
everyone lived because of you.
everyone except you.
now you are gone, and zayne finally sees you, but it is too late.
END.
⚜ a/n: i badly needed a short break from writing the part two for caleb's westworld au so here we are. i'm sorry zayne, i know i promised a ned stark x catelyn tully inspired au for you with a a happy ending but you showed up at the cafe today so T_T
⚜ summary: The soulmark system is supposed to be simple: two names, one great love, one companion. But when you, Mei, and Prince Caleb all bear each other's names, the truth becomes impossibly tangled. Some truths reveal themselves only in death, and some loves are understood only when they can no longer be returned.
⚜ cw: MDNI, fem!reader, non-mc reader, soulmate au, arranged marriage au, unrequited love, heavy angst, AGAIN HEAVY ANGST, love triangles, miscommunication, misunderstandings, mc is mei, ancient china au, court politics, tragedy, tw mentions of contraceptives/abortifacients, tw concubinage, tw childbirth, tw death from childbirth, angst with a bittersweet ending, major character death, prince!caleb, no one is the villain they're all just blind, unbetad, unedited.
⚜ wc: 18k, went all out here lol
⚜ a/n: I kind of rushed this because I want to post this before Caleb's myth drops, so I am so sorry if the writing is bad and the angst is meh. Also, due to the character limit, the format might feel weird, I recommend reading in AO3 instead.
⚜ arranged marriage aus | lads masterlist | AO3
I
Your nursemaids tell you stories about soulmarks before you are old enough to understand what they mean.
They say that sometimes a person bears two names on their wrists when they come of age. The marks appear without warning, as if written by an invisible brush. One name is the great love, the soul you are bound to above all others, the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you if you lose them. The other is the companion, the soul that walks beside you through life, steady and true, a hand to hold when the path grows dark.
The marks never tell you which is which, that is what you must learn by living.
Some say the cruelest fate is not to lose a name, but to watch one change color and finally understand which it was. When your great love dies, their name darkens on your wrist like a bruise that never heals. When your companion dies, their name turns grey, like ash, like a memory fading.
You are seven years old when you first hear this story and you do not think about it much. Seven-year-olds do not worry about death or love or the mysteries written on skin that has not yet appeared.
You think about apple orchards instead.
The imperial palace has extensive grounds, and your father's position as a high-ranking lord means your family has chambers here, close to the court. You have the run of the gardens when your tutors release you from your lessons. The apple orchard is your favorite place, the rows and rows of trees heavy with fruit in autumn, branches perfect for climbing in summer, blossoms like snow in spring.
Caleb is always there.
He is a prince, the third son of the Emperor, which means he has more freedom than his older brothers. He does not have to sit through as many state functions or memorize as many treaties. He spends his afternoons in the orchard, reading under the trees or playing with his wooden practice sword.
You are shy around him at first. He is older, ten to your seven, and he is a prince, but he has kind eyes and a patient manner, and when you climb too high and cannot get down, he laughs and helps you, boosting you onto his shoulders to reach the ground.
"You are brave," He sets you down gently. "Most children would cry."
You flush with pride and do not tell him you wanted to cry very much.
Mei comes into your life when you are eight.
Her family are retainers to your household, lower in rank but trusted. Her mother serves your mother, her father serves your father, and now she is assigned to serve you.
Mei is exactly one year older than you, nine years old with serious eyes and a protective streak that runs deeper than the rivers surrounding the capital. She finds you in the orchard one afternoon, crying under an apple tree because one of the palace children, a duke's daughter with a cruel tongue, called you a country bumpkin and plain.
"Who said that?" Mei's voice is fierce. "Tell me who said that."
You shake your head, hiccuping.
"It does not matter. She is stupid and her eyes are bad." Mei sits beside you, pulling you against her side. "You are not plain. You are my lady. Mine to serve, mine to protect, and anyone who says different is a liar."
You rest your head on her shoulder and feel the tears dry. There is something about Mei that makes you feel safe. Something about the way her arm wraps around you, solid and certain.
"Will you stay with me?" you ask, and your voice is small.
"Always," Mei promises and reaches for your hand. "Where you go, I go."
Caleb finds you both there an hour later, and that is how it begins.
The three of you in the orchard, Mei's hand always finding yours first, Caleb's laugh bright as lantern lights, and you in the middle, not yet understanding what you are building.
You turn nine, then ten. Caleb turns thirteen, then fourteen. Mei turns ten then eleven, and she grows tall and graceful, her childhood roundness replaced by elegant lines.
You notice the way Caleb looks at her.
It starts small. He stumbles over his words when she speaks to him. He watches her when he thinks no one is looking. He brings her gifts, ribbons for her hair, a hairpin carved from jade, a book of poetry he claims he found in the market but you suspect he bought specifically for her.
Mei accepts these gifts politely, but there is distance in her manner. She does not blush nor simper. She does not gaze at him the way the court ladies gaze at princes.
She looks at you instead.
You are too young to understand what that means.
The years continue to pass. You turn twelve, then thirteen. Caleb is sixteen now, nearly a man, his shoulders broadening, his voice deepening. He has begun training with the imperial guard, learning strategy and swordcraft. He is good at it. Everyone says so.
Mei is fifteen now, and she is beautiful. You are not blind to it. The court notices her now, despite her lower rank. Men watch her when she walks through the palace gardens. Marriage offers have begun arriving for her family to consider.
She dismisses them all.
"I am not interested," she tells you one evening while she is brushing your hair in your chambers. "My place is here, with you."
"But you could marry well," you protest. "You could have your own household, your own…"
"I could." Her hands are gentle, working through a tangle. "But I do not want to. I want to stay here with you. Is that so strange?"
You do not know how to answer that.
Caleb's feelings for Mei are no longer a secret, at least not to you. He is obvious about it now, seeking her out in the gardens, asking her to walk with him, writing poetry that he does not give her but leaves where you might find it.
You read one once.
It compared her eyes to lotus pools and her grace to a heron taking flight.
You fold it carefully and return it to its hiding place. You do not tell anyone about it. You certainly do not tell Mei. Watching Caleb fall in love with her is both painful and beautiful. Painful because you…
You do not let yourself finish that thought.
The apple pies start when you are thirteen.
The cook in your father's kitchens makes them perfectly, sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the filling rich with cinnamon. She makes them for the household, small luxuries to brighten the long summer days.
Mei steals the first one.
"Come on," she whispers, catching your hand and pulling you toward the back stairs. "While everyone is at court."
You follow because you always follow her.
You sneak through the servants' corridors, giggling, the stolen pie warm in Mei's hands. You eat it in the orchard under your favorite tree, passing it back and forth, licking cinnamon from your fingers.
"We will get in trouble," you complain, but you are laughing.
"We will not. I will take the blame if anyone asks." Mei grins at you, her face smudged with apple filling. "Worth it though, was it not worth it?"
It was. It is. Every stolen moment with her is worth it.
You steal pies together all that summer.
It becomes your secret, your private rebellion.
Sometimes Caleb joins you, and then it is the three of you again, laughing, eating too fast, lying in the grass and watching clouds drift across the sky. Those are the good days. The golden days. The ones you will remember later when everything has gone wrong.
You turn fourteen. Your childhood is ending, sliding away like silk through your fingers. You begin attending more formal functions, your education intensifying. You learn household management and history, poetry and music. You learn how to smile and curtsy and all other things that daughters of noble houses do.
You learn how to watch Caleb watch Mei and pretend your heart is not breaking. You are old enough to name the feeling that has been growing in your chest for years now.
You are in love with Caleb.
You have been in love with him since you were seven years old and he lifted you down from a tree. You have been in love with him through every afternoon in the orchard, every stolen pie, every moment of laughter and lightness. Every time he shared his cloak when it rained, every time he noticed you were sad before you said anything, every kindness you took for granted.
But he does not see you, not the way you want him to.
He sees only Mei.
You cannot blame him.
Mei is extraordinary. She is everything you are not, confident where you are hesitant, bold where you are careful, beautiful that sometimes people stop and stare.
She is your dearest friend. Your protector. Your companion.
How can you resent her when you love her almost as much as you love him?
You tell no one about your feelings for Caleb. Not Mei, the person you trust the most, not your mother, not even your diary. You bury them deep, pressing them down like stones at the bottom of a river. You smile when he talks about Mei. You nod sympathetically when he confides his fears that she will never return his affection.
You are a good friend. A very good companion.
II
Your mark appears on the morning of your fifteenth birthday.
You wake to find two names written on your inner left wrist in ink that seems to shimmer when you move your arm.
Caleb
Mei
You sit on your bed for a long time, staring at your wrist. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
Two names.
One is your great love. One is your companion.
You know with certainty that it feels like destiny that Caleb is your great love. He has to be. You have loved him for eight years. He is written in your bones, carved into your heart. The mark is simply confirming what you have always felt.
And Mei…
Mei is your companion. Your truest friend. The person who has walked beside you through childhood, who has held your hand promised to never leave.
It makes perfect sense.
You should feel happy. You should feel hopeful. Instead, you feel strange, as if the world has shifted and nothing is quite where it should be.
You dress quickly and go to find Mei.
She is in her family's chambers, and when she opens the door, you see immediately that her mark has appeared as well. She is wearing longer sleeves, but you can see the edge of ink peeking out at her wrist.
"It happened," you say, and your voice sounds breathless.
Mei nods.
She does not look happy. Her expression is unreadable.
"Mine too," she replies, her voice quiet and almost reluctant.
You enter her room and close the door behind you.
"Will you show me?"
For a moment, you think she will refuse, then she pushes back her sleeve.
Two names.
Your name and Caleb.
The same names as yours. The same two people.
You do not know what to say, you just stand there, staring at her wrist.
"We have the same marks," you say, and it is not a question.
"Yes."
"That means..." You trail off.
Mei pulls her sleeve back down, hiding the names.
"It means we are both connected to each other and to him. That is all."
But it cannot be all. The marks mean something, they have to mean something.
"Do you think..." You wet your lips. "Do you think you know which is which? For you, I mean?"
Mei looks at you for a long moment. There is an emotion in her eyes you cannot name, it makes your chest tight.
"I think," she starts slowly, "that the marks do not tell us. We have to live and discover the truth ourselves."
"But you must have a sense. You must feel…"
"I feel many things." Mei cuts you off gently. "But I do not think it is wise to make assumptions. Not yet."
You want to demand she tell you what she is thinking, but Mei has always been private, and you have learned not to press when she closes herself off.
