graham didn’t stir. her voice hung behind him like the last thread of summer, delicate and quiet, but not enough to move him. he remained by the door, arms crossed over his chest, the weight of his maille still on him even though the war was over—at least, the kind fought on open fields. he stared at the wall, at the pattern of soot and time marking the stones, as if it could explain something he couldn’t. “aye, still - i’ve never much cared for company,” he said finally, his tone flat, deliberate. he had already made it abundantly clear he did not wish to be here in this moment; to sit opposite her and be wholly aware of her empty womb, and the fact they were both in this with little choice of their own. “not for the sake of it.”
he didn’t look at her. hadn’t properly in the days since he returned from the frontlines, if he was honest, though the thought didn’t bring guilt, only a dull sort of resignation. keira had always had the sort of voice that crept in softly, like the first cold wind before the frost. never demanding. never loud. and that was part of the trouble—he didn’t know what to do with softness. never had. she meant well. he knew that. she always had. and yet, it didn’t change the way her presence started to feel like another duty, another weight he couldn’t shift. she asked for so little, but in that asking, reminded him how little he gave.
“not much use in watching stars, lass.” he muttered, more to himself than her as he put down the napkin on the table. “men go out lookin’ for omens in them. answers. don’t tend to find much more than what they brought with them.”
he shifted slightly, his gaze still on the stones, as though they might crack open and swallow him whole. it was easier, thinking about weather or duty or the slow repairs to the outer wall. things he could measure, fix, make sense of. not whatever it was she wanted from him—connection, maybe. or warmth. “stars are just stars,” he muttered, jaw tightening - not because he was irritated, but rather because he too was uncomfortable. “folk like to pretend they mean something. but they don’t. they’re just there.” things he had no training in. there was a time he’d tried, briefly. a summer after their wedding, when the fields were golden and her smile hadn’t yet dimmed. but war had come too soon. and he’d changed on campaign, hardened in ways that didn’t peel off with armour. “i’ve enough to think on without chasing stars,” he added, adjusting his stance, the way a man does when he wants to signal the conversation ought to end. “you go. i’ll stay.” he didn’t say it unkindly, but there was no invitation in it either.
still, he glanced her way—not fully, not directly. just enough to see the outline of her in the firelight, her profile all quiet hope and soft defiance. she hadn’t stopped trying. that was her mistake. still, he silently unclasped his own cloak from around his shoulders and stepped forward, closing the distance between them when offering her his cloak. he put it loosely over her shoulders, his hands not lingering a moment longer than needed on her skin - something she would have noticed. it would not have taken long for her to notice that he were not attracted to his wife; that the sight of her did not cause his heart rate to raise, or make him feel that sense of restlessness which always resulted in him going on hunts rather than take to women that lingered on the ends of war camps.
he didn’t add anything more. he meant it practically—like a man advising a stablehand to close the gate—but her silence lingered like disappointment. he thought, not for the first time, about how this was meant to be easier. they were married. they shared a roof, a name. the war was behind them. and still, each word felt like hauling stone uphill. his fingers flexed briefly at his side. she hadn’t asked, not directly. but it hung there. not just the silence—but the shape of what was expected. they ought to be trying, by now. it had been long enough. too long. a child would settle matters. give her purpose that was more than just wafting around him like some creeping child. give their some union weight.
they ought to be doing their duty, plain and simple. the bedding act wasn’t just ceremony. not now. a child would put things right. or at least, make things simpler.
but he didn’t know how to bring it up. couldn’t imagine sitting down beside her, saying it like it was weather or supper. he couldn’t picture reaching for her in that way, not when they’d barely spoken, not when the distance between them felt like a gulf. so he didn’t. and a part of him grew irritated with himself for thinking too much on the matter; it were a duty between a man and his wife. it was expected of her, and surely she knew that when exchanging their vows. “don’t stay out long,” he said, and it came out gruff. too sharp, maybe, for what it meant. he turned, the door clicking shut behind him, and left her to the stars.
