tatake

You had built this life together from the remnants of a darker one.

Once, he had been hidden away in a cellar, chained to stone, spoken of only in whispers. You had been the only one brave, or foolish, enough to bring him light.

You had tended to his wounds, taught him words, stayed when others turned away. You had seen the man underneath the monster.

Now, years later, the chains were gone, the cellar replaced by sunlight and silence.

He chopped wood in the mornings, read in the afternoons, and every evening he waited for you by the fire.

There was gentleness in him now, though sometimes, when shadows moved too quickly across the wall, you could still see the old fear flash behind his eyes.

You loved him more for it.

It was late winter when you first began to suspect.

You would wake with nausea, find yourself dizzy after tending the garden, and sometimes feel an odd fluttering in your chest that was not quite your own. At first, you dismissed it, a passing illness, perhaps.

But then the physician came, a kind old man from the nearby town who still remembered you as the woman who lived “with that quiet fellow on the hill.”

After a brief examination, he smiled gently.

“My dear,” he said, “you are with child.”

The words filled the room and settled deep within your heart.

For a moment, all you could do was sit in silence, your hands pressed to your belly. When he left, the world felt different, sharper, brighter, and unbearably fragile.

You thought of your husband, his hands rough but careful, his eyes so full of love and sorrow. You thought of how deeply he feared the blood that ran through his veins, the scars that marked his skin, the unnatural spark that had brought him to life.

You knew he would be terrified.

That night, as the wind moved through the pines, you sat by the fire, staring into the flames. He was across the room, preparing for bed, his hair falling loosely over his brow. The candlelight softened his face, turning the harsh lines into something almost holy.

He noticed your silence first.

“What is it?” he asked softly, buttoning his shirt. “You are quiet tonight.”

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the edge of the blanket.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Then tell me, my heart.”

You rose slowly, the wooden floor creaking under your bare feet. Crossing the room, you took his hand, the same hand that had once been a weapon but now only knew tenderness. You placed it over your belly.

“There is a life,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Growing here.”

At first, he said nothing. His eyes searched yours, as if expecting a cruel jest.

Then his hand jerked back as if it had been burned.

“No,” he said sharply. “That cannot be.”

“It’s true,” you replied. “The doctor confirmed it this morning.”

He shook his head, stepping away from you.

“No, I was not meant to create life. I am not like other men. I was made, pieced together from-” His voice broke, anguish flooding his face. “What have I done? What kind of child could I bring into this world? What if they suffer as I did? What if they look like me? What if the world calls them a monster before they take their first breath?”

You reached for him, but he turned away, pacing the small room.

Tears blurred your vision.

“You think I would call them that?”

He froze. You could hear the tremor in your own voice as you went on. “You think I would ever see anything less than love in what we’ve made? I was so happy, so ready to share this with you, but now you speak as though it’s a curse.”

Your voice faltered, and the tears came faster. You sank onto the bed, your hands trembling in your lap.

“I love you,” you whispered through sobs. “And I love this child. But if you cannot bear it, if you think this is something to be feared, then perhaps I was foolish to hope you would stay.”

The room fell silent but for your quiet crying. He stood motionless, his chest heaving.

The sight of your tears seemed to break something inside him.

Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt before you.

“Please,” he murmured. “Do not cry.”

You looked up, and your eyes met his, those strange, sorrowful eyes that had haunted you since the day you first saw him in that dark cellar.

His hands, still trembling, reached for you, cupping your face with infinite care.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I was afraid. I have spent so long believing that my hands could only bring pain. But you…” His voice softened. “You have made them gentle. You have made me gentle. And now, with you, I have created something pure. I do not deserve it, but I will love it with everything that I am.”

You covered his hands with yours, pressing his palm once more against your belly.

“Then promise me,” you whispered. “Promise you will never see this as a mistake.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“I promise, I do not.”

You stayed like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside you. His breath was warm against your skin, his heart, steady beneath the patchwork of scars. When he finally spoke again, it was barely more than a whisper.