"Will you tell me?" you ask instead. "When you know for certain?"
"Yes." She takes your hand, squeezes once. "I will tell you everything. I promise."
You leave her chambers feeling unsettled. The conversation felt wrong, but you cannot put your finger on what.
Caleb's mark appears three days later.
He comes to the orchard in the afternoon, face flushed with excitement, and shows you and Mei his wrist without preamble.
Your name
Mei
The same names. All three of you connected in a triangle, bound by invisible threads of fate.
"This is it," Caleb looks at Mei with such naked hope that you have to look away. "This is proof. You are one of my soulmates, Mei. I knew it. I have always known it."
Mei says nothing. Her face is very still.
"Mei?" Caleb's smile falters. "Are you not happy?"
"I am..." She pauses. "I am surprised. I had not thought…"
"You have my name, do you not?" He reaches for her wrist, pushes back her sleeve before she can stop him. You see the flicker of emotion cross his face when he sees your name alongside his. "We all have each other's names. We are all bound together."
"Yes," Mei says quietly. "We are."
"Then this is fate." Caleb is still smiling. "You see? The gods have decided for us. You cannot refuse me now. You cannot say we are not meant to be together."
Mei gently pulls her arm free.
"The marks tell us we are connected. They do not tell us how."
"One of us is the great love. One of us is the companion." Caleb's voice is earnest. "I know which you are, Mei. I have known since I was thirteen years old."
You stand there, watching this exchange, and you feel as if you are disappearing. Neither of them is looking at you. Neither of them is acknowledging that your name is there too, that you are part of this triangle as well.
"Caleb," Mei says, and her voice is gentle but firm. "This is not the time for such declarations."
"When is the time?" He is pleading. "I have waited years, Mei. Years. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will stop. Tell me I am wrong."
Mei does not answer. She is looking at you instead, her expression unreadable.
"I think," you speak instead, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, "that we should not make assumptions. The marks have only just appeared. We have time to understand what they mean."
Caleb finally looks at you. You see the moment he remembers you are there, standing beside him, your wrist bearing the same names as theirs.
"You are right," he says, and he sounds chastened. "I am sorry. I got carried away. This is…this affects all of us. Not just me."
"Yes." You manage a smile. "It affects all of us."
But you already know that Caleb's mind is already made up. He has decided Mei is his great love. He has decided the story of his marks before he has lived it.
And you are the companion. The friend, the third point to fate’s triangle.
Later that night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist with one finger.
Caleb. Mei.
You know which is which, you have always known.
Caleb is your great love. He is the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you when you lose him.
Mei is your companion. Your steadiest friend. The one who walks beside you.
The marks have simply confirmed what your heart already knew.
III
The summons comes three months after the marks appear.
Your father's household is to meet with the imperial court to discuss a formal arrangement. You, Mei, and your families are to attend. Caleb will be there as well, representing the royal family's interests.
You know what this is before you arrive. You have heard your mother and father discussing it in low voices, arguing behind closed doors. You have seen the way the court ladies watch Caleb now, whispering behind their fans, calculating his worth as a potential match.
You know what is coming, and you feel numb about it.
The meeting takes place in one of the smaller audience halls. Your father and mother sit on cushions across from the Emperor's representative, an elderly minister with shrewd eyes and a neutral expression. Mei's parents are there as well, seated slightly behind, their faces tense.
Caleb stands to one side in formal court robes. He looks older than his eighteen years, solemn and princely. He does not look at you or Mei. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw tight.
The minister speaks first. His voice is dry and formal, reciting the terms like he is reading from a ledger.
The arrangement is this:
You will be betrothed to Caleb as his primary wife. Your rank demands it. You are the daughter of a high-ranking lord, a princess in all but name. The match is appropriate, politically advantageous, entirely proper.
Mei will be given to Caleb as his concubine. Her family's status as retainers, servants, three generations of faithful service but no title, no land, no name of consequence, makes her ineligible for the role of wife, but the marks have spoken. The gods have written both of your names on his wrist, and to ignore the marks entirely would be to insult heaven.
Any child that Mei bears will be recorded as yours. The lineage will be clean. On paper, you will be the mother of all his children, whether they come from your body or hers, ensuring the imperial bloodline remains unbroken.
Everyone in the room remains very still while the minister speaks. You focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, because if you focus on that, you do not have to think about what is being said.
When the minister finishes, your father speaks. "This arrangement is acceptable to our house."
Mei's father speaks next, his voice tight. "It is acceptable to ours as well."
They do not ask you. They do not ask Mei. Women do not get asked in matters like these.
Caleb finally looks at you, but you cannot understand his expression. It is blank, the face he has learned to perfect for courtly functions. Then he looks at Mei, and his face changes and softens.
The minister continues with more details.
The formal ceremony will take place in three years. There will be a betrothal period where you and Caleb will be expected to spend time together, to learn each other, to prepare for married life.
Mei will move into Caleb's household two weeks after the wedding. That is the tradition, the wife is installed first, before the concubine is brought in.
You find this detail particularly bitter. Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending to be a new wife before your dearest friend, your companion, is moved into the same house, into your husband's bed.
The meeting ends. You stand and bow. Everyone bows. You are dismissed.
In the courtyard outside, Mei catches your arm, her grip is tight enough to hurt.
"I do not want this," she whispers. "I do not want him. You know that, do you not? You know I have never wanted him."
"Then why did your parents agree?" You cannot keep the hurt from your voice.
"They had no choice. When the imperial court makes a request, it is not truly a request." Mei's eyes are bright with anger. "But I am telling you now, I do not want this. I will not pretend I am happy about it."
"Neither am I." The words come out sharper than you intend.
Mei flinches.
"You are angry with me."
"I am not angry with you. I am angry with…" You gesture helplessly at the palace around you, at the whole structure of it, the system that decides women's lives without consulting them. "I am angry with everything."
"Then we are in agreement." Mei's voice softens. "We are both trapped."
You look at her and see the exhaustion in her face. She looks older than her sixteen years. There are shadows under her eyes, and her usual confidence is stripped away.
"I need you to do something for me," you hear yourself say.
Mei straightens.
"Anything."
"I need you to..." You stop before forcing yourself to continue. "I need you to go along with this. Be what Caleb wants. Be what Caleb needs."
"What?" Mei's voice is sharp. "Why would I do that?"
"Because if you do not, he will be miserable, and if he is miserable, this whole arrangement falls apart, and then what happens? They send you to a different household? Marry you off to some stranger? I will lose you entirely." You are speaking too fast now, the words tumbling out. "But if you do this, if you accept your position in his household, then we stay together. You and I. That is all I care about. Staying together."
"You cannot ask this of me."
"I am asking. I am begging." Your voice breaks. "Please, Mei. Please do this, if not for him, then do it for me."
Mei stares at you for a long moment. You see her throat work, see her blink rapidly as if fighting tears.
"You do not understand what you are asking."
"I do."
"You do not." Her voice is cold. "But I will do it. If this is what you truly want, I will do it. I will be what he wants. I will be what he needs."
The words sound like a vow and a curse all at once.
You reach for her hand.
"Thank you."
Mei does not answer. She pulls away from you and walks across the courtyard, her back straight. You watch her go and feel something inside you breaks.
Later, when you are alone in your chambers, you will wonder why you did that. Why you asked her to sacrifice herself. Why you thought that was the solution, but in this moment, you tell yourself it makes sense. You tell yourself you are keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her yours in the only way the world will allow.
You tell yourself many lies that evening.
IV
The betrothal period passes in a blur.
Three years is a long time to pretend.
You spend time with Caleb as required. You take walks in the gardens, attend court functions together, sit across from each other at formal dinners and make polite conversation. You learn his preferences, how he likes poetry but cannot stand most music, how he has a sweet tooth he tries to hide, how he is terrible at strategy games but too proud to admit it.
He is kind to you. He treats you with the respect due a future wife, but his eyes are always searching the room for Mei. You pretend not to notice.
Mei, true to her word, allows Caleb's courtship. She accepts his gifts. She walks with him when he asks. She smiles politely when he attempts poetry. She does everything a concubine-to-be is expected to do.
But there is a distance in her manner. There is a wall she has built between herself and him, invisible but unmistakable. She goes through everything without being truly present.
You wonder if Caleb notices. You suspect he does not.
There are moments, though. Moments when it feels almost like before.
One afternoon in the second year of your betrothal, the three of you find yourselves in the orchard together. It is autumn, the trees heavy with fruit, the air crisp and clean. Caleb plucks an apple from a low-hanging branch and tosses it to you.
"Remember when we used to steal pies from the kitchen?"
You catch the apple, surprised by the sudden nostalgia in his voice.
"Of course. Mei was always the one who got us into trouble."
"I was the one who got us out of it," Mei retorts, but she is smiling.
It is a real smile, not the polite mask she wears at court.
"You were both terrible influences." Caleb's voice is warm, teasing, he sounds like the boy you knew at ten. "I was a perfect prince before I met you."
"You were boring," Mei counters.
"I was dignified."
"Boring," you and Mei say in unison, and then all three of you are laughing.
You sit in the grass, passing the apple back and forth, and for a moment, it is like nothing has changed, like you are still children without complications, still friends who steal pies and climb trees and watch clouds.
"I wish it could stay like this," Caleb admits quietly.
The words hang in the air. You want to agree, want to reach for that feeling and hold it tight, but Mei's smile fades.
"It cannot," she says. "It never could."
Caleb's face closes off. You look away. The three of you sit in silence for a while longer, and then Caleb makes an excuse and leaves. Mei watches him go, her expression unreadable.
"Someone will always be unhappy," she murmurs so softly you almost miss it.
You do not know who she means, perhaps all of you.
The wedding ceremony is elaborate and exhausting.
You are eighteen now, no longer a child.
You wear red silk embroidered with phoenixes in gold thread. Your hair is arranged in an intricate style that takes hours and hurts your scalp. Your face is painted and your lips stained crimson. You look like a doll. A beautiful, expensive doll.
Caleb wears matching red, his robes heavy with embroidery. At twenty one, he has grown into his features, handsome and princely and entirely unlike the boy you used to steal pies with in the orchard.
You exchange vows in front of the entire court. You drink from the same cup. You bow to his ancestors and to the Emperor. You become his wife in the eyes of the gods and the empire. Through it all, you smile and say the right words and do not let yourself feel anything.
After the ceremony, there is a feast. Hundreds of guests, endless courses, music and dancing. You sit beside Caleb at the head table and accept congratulations. People toast your health, your happiness, your future children.
