The door clicked shut. Ovoale's small hand slipped from his, her footsteps retreating down the hall with Pond's heavier ones, Aric's crying softening as they carried him away. The silence that rushed in was worse than the crying—thick, cold, pressing against Phuwin's ears until he could hear his own heartbeat. He was alone in the bed, propped against the headboard, the silk sheets tangled around his legs, the oil lamp casting a single circle of light that didn't reach the corners of the room.
He stared at the closed door. The wood grain blurred. Became water. Became something else.
The sound of Aric's cries faded into the stone corridor, and Phuwin's eyes drifted up to the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster. The way the shadows stretched. He was not in this room anymore. He was somewhere else. The sheets beneath his fingers were not silk. The air did not smell of beeswax and milk. It smelled of iron and sweat and something older, something that clung to the back of his throat like ash.
Cold chain around his wrist. The bite of iron. He was naked on a bed that was not theirs, legs spread, a healer's hand inside him, thick fingers searching for something they had no right to find. The pain had been white, blinding, a blade dragged across raw nerve. Blood ran down his thighs, hot and then cold, pooling on the furs beneath him. And in the corner, watching, leaning against the stone wall with a smile that said I told you so, was Pond's father.
Phuwin's breath caught. His hands clenched in his lap. He was back in the imperial bedchamber, the lamp still burning, the door still closed. Aric was gone. The silence pressed harder.
He tried to hold the present. The crimson silk. The weight of his own belly. The faint warmth of the milk soaking through his robe where Aric had been nursing. But the present was thin as paper, and the past was hungry.
Him telling Pond he was pregnant with their first. The way Pond's face had cracked open—joy, terror, love all at once. They had kissed by the palace gates that night, the guards looking away, the stars blurred above them. Pond's hands had been gentle then, cupping his face like he was something precious. We're going to have a child, Pond had whispered against his lips. Our child.
And then Pond's father had banged on the door. Yelled for Phuwin. The memory shifted, the scene bleeding into another: standing in the great hall, his hands clasped in front of him, being introduced. He had worn his finest robe—blue silk with silver threading—and he had bowed as low as his spine would allow. This is my Empress, Pond had said, his voice steady, his hand warm on Phuwin's lower back. Phuwin.
Pond's father had smiled. It had not reached his eyes. Beautiful, he had said. Truly. A treasure.
The word had felt wrong, even then. But Phuwin had smiled back. He had been young. He had wanted to be loved.
The ball. A grand event, the hall filled with music and laughter. Phuwin had worn a white and blue dress, heavy silk that dragged behind him, the bodice tight against his ribs. Pond's father had asked him to dance, and he could not say no. The hand on his waist. The fingers tangling in the fabric at his lower back. The neck kissed, wet and open-mouthed, while they turned in circles. The hand that slid down, cupping his ass through the silk, squeezing. You move so beautifully, the old emperor had murmured against his ear. Like water. Like silk.
Phuwin had laughed. Nervous. Light. Trying to make it a joke. My lord, you flatter me.
I don't flatter, Pond's father had said. I speak truth.
Another memory, closer now, the edges sharper. A hallway, empty, the torches flickering. Phuwin had been talking lightly about the decorations, the flowers, the music—filling the silence with anything, everything, because the way Pond's father was looking at him made his skin crawl. The old emperor had barely been listening. His hand had roamed down Phuwin's stomach, through the silk of the dress, pressing flat. Then lower. Gripping. A hand on his breast, squeezing hard enough to make him gasp. A hand on his cock, rubbing through the fabric. And then the hand had moved down, down, to the wet heat between his thighs, and Pond's father had pressed his fingers against the silk, rubbing roughly as he kissed Phuwin's neck.
You shouldn't—my lord, you shouldn't be touching there—
Shh, the old emperor had whispered. And his fingers had pressed down, inside, through the silk, into Phuwin's body. The pain had been sharp, dry, a violation that stole his breath. Phuwin had gasped, had frozen, had felt the world narrow to that single point of intrusion.
I'm not letting you do this, he had said. His voice had been steady. He had pulled away, had walked, had not run until he was around the corner and out of sight.
But he could still feel it. The ghost of those fingers. The phantom pressure. He could still feel it now, in this bed, in this room, his thighs pressed together beneath the silk sheets.
The waterfall. He had been bathing, the cold water a balm, scrubbing at his skin until it was raw. And when he had looked up, Pond's father had been standing on the bank, watching. Staring. His eyes had moved over Phuwin's body like a hand. Phuwin had turned away, breathing hard, his arms wrapped around himself. The water had felt like ice.
Pond holding his hand after he woke up. After the night Pond's father had made him get rid of the child. The first child. Their first. Pond had held him while he bled, while he cried, while the healer cleaned between his legs with rough, efficient hands. I'm sorry, Pond had whispered, over and over. I'm so sorry. They had held each other that night, trembling in the dark, the blood still wet on Phuwin's thighs. They had cried until there was nothing left.
Adding lotion to his skin. The oils had smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. He had been in his chambers, the doors locked, or so he had thought. And then Pond's father had walked in. Smiled. Walked over. Phuwin had risen, bowed, said he was sorry, he didn't know his lord would be here, he was just leaving—
Sit, the old emperor had said. His voice had been soft. Almost kind. I want to help.