“Tell me,” he said, wonder threading through his voice. “What does it feel like to carry life?”

You smiled through your tears.

“It feels like hope.”

He nodded slowly, eyes closing.

“Then I will not fear it.”

That night, as you drifted into sleep in his arms, his hand never left your stomach. And when you woke before dawn, you found him still watching you, a faint smile on his lips.

“I created death once,” he said quietly. “But now, with you, I have created life.”

And for the first time since he had drawn breath in that dark, cold laboratory, he truly believed he was human.

The days that followed were soft and slow.

The cottage, which had always been peaceful, now seemed alive in a different way, each creak of the floorboard, each gust of wind through the trees felt charged with new meaning.

You were often tired now, though joy lingered in your smile.

He would insist on doing everything for you, fetching water, lighting the fire, even tending to the hens outside, though sometimes you caught him watching you with a look of awe, as though he still could not quite believe what you had told him.

He began to build again.

It started one morning when you woke to the sound of scraping wood. Following the noise, you found him outside, sleeves rolled up, his large hands smoothing the edge of a plank.

The faint smell of resin and sawdust filled the air.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though you already knew.

He looked up, hesitant, as though afraid you might disapprove.

“I wanted to make something,” he said quietly. “Something for the child. Something good.”

“A cradle?”

He nodded, and his lips curved into a small smile.

You stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

“It will be beautiful. Everything you make with your hands is.”

He paused then, looking down at those hands, large, rough, marked by old stitches and scars.

“I used to believe they were cursed,” he murmured. “But now I think they were only waiting for a purpose.”

The cradle took weeks to finish.

He worked slowly, carefully, shaping each curve as though he were sculpting a prayer.

You often watched from the doorway, your hands resting over your belly, listening to the rhythmic rasp of the plane as wood became form.

Sometimes he would stop to ask your opinion.

“Should I carve stars or leaves along the side?”

“Stars,” you said once, smiling. “So our child will always sleep beneath the heavens, even indoors.”

At night, when he thought you slept, you would hear him murmuring softly. It took you a few evenings to realise he was speaking to your belly. His deep, rumbling voice carried through the stillness, unsure at first, then tender.

“I do not know what you will look like,” he whispered one night. “But your mother says you will be beautiful. I hope she is right. I hope you will not be afraid when you see me. I will protect you. I will be gentle.”

You never interrupted him. You simply listened, smiling in the dark.

By the time spring crept through the woods, the cradle was complete.

He had carved stars into the wood, as promised, and lined the inside with soft linen. When you saw it for the first time, your breath caught in your throat.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered, running your fingers along the smooth edge.

He shook his head, shyly.

“It’s not perfect. But it is made with love.”

“That makes it perfect.”

He smiled, which still carried traces of disbelief.

“When I was first created,” he said softly, “my maker saw me and recoiled. But when I think of this child, I feel only… wonder. Perhaps this is what it means to truly make life, not with lightning or science, but with love.”

You stepped closer and took his hand, pressing it once more to your stomach.

“Then you are more of a maker than he ever was.”

He looked at you, eyes bright, voice unsteady.

“You have given me everything I never thought I could have. A home. Peace. And now a future.”

That night, you sat together beside the fire.

He traced your palm with one finger, watching the way the firelight painted your skin gold.

“Do you think they will be afraid of me?” he asked softly.

You shook your head.

“They will see what I see.”

“And what do you see?”

“A man who once lived in darkness and still chose to love the light.”

He was quiet for a long while after that, holding you close. When the baby kicked for the first time, his breath caught in awe.

He pressed his ear to your belly, his whole being stilling as though listening for the sound of redemption itself.

And when he finally lifted his gaze to yours, there were tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For believing that something like me could create something so pure.”

You kissed his forehead, brushing away the tears.

“It wasn’t belief,” you said softly. “It was truth.”

Outside, the night was calm.

The wind moved gently through the pines, and the stars gleamed above, the same stars he had carved into the cradle, waiting to guard the child born of two souls who had once lived beneath the ashes, and now stood in the light.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