Mei is somewhere in the crowd. You catch glimpses of her throughout the evening, always at a distance, never meeting your eyes. She is wearing pale pink, a concubine's color, and she looks beautiful and sad and so very alone.
The ceremony for taking Mei as concubine happens a week later. It is quieter, more private. Only close family and a few court officials attend.
Mei wears crimson as well, though a simpler style than your wedding robes. She kneels before Caleb and you, you, his wife, granting permission for her to enter the household. She bows three times. She pledges her loyalty to you first, then to him.
When she rises, her eyes are dry, but you see the strain in the set of her shoulders.
That evening, Caleb comes to your chambers.
It is your wedding night, delayed by a week to accommodate the concubine ceremony. Custom demands he spend this night with you, his wife, before he is allowed to turn his attention elsewhere.
You are ready or as ready as you can be. Your maidservant has prepared you, dressed you in a thin sleeping robe, arranged your hair. You sit on the edge of the bed and try to calm your racing heart.
Caleb enters. He looks nervous. He is still in his formal robes, though he has removed the outer layers.
"You look lovely," he says, and it sounds reflexive, the thing he was supposed to say.
"Thank you." Your voice is steady.
He sits beside you on the bed and the mattress dips under his weight. You can smell the incense that was burned during the ceremony earlier, still clinging to his clothes.
"I…" He stops."You understand, do you not?"
The question hangs in the air. You could pretend you do not know what he means. You could make him say it outright, but what would be the point? You are not cruel enough to make him spell out what you already know.
"Yes," you reply quietly. "I understand."
"I do not want to hurt you." His voice is earnest. He sounds young suddenly, younger than his twenty one years. "You are my wife. I will always respect you. I will always honor you, but my heart…"
"Is elsewhere." You finish the sentence for him. "I know, Caleb. I have always known."
He looks at you and you see guilt flicker across his face.
"Forgive me."
"Do not be sorry. The arrangement was not your choice any more than it was mine."
"Still. You deserve better than this. Better than a husband who…" He cannot finish the sentence.
You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from sword practice.
"Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Please."
"I think we can build a good life together. Perhaps not the life you dreamed of, or the one I dreamed of, but a good life nonetheless. We have been friends since childhood. That is more than most married couples can claim."
"Friends." He sounds sad. "Yes. We have been that."
"So let us continue to be that. Friends who share a household. Friends who support each other, and who fulfill our duties with grace." You squeeze his hand once. "We do not have to pretend to have great passion when we both know the truth."
"You are generous," Caleb says.
"I am practical."
"No. You are generous, and I do not deserve your kindness."
He leans forward and kisses you. It is gentle, chaste, a kiss between friends rather than lovers, then he stands.
"I should go," he says. "I should let you rest."
You nod. You do not point out that this is your wedding night, that custom demands more than a single kiss. You do not mention that the servants will notice, will gossip, will speculate about what it means that he is leaving so quickly. You let him go.
When the door closes behind him, you sit very still for a long time. You do not cry. You simply sit and breathe and accept that this is your life now.
Your marriage. Your role. Your future.
The next morning, you learn that Caleb spent the night in Mei's chambers.
V
The first months of marriage settle into a rhythm.
You wake early, attend to your duties as Caleb's wife. You manage the household, oversee the servants, handle correspondence. You are good at this, the careful navigation of social hierarchies, the endless small decisions that keep a prince’s estate running smoothly. Your mother trained you well.
Caleb is often away during the day, attending court functions or military training. When he is home, he is pleasant. He asks about your day. He ensures you have everything you need. He is a model husband in every way except the one that matters.
Mei lives in the chambers adjacent to yours, and you see her every day. You take your meals together when Caleb is absent. You walk in the gardens, sit in the pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, sometimes you steal away to the kitchens late at night to share rice cakes and talk about the rumors you hear at court.
In those moments, it almost feels like before, like you are still children, but then Caleb comes home, and everything shifts.
He seeks Mei out immediately. He brings her gifts, bolts of silk, jade ornaments, books of poetry. He writes her letters even though they live in the same household. He requests her company for meals, for evening walks, for viewing the moon.
Mei accepts these attentions with polite grace. She never refuses him. She never encourages him either. She exists in a strange middle ground, neither welcoming nor cold, simply present.
You watch this courtship from the sidelines and try to pretend it does not hurt.
The court notices, of course. The servants gossip. The other noble wives watch your household with speculation and poorly-concealed pity. Everyone can see that your husband prefers his concubine to his wife.
You hold your head high and refuse to acknowledge their whispers.
One evening, during a court banquet, one of the Empress' ladies makes a comment just loud enough for you to hear.
"How gracious Her Highness is, to allow her husband such obvious devotion to the concubine. Most wives would be beside themselves."
You smile serenely.
"Why should I object? Mei has served my family since childhood. She is dear to me. My husband's affection for her brings me joy, not sorrow."
The lie comes easily, you have had months of practice. The woman looks disappointed. She was clearly hoping for drama, for tears, for some crack in your composure. You give her nothing.
Later, Mei finds you in a quiet corner of the garden.
"You do not have to do that," she says.
"Do what?"
"Lie for me. Defend me. Pretend you are happy with this situation."
"I am not lying. You are dear to me."
"But you are not happy." Mei's voice is soft. "I can see it, even if no one else can."
You look away, focusing on the lotus flowers blooming in the pond.
"Happiness was never part of the arrangement."
"It should have been." There is anger in her tone now. "You should have been cherished. You should have been…"
"Please do not." You cut her off gently. "I do not want your pity any more than I want theirs."
"This is not pity. This is…" She stops. When you glance at her, her expression looks pained. "I wish things were different. That is all."
"So do I, but wishing changes nothing."
Mei moves closer, takes your hand. Her fingers are cool against yours.
"I would give this up in a heartbeat if I could. I would leave this household, go anywhere, if it would make you happy."
"You cannot leave. Where would you go? Back to your family? They have no wealth to support you. To another household as a servant? That would be a worse fate than this." You squeeze her hand. "We are bound together now, you and I. We must make the best of it."
"Then let me make it easier for you," Mei replies. "Give me leave to refuse his attentions. I do not want them. I have never wanted them."
You have noticed this. The way she holds herself distant when Caleb visits her chambers. The way her smiles never quite reach her eyes. The careful way she accepts his poetry without reading it aloud.
"If you refuse him outright, it will cause scandal. He is a prince. His pride…"
"His pride is not my concern."
"It is mine." You pull your hand free. "He is my husband. His honor is my honor. I will not have the court saying he was rejected by his own concubine."
Mei's expression closes.
"As you wish."
She turns to leave, but you catch her sleeve.
"Mei, wait. I did not mean…"
"You meant exactly what you said." Her voice is cutting. "You want me to continue this charade. To let him court me, to accept his gifts, to pretend I might care for him someday. All so you can save face at court."
"That is not fair."
"Fair?" Mei laughs bitterly. "What about any of this is fair? You married a man who loves me. I am forced to live with him and accept his attention when I…" She stops abruptly.
"When you what?"
"When I would rather be anywhere else." She finishes the sentence carefully.
You study her face, trying to understand what she is not saying, but Mei has always been good at keeping secrets. She has been keeping them your entire lives.
"I will not ask you to leave," you say finally. "But I will not give you permission to publicly reject him either. Find some middle path. Please. For me."
Mei nods once, then she walks away, leaving you standing alone beside the lotus pond.
The Moon Festival arrives in the eighth month of your marriage.
The court celebrates with lanterns and music, feasting and poetry.
You sit beside Caleb at the festivities, smiling and nodding as officials and nobles pay their respects. The celebration goes late. When you finally return to your chambers, exhausted, you do not expect Caleb to follow, but he does.
"May I come in?" he asks from the doorway.
You are surprised enough that you simply nod. He enters, closing the door behind him. He is still in his formal robes, though he has loosened them slightly. His face is flushed, from wine, perhaps, or from something else.
"Mei turned me away," he says, his voice raw…"She said she was tired. She said…" He stops. "It does not matter what she said."
Ah. So that is why he is here.
Not because he wants you, but because she refused him.
You should send him away. You should tell him you will not be a substitute for the woman he really wants, but you are tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of everything.
"You can stay," you hear yourself say. "If you wish."
Caleb looks at you for a long moment, then he nods.
He is gentler than you expected, almost tender. He undresses you slowly, his hands careful, and when he lies beside you, he takes his time. There is a loneliness in the way he touches you, as if he is seeking comfort rather than passion.
You let yourself sink into it. You let yourself pretend, just for these few hours, that he is here because he wants you, that his hands on your skin mean something beyond duty or disappointment.
Afterward, he does not leave immediately. He lies beside you in the darkness, his breathing slowly evening out. You think he has fallen asleep, then his arm slides around your waist.
It is unconscious, you think. A reflex. He pulls you back against him, his body curving around yours, his face buried in your hair. He holds you like he does not want to let go.
You go very still and barely breathe. You do not want to break this moment, this unexpected gentleness. Slowly, carefully, you place your hand over his where it rests on your stomach. His fingers tighten slightly, then relax. His breathing deepens. He is asleep.
You lie there in the darkness, held in your husband's arms, and let yourself pretend. Just for tonight. Just for these few stolen hours.
You pretend he came to you because he wanted to. You pretend the tenderness was real. You pretend that when morning comes, he will wake and smile at you, kiss you, and choose to stay.
You know better. You have always known better, but for tonight, in the darkness, you let yourself hope.
In the morning, he is gone.
The pillow beside you still holds the shape of his head. The blankets are tangled where he slept, but Caleb himself is nowhere to be found. You press your hand to the pillow, feeling the lingering warmth, and your heart breaks a little more.
A few weeks later, you have dinner with Caleb and Mei together, a rare occurrence now that the household has settled.
The meal is pleasant enough.
Caleb discusses trade negotiations with the northern provinces. Mei asks about a new shipment of silk from the south. You contribute everything that you have observed from the outer court.
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Three friends sharing a meal, the conversation flowing easily.
"Do you remember," Caleb says suddenly, "the year we stole pies every week for an entire summer?"
"The cook never did figure out who was taking them," Mei smiles.
"Because you were clever about it," you add. "You always took them when she stepped away, and you replaced the covering so it looked untouched."
"We were terrible," Caleb says, but he is laughing.
"We were children," Mei corrects.
The three of you reminisce for a while, trading stories and memories. For a while, the complications of your arrangement fall away. But then the meal ends, Caleb reaches for Mei's hand as they stand.