He had grabbed the lotion. Had knelt in front of Phuwin. Had rubbed his thighs, his hands warm and slick, moving up, up, between. Phuwin had looked out the window. Had counted the clouds. Had not felt his body at all.
He is mine, Pond's father had told someone, somewhere, at some event—a dinner, a council, a hunt. I can't wait to eat him. To marry a beauty like Phuwin. My current wife is a disgrace. Not beautiful like him. Not sexy. He is more beautiful than any girl you see walking the streets. One of a kind. The words had circled back to him through servants, through whispers. Phuwin had smiled every time he heard them. Had nodded. Had played the part of the honored daughter-in-law.
And yet. And yet.
The training yard. He had sat on the swing, the wood creaking beneath him, watching Pond train with the other soldiers. The sun had been warm. Pond had been shirtless, sweating, his sword a blur of silver. He had looked up, caught Phuwin's eye, and smiled. That smile. Guileless, boyish, full of light. Phuwin had smiled back, bright and wide, his heart full to bursting.
That smile had been worth everything. Every touch he had endured. Every closed door. Every silent night.
The event after the first child was gone. The forced hug. Pond's father had gripped him tight, had pressed his mouth to Phuwin's ear, had whispered, You are so beautiful. I want a dance with you later. His hand had gripped Phuwin's ass, had squeezed, had kneaded. He had kissed Phuwin's neck roughly before pulling back, smiling, his eyes dark. And Phuwin had stood there, frozen, his smile a mask, his hands shaking at his sides.
But there was also this: Pond fucking him in their bed. His husband. His love. The weight of him, the heat of him, the way he said Phuwin's name like a prayer. Fuck, Phuwin had gasped. Daddy. Pond had thrust into him deep and rough, had moved up and down, the bed creaking beneath them. Phuwin had gripped the sheets, had gasped, had moaned—not for show, not out of duty, but because he was wanted. Because he was loved. Because the hands on his body were his hands.
That was the difference. That was the line. Wanted and unwanted. Love and ownership. Pond and his father.
Pond's father's passing. The funeral had been long, gray, full of empty words. Phuwin had stood beside Pond, his hand in his husband's, his face perfectly still. And that night, alone in their room, he had laughed. Had laughed until he cried. Had laughed until his ribs ached and Pond held him, confused but smiling, and said What? What is it? And Phuwin had just shaken his head, still laughing, the sound raw and broken and free.
The wedding. Him and Pond. He had been pregnant with Imaria, his belly just beginning to round, and he had worn a dress of white, gold, and blue that was so long three people had to carry it as he walked. He had walked down the aisle, the music swelling, the sun streaming through the stained glass, and Pond had been waiting at the altar, crying before he even reached him. They had kissed deeply that day, the whole court watching, and Phuwin had felt—for the first time in years— safe. He had showed his ring to his best friends, to Star, to his brother Gemini, to Pond's siblings. He had been happy. He had been loved.
The memory held him for a moment, warm and bright. And then it slipped away, and he was back in the bed, the lamp burning low, his belly heavy with a child he might not carry to term.
Phuwin blinked. The room swam back into focus. The shadows had shifted. The candle had burned lower. He did not know how long he had been gone.
His eyes were wet. When had he started crying?
He looked down. Aric was still in his arms, latched and nursing, his small fist pressed against Phuwin's breast. The baby's eyes were closed, his cheeks moving rhythmically, his tiny fingers curled in the fabric of Phuwin's robe. Alive. Real. Hungry.
Phuwin pressed a kiss to Aric's forehead. The skin was warm, soft, smelled of milk and sleep. He wiped the baby's mouth gently with the corner of the sheet, watching the milk dribble down his chin, and he let himself feel the weight of him. The warmth. The life.
His hands were still shaking.
He began to sing. The song was old, one his mother had sung to him, about the moon and the sea and a child who had never been born. His voice was soft, rough at the edges, a little off-key. He did not care. He rocked Aric gently, the melody wrapping around them both, filling the silence that had tried to swallow him whole.
The dead twin was still inside him. Heavy. Cold. A reminder of everything that could go wrong. The healer would come at dawn, and she would bring her knives and her herbs and her steady hands, and she would reach inside him and take what was no longer alive. And it would hurt. It would hurt worse than he could imagine.
But he had survived worse.
He had survived the chained bed. The blood. The healer's fingers. The hands of Pond's father on his skin, in his body, in his head. He had survived the loss of a child, the weight of a secret, the slow erosion of his own sense of self. He had survived years of smiling when he wanted to scream.
He would survive this.
Aric's mouth went slack. The baby had fallen asleep, milk spilling down his chin, his small body soft and heavy in Phuwin's arms. Phuwin wiped his mouth again, adjusted his robe, and pulled Aric closer, pressing his cheek to the baby's hair.
"I will not let them take me," he whispered. "Do you hear me?"
He did not know who he was talking to. The ghost of Pond's father. The dead twin. The dawn that was coming. Himself.
"I am still here. I am still breathing. And I will hold you until they tear me away."
The first gray light of dawn touched the window.
Phuwin kept singing. His voice cracked on the third verse. He started again.