"Walk with me?" he asks her.
Mei glances at you. You see the regret and apology in her eyes.
"Of course," she tells him.
They leave together. You sit alone at the table, surrounded by empty dishes and fading laughter.
Someone will always be unhappy, Mei said once. You are beginning to understand what she meant.
The months continue, and the pattern repeats.
Caleb pursues, Mei deflects, you observe. The court whispers grow louder. Some say Caleb is bewitched by his concubine. Others say you are too patient, too forgiving, that you should assert your position as primary wife more forcefully.
A few, a very few, say quiet things about Mei's loyalty. About how she seems to spend more time with you than with Caleb. About the way her gaze follows you across rooms.
You do not listen to those whispers. You cannot afford to. Instead, you focus on your duties. You embroider. You manage the household. You write letters to your family. You sit through endless court functions with a smile painted on your face.
And at night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist and remind yourself which is which.
Caleb, your great love, your husband, the man who will never love you back.
Mei, your companion, your truest friend, the one who walks beside you through all of this.
You repeat this until you believe it. You have to believe it. What else is there?
VI
The discovery comes on an ordinary morning.
You wake feeling nauseous.
At first, you assume it is something you ate at the banquet the night before, the fish had tasted strange, but the nausea persists through the morning, worsening when you try to take tea. Your maidservant takes one look at your face and goes very still.
"Your highness," she speaks carefully. "Have your monthly courses come?"
You open your mouth to say yes, then stop. When was the last time? You have been so consumed with household matters, with court functions, with carefully not thinking about your marriage, that you have lost track.
"No," you say slowly. "Not for... not for six weeks at least."
The maidservant's face brightens.
"Your highness, you may be with child."
The words do not feel real. They hang in the air, impossible. You and Caleb have barely touched since the wedding night. While he comes to your chambers perhaps once a month, he only stays as long as necessary to maintain appearances. Your couplings are brief, done for duty rather than the passion of newlyweds.
Except for the Moon Festival, that night had been different.
"Send for the physician," you instruct her. "Quietly. I want no announcement until we are certain."
The physician confirms it that afternoon. You are pregnant, and the child should arrive in early spring. After he leaves, you sit in your chambers and try to understand what this means.
A child. Your child. Caleb's child.
Word travels faster than you anticipated. You are still in your dressing gown when Caleb appears at your door. His face is flushed, as if he has been running.
"Are you sick?" The words come out rushed. "The servants said you called for the physician. Are you ill? Is something wrong?"
You stare at him, surprised by the urgency in his voice.
"I am not sick."
"Then why…" He stops, looking at you more closely, at the way your hand unconsciously rests on your stomach. Understanding dawns on his face. "Are you…"
"I am with child." The words come out quieter than you intended. "The physician just confirmed it."
For a moment, Caleb simply stands there, then he crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms. The embrace is fierce and desperate. His hands shake where they press against your back. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, feel the tremor that runs through his whole body.
"Are you safe?" he asks, his voice muffled against your hair. "Are you well? Does anything hurt? Do you need…"
"I am fine," you say, bewildered. "Caleb, I am fine."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face. His eyes are bright, searching.
"You are certain? You are not in pain? The physician said everything is well?"
"Yes. Everything is well."
"An heir," he breathes, but there is something else in his voice. Something beyond political satisfaction. "You are carrying my child."
He pulls you close again, and this time you feel it, the fear beneath the relief. He is trembling, actually trembling, his breath uneven.
"I heard about your mother’s pregnancies," he states gently. "After we married, I asked some servants in your household, I know she had difficulties and I…" His voice breaks. "I cannot lose you. Do you understand? I cannot."
The words stun you. You stand rigid in his arms, trying to understand what you are hearing.
"Caleb…"
He kisses your forehead. It is tender, lingering, more intimate than any kiss he has given you before. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.
"Forgive me," he says. "I am being foolish. This is good news. This is very good news."
He steps away, composing himself, but you can still see the tremor in his hands, the brightness in his eyes.
"I should let you rest," he starts. "You need rest. The baby needs…" He stops himself. "I will make sure you have everything you need. Anything you want, just tell me."
Then he is gone, leaving you standing in your chambers, trying to understand what just happened.
Mei finds you an hour later, staring at nothing.
"I heard," She starts as soon as she enters your chambers "The whole household has heard by now."
You turn to look at her.
"Did you know Caleb asked the servants about my mother’s pregnancies?"
Mei pauses.
"No, but it does not surprise me."
"Why not?"
"He cares for you." Mei states it simply, as if it is obvious. "More than you think, more than he knows how to show."
"He only cares about his heir."
"No." Mei's voice is firm. "He cares about you. I have seen it in the small things he does"
"Those are just…"
"They are not just anything." Mei takes your hands. "He may love the idea of me, but he cares for you. There is a difference."
You want to argue. You want to insist she is wrong, but the memory of Caleb's embrace, his trembling hands, his fear, it sits heavy in your chest.
"He told me he cannot lose me," you whisper.
"Because he cannot." Mei reaches for your hand. "You are his wife. The mother of his child now. Someone he has known since childhood. Whether he understands it or not, you matter to him."
"But he loves you."
"He thinks he does." Mei's smile is sad. "But love is more than longing, more than pursuit. Sometimes it is in the quiet things. The unconscious gestures. The fears we cannot name."
You do not know what to say to that.
The weeks pass. Your body changes. Your stomach begins to round. You feel the first fluttering movements, strange and wondrous.
The court is told. Congratulations pour in. The Emperor himself sends a letter expressing his pleasure at the news of his grandchild. Your parents visit, your mother hovering anxiously, your father looking pleased in his austere way. Everyone is happy for you.
Caleb becomes more present. Not in the way you once hoped for, he still spends his evenings with Mei, but in smaller ways. He insists you sit during lengthy court functions. When you attend audiences, he cuts them shorter than usual. He checks that your chambers are warm enough without you asking.
Once, when you grow dizzy in the garden, he appears at your side before you can call for help, his hand steadying you, his voice tight with worry as he walks you back inside. You do not know how he knew you were there. You do not ask.
When you are five months along, Mei arranges an afternoon tea in your chambers. It is just the three of you. You, Mei, and Caleb. The conversation starts awkwardly.
Caleb discusses updates about the military. You share things about the household. Mei adds the preparations for the coming winter. Then Caleb says something about your lack of rest, and Mei's eyes flash.
"Perhaps if you visited more often as a husband rather than as an official checking on imperial property, she would feel less alone," Mei says, her voice sharp.
Caleb goes very still.
"I visit regularly."
"You visit to ensure your heir is well, not to ensure she is well."
"That is not…" Caleb stops. "That is not fair."
"Is it not?" Mei turns to you. "When was the last time he asked about your wellbeing that was not related to the child?"
You open your mouth to defend him, but you cannot think of an instance. Caleb's face has gone pale.
"I…"
"She is your wife," Mei continues, relentless. "She carries your child. The least you could do is see her as more than a vessel for your heir."
The silence that follows is heavy, painful. Then the baby kicks. It is strong enough that you gasp, your hand flying to your stomach. Both Caleb and Mei turn to you immediately.
"What is wrong?" Caleb asks, alarmed.
"Nothing. The baby just…" You place your hand over the spot. "The baby is moving."
Caleb stares at your hand on your stomach.
"May I…" He stops. "Would you mind if I…"
You take his hand and place it where you felt the movement. For a moment, nothing happens, then the baby kicks again, directly against Caleb's palm. His face transforms, wonder replaces the tension from moments before.
"I felt it," he breathes. "I felt…"
"Let me feel too," Mei says softly.
You take her hand and place it beside Caleb's. The three of you wait, silent, until the baby kicks again.
"Strong," Mei gasps, and there are tears in her eyes. "Your child is strong."
"Ours," you say instinctively. "You said you would help me raise them, that makes them ours."
Mei's fingers curl against your stomach. The baby kicks again, and for this one fragile moment, the three of you are connected. All of you feeling this new life, this small person who exists because of all your complicated relationships.
"I will do better," Caleb states, he is looking at you now, not at your stomach. "You are right, Mei. I have been seeing her as the mother of my heir, not as…" He stops. "I will do better."
Mei pulls her hand back.
"See that you do."
The moment breaks. Caleb stands and excuses himself. Mei begins clearing the table, but something has shifted. You sit there, your hands on your stomach, and let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope.
Then one afternoon, you find Mei alone and preparing herbs in the kitchen.
You watch her work for a moment before you recognize the plants she is crushing. You grew up in a lord's household. You know what tansy and pennyroyal look like when they are ground together. You know what they are used for.
The realization strikes you. Abortifacients.
"Mei?” You call her name before you can stop yourself.
She turns, sees you, sees the herbs. Her face goes pale.
"How long?" you ask.
"Since the beginning." She replies without shame. "I will not bear his children. I will not give him that."
"But why? A child would…"
"Would what? Tie me to him forever? Make this pretense real?" Mei's voice is sharp. "I am not you. I do not accept this quietly. I do not make the best of my cage."
The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. You take a step back as if struck.
"That was cruel.”
"Yes." Mei looks away. "Forgive me, that was cruel."
"If you hate this so much, why do you stay?"
"Because you asked me to." Her response comes quickly. "You asked me to be what he wants. To go along with this. To stay here, with you. So I stay."
"I did not know you were this miserable."
"Of course you did not know. You are too busy being miserable yourself to notice anyone else."
The observation is so accurate it steals your breath. You stand there in the kitchen, staring at each other, and for the first time, you see the full weight of what you have asked of her. The sacrifices she has made. The pain she has endured, all because you begged her to stay.
"I am sorry," you tell her, but the words feel inadequate. "Mei, I am so sorry."
"Do not apologize. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault." Mei turns back to her herbs, crushing them with renewed force. "But do not ask me to pretend I am content. Do not ask me to pretend I want him, because I do not. I never have."
"Then who do you want?" The question escapes before you can stop it.
Mei goes very still.
For a long moment, she does not answer. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Someone I cannot have."
She does not elaborate. She finishes preparing her herbs in silence, and you do not ask again.
That night, you lie in bed with your hands on your growing stomach and take in everything you have asked of Mei.
You asked her to stay. She stayed. You asked her to accept Caleb's courtship. She accepted. You asked her to smile at court. She smiled.
And beneath all of it, in the privacy of the kitchen when no one was watching, she ground bitter herbs into tea and drank them so that the one boundary she had left would hold.
You think about what it must have been like. Month after month. The taste of tansy and pennyroyal, the cramping, the pain because of her refusal to let her body become one more thing that belonged to him.
She did that ever since she became Caleb’s concubine.
She did that while brushing your hair, while smiling at you, while reassuring you, while staying with you, and laughing with you in the gardens as if nothing were wrong.
You roll onto your side and press your face into the pillow, and you do not sleep for a very long time.
VII
The banquet is in honor of the Emperor's birthday.
All of the court is required to attend.
You are six months pregnant now, your stomach round and obvious beneath your formal robes. You move slowly, carefully, one hand always resting on your belly as if to reassure the child within.
Mei walks beside you, her presence a comfort in the overwhelming crowd. Caleb is somewhere ahead, fulfilling his ceremonial duties as a prince of the blood. You will join him at the high table once the formal presentations are complete.
The Emperor sits on his throne, receiving tributes and well-wishes. The hall is filled with nobles, officials, foreign dignitaries. Everyone who matters in the empire is here. Including the Emperor's concubines.
There are four of them.
You know their faces, their names, their positions in the complex hierarchy of the inner court. The eldest, Lady Qi, is kind and has always treated you with courtesy. The second, Lady Qin, is ambitious but intelligent, someone you respect if not quite trust.
The third is Lady Xue.
She is the youngest of the Emperor's concubines, only recently elevated to her position. She is beautiful, clever, and hungry for power. Her family is wealthy but not particularly well-connected. Her position depends entirely on the Emperor's favor, and that favor is slipping.
You have heard the whispers. The Emperor has lost interest in her. He visits her chambers less frequently. He has been seen courting a new woman, a merchant's daughter with a sharp wit and considerable political connections.
Lady Xue is desperate.
She needs to do something dramatic, something that will remind the Emperor why he favored her in the first place. She needs to prove her value, her indispensability.
She needs a victory.
You do not know that Lady Xue has been watching your household, noting the Emperor's pleasure at the news of his grandchild. You do not know that she has decided removing Caleb's heir would destabilize his position, would create chaos that she could exploit. You do not know that she has already bribed one of the servants to poison your wine.
The banquet proceeds.
Courses arrive in endless succession, delicate soups, roasted meats, fish cooked in wine and spices, steamed dumplings, sweet rice cakes. You eat sparingly, mindful of your pregnancy and the rich food.
Mei sits beside you, as is proper for a concubine. She barely touches her food. She has been tense all evening, her gaze constantly scanning the crowd.
"Are you well?" you ask quietly.
"I do not like this." Mei's voice is low. "Too many people. Too much attention on you."
"It is the Emperor's birthday. We cannot avoid attending."
"I know, but I do not like it."
You squeeze her hand briefly to reassure her.
"You think too much. Nothing will happen. I am perfectly safe."
Mei does not look convinced.
The wine arrives. It is a special vintage, brought out only for imperial celebrations. The servant fills your cup, then Mei's, then moves down the table.
You raise your cup to drink. Mei's hand closes around your wrist.
"Wait." Her voice is low, urgent.
"What—"
"The servant." Mei's eyes are fixed on the man retreating down the table. "He poured yours differently. He tilted the bottle at the end. Everyone else received a straight pour."
You glance at your cup. The wine looks the same as everyone else's, dark red and sweet smelling.
"Mei, you are being…"
"And he looked at someone when he set your cup down, across the hall. I saw his eyes move." Mei's grip tightens on your wrist. Her knuckles are white. "Do not drink it."
"It is the Emperor's wine. No one would dare…"
"Someone already has." Mei's voice is steady, but her hand is trembling. She is not guessing. She is reading the room the way she always does, with the sharp, relentless attention of someone who has spent her entire life watching for threats against you.
You set the cup down.
Mei stares at it. Then at you. Then at your rounded stomach.
You see the decision form behind her eyes a half-second before she moves.
"Mei, no…"
She snatches up your cup and drinks the wine in three quick swallows.
The hall goes very quiet. People are staring, someone laughs uncertainly, thinking this is some kind of joke. Then Mei's face contorts. She doubles over, gasping. The cup falls from her hands, shattering on the stone floor.
"Mei!" You lunge for her, but she is already collapsing. You catch her as best you can, supporting her weight, lowering her to the ground.
"Get the physician!" someone shouts.
Caleb is there suddenly, shoving people aside. He kneels beside you, staring at Mei's face. She is convulsing, foam flecking her lips, her skin turning an awful grey.
"What happened?" Caleb demands. "What did she drink?"
"My wine." You are shaking. "She drank my wine."
Understanding and horror dawns on Caleb's face. The wine was meant for you. For the child you carry.
Mei would have known that. She would have known the poison was meant for you. She drank it anyway.
The physician arrives, but it is clear almost immediately that there is nothing he can do. The poison is too strong, too fast-acting. It is burning through Mei's body, shutting down her organs one by one.
She is dying.
You pull her into your lap, heedless of propriety, of the watching court. You cradle her head against your chest, your tears falling onto her face.
"Stay with me," you beg. "Please, Mei. Please stay."
Her eyes flutter open. She looks at you, and despite the pain, despite everything, she smiles.
"I love you," she whispers.
The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare down at her, and in that moment, you understand.
You finally understand everything. Not Caleb. Never Caleb. You.
Mei has always loved you.
Caleb is there beside you, holding Mei's hand, weeping openly. He leans close, his face twisted with grief.
"I love you too," he sobs. "Mei, I love you. Please do not leave. Please."
He thinks she is talking to him. He thinks her final words are for him, but Mei is not looking at Caleb. She is looking at you. Only at you.
Her lips move again. You lean closer, and you hear her breathe three more words.
"Protect the child."
Then her eyes close and her body goes still.
Mei is gone.
The hall erupts. Guards are summoned. The physician declares her dead. The Emperor demands to know who poisoned the wine. Servants are questioned, dragged away. Lady Xue’s face is pale with shock, she did not expect her plan to fail.
She did not expect Mei to intercept the poison.
You hear none of it. You sit on the cold stone floor, holding Mei's body, and you cannot breathe. You cannot do anything except stare at her lifeless face and try to understand that she is truly gone.
She loved you. She has always loved you. And now she is dead.
Caleb tries to pull Mei from your arms. You resist, clutching her tighter, but eventually he succeeds. He lifts her body, his face streaming with tears, and carries her from the hall.
You sit there, alone, blood and wine staining your formal robes. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking. Someone, your maidservant, perhaps, helps you to your feet. Someone leads you from the hall. You move like a ghost. When you reach your chambers, you collapse, and finally, finally, you let yourself scream.
VIII
The funeral is held three days later.
Mei's body is prepared with the traditional rites, washed, dressed in burial silks, laid in a lacquered coffin. Incense burns at the four corners. Mourners file past to pay their respects.
You attend because you are required to. You are Caleb's wife, and Mei was part of your household, but you feel absent from yourself, as if you are watching from a great distance.
Caleb is devastated. He weeps openly during the ceremony. He talks about how he loved her, how he will always love her, how her death has left a hole in his heart that can never be filled.
Every word is a knife, because he is wrong. He is wrong about everything. Mei did not love him. She never loved him.
She loved you, and he will never know that.
He will spend the rest of his life believing she died loving him, that her last words were meant for him. The truth will die with her.
After the ceremony, after Mei's coffin is carried to the burial ground, after the earth is mounded over her and the final prayers are spoken, you return to the palace.
The investigation into the poisoning has concluded.
Lady Xue’s involvement has been proven beyond doubt, servants have testified, silver has been traced, the poison itself has been identified. She has been arrested, stripped of her position, sent to face imperial justice, but that is not enough for the court gossip.
The court needs someone to blame, and Lady Xue's arrest is not dramatic enough for them. A concubine's failed plot is politics. A jealous wife's poisoning is tragedy, and tragedy sells.
So the rumor takes root, you did it. You, the patient wife, the dignified presence at every function, finally cracked under the weight of your husband's obvious preference for his concubine and killed the woman he loved.
It does not matter that Lady Xue confessed. It does not matter that the poison was traced, the servants questioned, the evidence laid bare. The court has chosen its story, and your innocence is not part of it.
Caleb does not correct them. That is what breaks you, not the whispers, not the sidelong glances, not the women who draw back when you approach.
His silence. His refusal to stand beside you and say my wife did not do this. He is too deep in his own grief to notice yours, and the court takes his silence as confirmation.
Three weeks after the funeral, he comes to your chambers.
You are in bed, still in your sleeping robe even though it is midday. You have not bathed in days. You have not cared enough to bother. Caleb stands in the doorway, looking at you with an expression you cannot read.
"We need to speak," he starts.
You sit up slowly. You do not ask him to come in. You simply wait.
"The court is talking," he continues. "The rumors about you and Mei, about the poisoning, they are damaging my reputation and the imperial family."
"I did not poison her." Your voice is hoarse from disuse.
"I know that."
"Then why do you not say so? Why do you not defend me?"
Caleb looks away.
"Because I cannot bear to look at you."
"What?" you whisper.
"Every time I see you, I think of her. I think of Mei, lying dead on the floor. I think of how she is gone and you are still here. And I…" His voice breaks. "I wish it had been you."
The room tilts. You clutch at the sheets to keep from falling.
"I wish you had been the one who died instead of her. I wish…" Caleb cannot finish. He is weeping now, his shoulders shaking. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot live in this house with you. I cannot look at you and not see what I have lost."
"Where would you have me go?" Your voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking.
"I have a summer estate. Three days' journey north. I am sending you there. You will stay until the child is born. After that… we will decide what happens after."
He is exiling you.
"And if I refuse?"
"You will not refuse. You will go. You will leave this palace, and you will not return until I send for you."
He turns and walks away, leaving you alone in your chambers. You sit very still for a long time after he leaves. Then, carefully, you look down at your wrist.
The names are still there. Caleb and Mei, written in the same shimmering ink. Mei's name has not changed. It is still the same as it was the day the marks appeared. You trace it with one finger, and finally you let yourself cry.
Not for Caleb. Not for your marriage or your position or your reputation. For Mei. For the friend who protected you. For the woman who loved you back and never told you. For everything you could have had if you had only understood sooner.
IX
The retinue assigned to escort you to the summer estate is small but capable.
Two guards, a driver, and your maidservant. They load your belongings into the carriage. You watch from the window of your chambers, already feeling like a ghost haunting your own life.
Your mother comes to see you before you leave. She looks older, worn down by the scandal. She does not embrace you. She does not say she believes in your innocence.
"Try to stay out of sight," she tells you. "Let the rumors die down. Perhaps in a year or two, people will forget."
"Perhaps," you echo, because what else is there to say?
Your father does not come. You are not surprised. To him, you were always a tool for power. A disgraced daughter is worse than no daughter at all.
The carriage journey begins. You sit in silence, watching the palace disappear behind you. The capital fades into countryside, rice paddies, small villages, rivers winding through green hills. It should be beautiful, you cannot bring yourself to care.
On the second day of travel, you notice something strange. The driver has taken a wrong turn. You lean forward.
"Where are we going?"
"To your destination, my lady." His voice is calm, steady.
"This is not the road to the summer estate."
"No, your highness. It is not."
Your maidservant reaches over and takes your hand.
"We are taking you somewhere safe," she says gently. "Somewhere you will be welcome."
"I do not understand."
"The summer estate is not safe for you. The other servants in the prince's household do not believe you are innocent. They believe the rumors. If you go there, you will be alone, unprotected, and when the child is born…" She stops. "We do not trust what might happen."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To Lady Mei's family."
You stare at her, confused.
"How…who arranged this?"
"Lady Mei did." Your maidservant's voice is gentle. "Some time before the Emperor's birthday banquet, she told us that if anything happened to her, we were to bring you to her family instead of the summer estate."
"Mei did?"
"Yes, my lady. She knew something was going to happen. She did not know what, exactly, but she sensed danger. She wanted to ensure you would be protected."
"She planned this." You cannot breathe. "She planned all of this."
Your maidservant squeezes your hand.
"She wanted you safe, so she made arrangements."
You sit back, stunned. Even in death, Mei was still taking care of you.
The journey takes five days instead of three. The roads grow rougher, the villages smaller. You are traveling west now, toward the mountains, away from the luxuries of the capital and into harder country. By the time you arrive, you are fevered and exhausted.
Mei's family home is modest, a compound built around a central courtyard, simple but well-maintained. As the carriage stops, you see an older woman emerge from the main building, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with years of work.
She looks like Mei. The same eyes, the same determined set to her jaw. Mei’s mother, whom you have not seen since the announcement of your betrothal to Caleb.
You try to stand, to exit the carriage properly, but your legs buckle. The world tilts, going dark at the edges. You hear voices, feel hands catching you, but it all seems very far away. The last thing you remember is the smell of rain and the feeling of being lifted, carried inside.
When you wake, it is night. You are in a small, clean room. A single lantern burns in the corner. You are tucked into a bed that smells of herbs and soap.
A woman sits beside you, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Mei's mother.
"You are awake," she says softly. "Good. You have been fevered for three days."
Three days. You have lost three days.
"Where am I?"
"My home. My husband and I brought you inside when you collapsed. We have been caring for you."
You try to sit up, but she pushes you back gently.
"Rest. You need rest. The baby needs rest."
"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out sharper than you intend. "I am the one…they say I am the one who…"
"You did not kill my daughter." Mei's mother's voice is firm. "I know that as surely as I know my own name."
"How can you know?"
"Mei wrote to me." Her voice breaks slightly. "Several weeks before the Emperor's birthday, she sent a letter. She believed that you and your child were in danger. She told me she had made arrangements for your safety, that she had paid your servants to bring you here if anything happened to her. She told me…" Mei's mother stops to compose herself. “She told me that if you arrived at my door, it would mean she was gone, and that I should care for you as I would have cared for her."
"She knew something would happen."
"She knew danger was circling. She did not know the specific form it would take, but she knew, and she chose to protect you rather than herself." Mei's mother strokes your hair, the gesture so like her daughter's that it makes your chest ache. "That is who my daughter was. That is what her love looked like."
You cannot speak. You can only weep.
"She wrote to me every week since she entered your household," Mei's mother continues quietly. "She told me everything. About the tea she was taking. About how she would never bear that prince's child. About how her only happiness was you."
"She told you she loved me?"
"She told me she had always loved you, since you were children. Since the day you cried under that apple tree and she swore to protect you." Mei's mother's own eyes fill with tears. "She told me about the soulmarks. She knew that you were her great love, but you did not know, and that you believed the prince was yours."
"I do not understand." Your voice is shaking. "If she loved me, why did she never say anything? Why did she…"
"Because you asked her not to. You begged her to be what the prince wanted, to go along with the arrangement, to stay in that household for your sake." Her voice is gentle but unyielding. "My daughter would have done anything for you even if it meant giving up her life for you.."
The truth of it crashes over you. Mei sacrificed everything. Her happiness, her future, her very life. All because you asked her to. All because she loved you.
"I did not know," you whisper. "I did not know she loved me that way until…. I thought…I thought she was my companion. My friend. I thought Caleb was…"
"Caleb was her great love?" Mei's mother makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No, child. You had it backwards.”
"What do you mean?"
"My daughter knew the truth of all three marks. She knew which name was which for each of you."
I love you. Not to Caleb. To you.
"She also knew," Mei's mother continues, "that Caleb's great love was you. Not her. You. You were his great love, just as he was yours, but both of you were too blind to see it, too convinced of your own assumptions."
You stare at her.
"That cannot be right. Caleb loved Mei. He pursued her. He mourned her. He…"
"He loved the idea of her. The unattainable woman. The one who would not love him back." Her voice is sad. "But his great love was always you. My daughter knew that. She knew she was the companion to both of you. That her purpose was to walk beside you, to support you, to help you find each other."
"Then why did she drink the poison?" Your voice breaks. "If she was only the companion…if her death would not destroy him the way a great love's death would…why did she do it?"
"You were carrying his child. She knew that poison was meant for you, and if you died, you would both lose everything. She could not let that happen." Mei's mother wipes her eyes. "She removed herself from the situation. She knew that with her gone, you and the prince would have to face each other without her in the middle. She hoped…I think she hoped…that her death would force you both to see the truth."
You cannot speak. Everything you thought you knew is wrong. Every assumption, every certainty, all of it built on misunderstandings and blind hope and the failure to simply ask the right questions.
Caleb is your great love. You are his. And Mei knew that.
She always knew. She loved you anyway, with the quiet devotion of a companion who puts her great love's happiness above her own.
"I would have chosen her," you whisper. "If I had known. If she had told me, I would have…"
But the words falter before you can finish them. Would you have? Truly? If Mei had come to you at fifteen and confessed everything, if she had taken your hands and looked you in the eye and told you that she was your great love, not Caleb, would you have believed her?
Would you have turned away from eight years of longing, from the boy who lifted you out of apple trees, from the ache in your chest every time he entered a room? Or would you have held Mei's hands and felt sorry for her and gently explained that she was confused?
You do not know the answer. That is the worst part. You want desperately to say you would have chosen her, that you would have defied the court and your family and every expectation placed on you, but you are no longer certain of anything you once believed about your own heart.
"I would like to think I would have chosen her," you amend, and your voice is very small.
Mei's mother strokes your hair and does not argue. Perhaps she knows the truth. Perhaps she is kind enough not to say it.
"I know." Mei's mother pulls you into an embrace, and you sob against her shoulder. "I know, child, but she could not ask you to make that choice. She could not ask you to give up your position, your family, your future. She loved you too much for that."
You cry until you have no tears left. You cry for Mei, for yourself, for Caleb and the tragedy of three people who could not see what was written on their own skin. When you finally pull back, exhausted and hollow, Mei's mother smooths your hair.
"You will stay here," she says. "You and the child. You are safe here. You are welcome here."
"But what about…"
"No one knows you are here except those who brought you. Your servants…they are loyal to you, not to the prince. They will not betray your location." Her voice is firm. "You will stay. You will have this baby, and then we will decide what comes next."
You are too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but nod and let yourself be cared for.
That night, lying in a small room in Mei's childhood home, you dream of apple orchards and stolen pies and a girl with fierce eyes who promised to always protect you.
You wake crying, but this time, someone is there to hold you through it.
X
The months pass slowly in Mei's family home.
Your pregnancy progresses.
Your stomach swells more, the baby moving constantly now, pressing against your ribs, making you breathless. The discomforts of late pregnancy are compounded by grief that never fully leaves, that sits like a stone in your chest.
Mei's mother attends you with quiet care.
She brings you ginger tea for nausea, rubs salve into your aching back, sits with you during the long afternoons when you cannot sleep.
She tells you stories about Mei as a child.
How stubborn she was, how fierce, how she once punched a boy who made fun of her younger brother. How she learned to sew because she wanted to make you a dress. How she wrote in her diary about you constantly, pages and pages of memories and hopes and quiet, desperate love.
You listen to these stories and feel yourself break a little more each time.
You also grow weaker.
At first, you attribute it to the pregnancy.
Late pregnancy is exhausting, everyone says so, but as the weeks pass, you notice things that worry you. You are tired all the time, sleeping twelve, fourteen hours a day. You have no appetite. Your hands shake.
The local healer examines you and shakes her head.
"The baby is fine. Strong heartbeat, good position. But you… You are not well."
"What is wrong with me?"
"Your body is giving up. Grief sometimes does that. Takes root in the bones, drains the life away."
"Can you treat it?"
"I can give you herbs to strengthen your blood. But the real medicine…" She pauses. "The real medicine is wanting to live, and I am not certain you do."
She is right.
You are not certain you do.
You go through day by day.
You eat when Mei's mother insists. You walk in the small garden behind the house, placing your hand on the rough bark of the apple tree that grows there. You sit in the sun and try to feel warmth.
But everything is distant, muted, you are a ghost drifting through someone else's life.
Seven months pregnant. Eight. The baby will come soon.
You wonder if you will survive the birth, part of you hopes you will not.
Mei's mother seems to sense your thoughts.
One evening, she sits beside you and takes your hand.
"You must live," she says. "For the child. For my daughter's memory. For yourself."
"I am trying."
"Try harder." Her voice is fierce, so much like Mei's that it hurts. "You have a choice, here. You can give up, let grief swallow you, or you can fight. You can live. You can raise this child and give them the love you never got to give my daughter."
"What if I cannot?" Your voice is small. "What if I am not strong enough?"
"You are. You have always been strong. You survived a marriage you did not want, a household that did not value you, the loss of your dearest friend. You can survive this too."
You want to believe her. You want to find that strength within yourself.
But as the weeks pass, as your body grows heavier and your spirit lighter, you feel yourself slipping away.
You think about the orchard often now.
Those golden afternoons with Caleb and Mei.
The three of you together, before everything went wrong.
You think about Mei's hands always finding yours first. The way she used to brush your hair. How she looked at you when she thought you were not watching.
You think about Caleb's laugh, bright and careless. How he used to help you down from trees. How his eyes would light up when he saw Mei, not realizing the person he was truly seeking was standing right beside him.
You think about the baby growing inside you.
Caleb's child.
The heir he wanted. The person who will carry both your grief and your hope into the future.
You hope the baby looks like Caleb. You hope they have his laugh, his kindness, his capacity for joy.
You hope they never make the mistakes you made. Never assume, never fail to ask, never let pride keep them from admitting what their heart already knows.
The contractions begin on a spring morning.
The sky is clear, the air warm. Cherry blossoms are blooming in the garden, pink and delicate.
You labor through the day and into the night.
It is long and difficult. Your body is exhausted before you even begin. Mei's mother stays with you, holding your hand, murmuring encouragement.
"You can do this," she says. "You are almost there."
But you already know that this is the end for you.
You have enough strength to bring the child into the world, but not enough to remain in it yourself.
The baby arrives just before dawn.
A girl, small but healthy, with a powerful cry and perfect tiny fingers.
They place her in your arms, and you look down at her face and see Caleb.
She has his eyes, that distinctive purple that marks her as imperial blood. She has his nose, his chin, his delicate features.
She is beautiful.
"What will you name her?" Mei's mother asks.
You do not hesitate.
"Mei."
Mei's mother's eyes fill with tears.
"Are you certain?"
"She is named for the only person who truly loved me." Your voice is weak, fading. "Let her carry that name. Let her carry that legacy."
You hold your daughter for a long time, memorizing her face, the weight of her in your arms, the sound of her breathing.
Then you look at Mei's mother and speak the words you have been preparing.
"Take care of her. Raise her here, away from the capital, away from the court. Do not tell Caleb where she is unless…" You pause. "Unless he comes looking. If he never comes, let her grow up here, in peace."
"And if he does come?"
"Tell him I forgive him." The words are important. They need to be said. "Tell him I understand. Tell him it was not his fault, any of it. We were all blind."
"I will tell him."
"And tell Mei…" You look down at the baby. "Tell her she was loved. Tell her she was wanted. Tell her…"
But you cannot finish, your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges.
Mei's mother takes the baby gently from your arms.
"I will tell her everything. I promise."
You smile, or try to. You are not certain if your face is moving anymore.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For everything. For taking me in. For…"
"Hush now. Rest. You have done well."
You close your eyes. The last thing you feel is warmth, sunlight streaming through the window, or perhaps just the memory of warmth, of spring afternoons and stolen moments and a hand that always found yours first.
You slip away thinking of apple orchards.
XI
The weeks after he sends you away are quiet.
Caleb returns to his duties. He attends the court. He trains with the imperial guard. He sits through the imperial council meetings and says the right things at the right times.
He visits Mei's grave every third day, kneeling in the dirt, speaking to her headstone as if she might answer.
He does not visit your chambers. There is no reason to, they are empty now, but sometimes he finds himself walking that corridor anyway, his feet carrying him there out of habit before his mind catches up. He stops outside your door, hand half-raised, and stands there for a moment before turning away. He does not examine why.
Your maidservants have been dismissed or reassigned. The rooms are being cleaned and closed. A servant asks whether your personal effects should be packed and sent to the summer estate, and Caleb opens his mouth to say yes, then stops.
"Leave them," he orders. "Leave everything as it is."
He does not examine that either.
At night, he reaches across the bed in his sleep. His hand finds empty space where a body should be, and he wakes confused and grasping, unsure who he was reaching for.
He assumes it is Mei. It has always been Mei.
After her funeral, Caleb checks his wrist obsessively. Waiting for the sign, for the darkening that would tell him his great love had passed, but both names remained unchanged, clear, vibrant, exactly as they had been since he received them.
He did not understand. How could Mei be dead and his mark remain the same? He convinced himself it was a delay. That fate took time to register death, that eventually, the change would come and he would finally have confirmation that Mei was his great love.
Then, three months after Mei's death and your exile, he wakes one morning and sees it.
Mei's name has changed. It did not darken as he expected, it faded. The characters have turned grey.
Grey. The mark of a companion.
He stares at his wrist, and the world tilts beneath him. No. That cannot be right.
Mei was his great love. She had to be. He loved her for years, pursued her, mourned her… But the marks do not lie.
If Mei's name is grey and she was his companion. Then that means…
He looks at your name. Still there. Still unchanged. Still shimmering.
The realization crashes over him. You. You were always the great love.
And suddenly, everything that felt wrong about Mei makes sense. The way his longing for her was always tinged with frustration, never peace. The way she never quite fit into the space in his heart he tried to force her into. The way loving her felt like chasing something perpetually out of reach. Because she was not meant to be caught, she was the companion. The friend. The bridge.
And you.. He remembers the last words he said to you. I wish it had been you.
The memory hits him. He told you he wished you had died instead of Mei. He looked at you, pregnant with his child, grieving your closest friend, accused of murder by the entire court, and he told you he wished you were dead.
He sent you away while heavily pregnant with his child. He had known about your mother's difficult pregnancies. He had known, and he had sent you away regardless.
And Mei died protecting you. Protecting you and the child. That was her last act of love for you, drinking poison meant for you, sacrificing herself to save you both. And he repaid that sacrifice by exiling you. By telling you he wished you were dead. By sending you away when you needed protection most. When Mei would have wanted him to protect you.
"No." The word tears out of him. "No, no, no…"
He is running before he realizes it, shouting for servants, for guards, for horses.
"The summer estate," he gasps. "Ready a retinue. Now. We leave immediately."
"Your Highness, it is barely dawn…"
"Now!"
The ride takes three days. Three days of riding hard, stopping only when the horses must rest. Three days of Caleb checking his wrist obsessively, looking at your name, praying it does not darken. Praying he is not too late.
He will apologize. He will beg for forgiveness. He will tell you he was blind, that he was wrong, that he convinced himself Mei was his great love when you were standing beside him the entire time.
He will make this right. He has to make this right.
When he arrives at the summer estate, he dismounts before his horse has fully stopped. He strides through the entrance, calling your name.
Servants appear, looking confused. The head of the household, a middle-aged woman with stern features, bows low.
"Your Highness. We did not expect…"
"Where is she?" Caleb demands. "Where is my wife?"
The woman's confusion deepens.
"Your Highness, she is not here."
The world stops.
"What do you mean she is not here? She was sent here several months ago. Where is she?"
"We received no such person, Your Highness. We received word that Her Highness would be coming, yes, but she never arrived."
Caleb's blood runs cold.
"That is impossible. She was sent here. With guards. With servants. They were to deliver her safely…"
"We have seen no one, Your Highness."
He tears through the estate like a madman. He checks every room, every chamber, every corner. He finds nothing. No belongings. No sign you were ever there. He returns to the capital and summons the servants who escorted you. They kneel before him, trembling.
"Where is she?" His voice is deadly quiet. "Where is my wife?"
"We delivered her to the summer estate, Your Highness," the driver says. "We saw her enter…"
"Liar." Caleb's hand goes to his sword. "The estate says she never arrived. Where did you take her?"
"Your Highness, we…"
"WHERE IS SHE?"
The servants exchange glances. Fear is written on their faces, but beneath it, something else. Defiance. Loyalty to someone who is not him.
"You told us you would come when the child was born," one of the servants he brought from the estate finally speaks up. "You made it clear you did not wish to see her until then. We thought, when she did not arrive at the estate, we thought you had changed your mind. That you had made other arrangements."
"What other arrangements? Where is she?"
Silence.
"ANSWER ME!"
But the servants from the retinue he assigned you do not break. They kneel there, silent and stubborn, protecting your location even under threat of death.
Caleb wants to execute them all. He wants to torture the truth from them, but a part of him, the part that remembers Mei's sacrifice, that understands these servants cared for you more than he did, that part stops him.
"Get out," he says finally. "All of you. Get out of my sight."
They leave, and Caleb is alone.
He sends men to every province, every village, every corner of the empire. He offers rewards for information. He follows every rumor, every possible lead.
Every morning, he checks his wrist. Your name remains unchanged. This gives him hope, irrational, desperate hope. If you were dead, the mark would darken. It has to darken. That is how it works. So you must be alive. Somewhere. Hidden, angry with him, but alive.
He will find you. He will make this right.
Seven years pass. Seven years of searching. Seven years of checking his wrist every morning, seeing your name unchanged, telling himself you are still out there. Seven years of guilt and desperation and the faint, foolish hope that maybe, when he finds you, you will forgive him.
Then he sees her.
A little girl in a market by the countryside, six or seven years old, who looks exactly like you the first time he saw you in the orchards. She has your smile, your features, the way you tilt your head, but her eyes, her eyes are his, that distinctive imperial purple, and standing beside her is a woman who looks like an older Mei.
Caleb stops dead in the middle of the market. People flow around him, annoyed at the obstruction, but he cannot move.
It is your daughter. Your daughter and his. The child you were carrying when he sent you away.
The woman holding the girl's hand looks up, and her face goes still when she sees him. She knows who he is, everyone knows the third prince by sight.
"You," Caleb says, and his voice is rough. "I need to speak with you."
The woman, Mei's mother, pulls the girl closer.
"We have nothing to say to you, Your Highness."
"That child…"
"Is not your concern."
"She has my eyes. She is… she is mine." The words break. "Please. Please tell me where her mother is. I have been searching…"
"Her mother is dead." The woman's voice is flat. "She died giving birth."
Seven years. You have been dead for seven years, and his mark never changed. Your name is still there on his wrist, unchanged, as if you are still alive. But you are not alive.
You have been dead for years, and the marks gave him no sign. No darkening. No confirmation. He checks his wrist again desperately. Your name is still there, still shimmering, still unchanged.
The marks are punishing him. They told him the truth about Mei but they refuse to tell him the truth about you.They leave your name unchanged, eternal uncertainty, no closure, no confirmation that you were his great love even though he knows, he knows you were.
"No," he whispers. "No, she cannot be... The mark is unchanged…" He sobs. "She cannot be…"
"She died in my home, far from you, far from the court that destroyed her and my daughter." The woman's eyes are hard. "She spent her last months in the same room my daughter grew up in. She named her baby after my Mei, and then she died, content that the child would be cared for."
"I tried to find her. Her servants would not tell me where they took her…"
"My daughter paid for them before she died. She made arrangements to keep your wife safe, to bring her here instead of your summer estate." Mei's mother's voice is sharp. "My Mei knew you would not protect her, so she did."
The words are a knife. Caleb stumbles, has to catch himself on a nearby stall.
"I need to see her." He reaches out, desperate. "Our daughter. Please let me…"
"You have no daughter." The woman pulls the girl behind her, shielding her. "You have an heir you never wanted, a wife you drove to death, and a legacy of cruelty. That is all you have."
The child, little Mei, peers around her grandmother's skirts, studying Caleb with curious eyes.
"Who is he, Grandma?"
"No one important, darling. Come. We need to go home."
"Wait!" Caleb takes a step forward. "Please. I know I have no right to ask…but please. Let me know her. Let me… I can provide for her. I can give her everything. Education, a title, a place at court…"
"She has everything she needs here." The woman's voice is final. "She has a home, a family who loves her, a quiet life away from politics and from the court. Why would I give that up to send her to you?"
"Because I am her father."
"You are the man who got her mother pregnant and then cast her out while she was heavy with child. That is not a father. That is a stranger who shares her blood and nothing more." Mei’s mother softens slightly, pity flickering across her face. "Go home, Your Highness. Go back to your palace. We do not need you. We never needed you."
She takes the child's hand and walks away, disappearing into the market crowd. Caleb stands frozen for a long time. Then he makes his way to the nearest inn and requests a room.
That evening, a messenger arrives. He carries two letters, one from Mei, one from you.
Mei's letter is long, detailed. She explains everything, the marks, the truth about who loved whom and what she hoped would happen after she was gone. She apologizes for not telling him sooner, for letting him believe she might love him someday, for not having the courage to simply say no.
You and my lady were always meant to be together, she wrote. I was merely the bridge. I pray that my death will help you see what was always written on your skin.
Your letter is shorter, simpler. I forgive you. That is all. No recriminations, no anger, no long explanations, just forgiveness, simple and complete.
Caleb reads both letters three times, then he folds them carefully and places them in his robes, over his heart.
That night, he dreams of apple orchards. He sees you as a child, seven years old, stuck in a tree, afraid to come down. He lifts you onto his shoulders. You laugh. He sees Mei, nine years old, fierce and protective, swearing to always guard you. He sees himself, blind and foolish, chasing the wrong person while the right one stood beside him the entire time.
When he wakes, his face is wet with tears.
He sends letters to Mei's family. He sends money, gifts, offers of support. Everything is returned, unopened. He tries three more times to visit. Each time, he is politely but firmly turned away.
He will never see his daughter again. This is his punishment, and he accepts it.
The marks on his wrist remain unchanged, Mei's name in grey, your name still shimmering as if you live.
He sees them every morning when he wakes, every evening when he undresses. They are a constant reminder of everything he failed to understand.
The absence of darkness on your name torments him more than any blackened mark could. It is a punishment worse than confirmation. It is eternal uncertainty, eternal hope that maybe, somehow, the marks are wrong and you are still alive somewhere. But you are not alive.
You were his great love, and you are gone.
He never remarries. He never takes another concubine. He lives alone in his household, performing his duties, serving the empire, but never truly living again.
Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he takes out your letter and reads it again. I forgive you.
He does not forgive himself. He will carry that weight until the day he dies.
XII
The orchard is exactly as you remember.
Apple trees heavy with fruit, grass soft beneath your feet, sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. The air smells of summer, earth and apple blossoms and something indefinably sweet.
You are wearing a simple robe, the kind you wore as a child. Your feet are bare and your hair is loose, unbound by pins or ornaments. You feel light, as if a great weight has been lifted off your shoulders.
"Hello."
You turn.
Mei is standing beneath an apple tree, smiling at you. She looks exactly as she did at sixteen, before the marks appeared, before the arrangement, before everything went wrong.
"Mei."
"Hello, my love." She holds out her hand. "I have been waiting for you."
You run to her. You do not walk nor do you maintain dignity or decorum. You simply run, and she catches you, and you bury your face in her shoulder and sob.
"I am sorry," you gasp between tears. "I am so sorry. I did not know…"
"Hush." Mei strokes your hair, her touch gentle. "There is nothing to apologize for."
"I asked you to stay with him. I made you..."
"You made me nothing." She pulls back, cupping your face in her hands. "I chose to stay. I chose to drink that poison. I chose everything, knowing what it would cost, because I loved you."
You stare at her, and finally, you let yourself understand.
"You were my great love."
"No." Mei's smile is sad as she shakes her head. "You were mine, but I was not yours."
"The marks…"
"Do not match perfectly. They never had to." Mei traces a finger down your cheek. "My great love was you. My companion was Caleb. Your great love was Caleb. Your companion was me. Each of us loving different people, bound together by fate but not identically."
"He was my great love." You say it aloud, testing the words. "Truly?"
"Yes, and you were his. You were both too busy looking elsewhere to see it."
You look at your wrists. The marks are gone. Your skin is bare.
"They fade after death," Mei explains. "They no longer matter here. What matters is what we carry in our hearts."
You take both her hands.
"I love you, Mei. Maybe not the same way you loved me, but I loved you. I love you still."
"I know." Mei's smile is infinitely tender. "And that is enough. It has always been enough."
You stand there in silence, holding hands beneath the apple tree. The question rises in your throat before you can stop it.
"Do you think we would have been happy? If I had chosen you instead?"
Mei is quiet for a long moment.
"I think we were happy together in this life, in our own way. We loved each other, supported each other, shared moments of joy even in the midst of sorrow." She squeezes your hands. "What we had was real. Messy and painful at times, but real. I would not trade that for some imagined perfect version."
"But I could have loved you better. If I had known…"
"You loved me as well as you could with the understanding you had. That is all anyone can do." Mei guides you to the base of the apple tree. You settle into the grass together, shoulders touching. "We are here now. Together. As we were always meant to be, in some way."
"Will we see Caleb again?"
"Eventually, when his time comes." Mei glances at you. "Do you want to?"
You consider this.
Part of you wants to see him, to understand what he felt, what he wishes he had done differently, but part of you is afraid it will hurt all over again.
"I do not know," you admit.
"You have time to decide." Mei's voice is gentle. "This place is patient."
You sit in silence for a while, shoulders touching, listening to the wind move through the orchard. You think about Caleb, about the years he spent chasing Mei while you stood beside him, and you wonder if Mei ever resented being caught in the middle as much as you did.
Then Mei speaks, and her voice is different. Smaller and less certain.
"I was not always graceful about it. Loving you."
You turn to look at her.
"There were nights I hated you for not seeing me." She does not meet your eyes. "After he came to your chambers and you let him stay, after the Moon Festival, I lay in my room and thought terrible things. I thought, she knows. She has to know how I feel, and she simply does not care. I told myself you were selfish and blind and that I was a fool for staying."
Her hands are clasped tight in her lap.
"It passed. It always passed. By morning I would see you at breakfast, tired and sad and trying so hard to hold everything together, and the anger would dissolve, and all that remained was the wanting." She exhales. "But the resentment was there. I carried it alongside the love, and some nights, the resentment was louder."
You reach over and take her hands, uncurling her fingers.
"You are allowed to have been angry with me."
"I know, but I wanted you to hear it from me, not imagine me as someone who never struggled. I struggled. I raged. I wept into my pillow and cursed the marks and wished I had been born loving anyone else." Mei finally looks at you. Her eyes are bright. "And then morning would come, and you would smile at me, and I would think, oh, there you are, and it would start all over again."
You pull her close and hold her, and she lets you, and neither of you speaks for a long time. Then something shifts, a thought that has been circling the edges of your mind for longer than you want to admit finally settles where you can see it clearly.
"I did to you what he did to me."
Mei goes still beside you.
"Caleb kept me close but never truly saw me. He valued my presence but not my heart. He decided what I was to him before he ever asked." Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. "And I did the same thing to you. Every day. For years."
"That is not…”
"It is." You do not let her soften this. "You tried to tell me. In the kitchen with the herbs, you were telling me in the only way you had left, and I walked away. When you asked me for permission to refuse him, I said no, not because it was the right thing, but because it was easier for me. I made you carry his attention so I would not have to watch my marriage fall apart. I used you, Mei. The same way the arrangement used all of us, I used you."
Mei is quiet for a long time.
"You did not mean to."
"Neither did Caleb. He did not mean to overlook me. He was not cruel on purpose. He simply never questioned what he assumed." You turn to face her. "I never questioned either. I decided you were my companion and I stopped looking. I stopped asking what you needed, what you wanted, whether you were happy. I saw what was convenient and I never looked deeper."
"You were suffering too. You were trying to survive."
"So was he. That did not make it hurt less when he looked through me." You take her hands. "I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to let me say this, because you deserve to hear someone name what was done to you instead of dressing it up as fate or duty or sacrifice."
Mei's composure fractures. It is small, a tremor in her jaw, the unshed in her eyes, but it is the most unguarded you have ever seen her.
"I waited a very long time," she whispers, "for someone to say that."
"I know. I am sorry it took me dying to get here."
A sound escapes her that is half laugh, half sob. She presses her forehead against your joined hands.
"You insufferable woman," she breathes. "Even now, you find a way to break my heart."
"I think that is what we do to each other. It seems to be our particular talent."
Mei finally laughs, wet and raw and real. You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the trembling to stop. Long enough for the orchard to settle around you again.
When you finally pull apart, Mei wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and the gesture is so ordinary, so human, that it makes your chest ache
"Tell me about my daughter," you say softly.
"She has a wonderful life. Bright and curious and loved. She grows up with her grandmother, learning to sew and tend the garden. She laughs often. She is happy."
Relief floods through you.
"Good. That is good."
"She looks like you, except for the eyes. Those are all Caleb."
You close your eyes. The orchard is peaceful, and safe, you could stay here forever.
"Mei?"
"Yes?"
"I am glad you are here. I am glad we have this."
"So am I.”
"Even when the marks fade?"
"Especially then. Because when the marks are gone, we know the love was never about what was written on our skin. It was about what we chose to give each other, day after day, even when it cost us everything."
Mei leans in and presses her lips to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Rest now. You have been tired for so long. Rest."
So you do.
You rest in the orchard, in the place where your childhood lived, where your memories are sweetest.
You rest beside the girl who loved you more than you ever knew, who gave everything for you and never asked for anything in return.
And for the first time in forever, you sleep without grief.
The End
⚜ an: writing let the light in part two frustrated me so much because i can't get the angst right that i ended up focusing on this fic instead. this is also my first attempt writing an f/f fic so please be kind to me. as always your likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
