It’s a quiet moment. The low murmur of the tavern crowd is muffled behind the heavy wood of the door, and the empty room hangs in a tense sort of stillness. The bed is made, the curtains are drawn, the bedtable is tidied and clean. It’s mundane—absurdly so, given their circumstances—and it seems ill-suited to the chaotic storm of emotions swirling inside of him.
The moment is quiet, but his mind is not. His stomach writhes with unease; he hangs on her every word, listening too closely and all at once struggling to comprehend what she’s saying. This is important, he knows—it’s a conversation they should have had years ago, when things got serious and both of them toyed with the thought that maybe it would stay that way for good. He’s wondered before, as he’s wondering now, if things might have been different if he’d stayed. If he could have been more patient, more kind, more giving. If he could have made this work.
She wasn’t ready for it at the time. He knows that. But there’s pain written in those pale eyes, both old and new, and a part of him will always wish he could have been there to spare her some of that suffering.
Quiet words break the silence, uncharacteristically timid for a woman that bleeds confidence. She’s always been so powerful, so vibrant—but here, in the darkness, she is small. And—although he doesn’t want to believe it—she looks scared.
She was sold into slavery at 15. It hits him like an arrow to the chest, at once a revelation and somehow unsurprising. He’s picked up fragments, before now—the way she instinctively stiffens at the mention of a father, the visceral response she has to any sort of dominant action in bed. Hers is a soul riddled with scars and old wounds; hearing the facts just adds clarity to a hazy picture he formed years ago.
—Still, he can’t stop his mind from wandering down the rabbit hole, from imagining the hell her life must have been before they met. Unwelcome images press into his mind unbidden, and as he sees her in his mind’s eye—young, scared, vulnerable—his heart clenches up with grief.
Whatever she may be, and whatever she may have done, she never deserved that.
He doesn’t expect her to tell him more. That alone would be enough—is already more than she ever owed. Sharp claws press into her skin and draw blood, and he surges forward, setting aside his glass with the intent to stop her. But then she continues, picking up the story from the moment they met—and he stops. You were the first person to show me love, she says, and he believes every word. There’s gratitude in her voice, and even a measure of happiness, as if the shadow of years gone by has resurfaced for the span of a moment. But still comes that persistent thought in Solomon’s mind: she needed you, and you abandoned her.
It’s fucked. The twisted justifications she made to herself years ago, the way that he still somehow feels guilty even as she tells him she would have killed him. He was right to run away, and in the logical part of his brain, he knows it. But his feelings are messy and raw, a volatile mixture of righteous anger and heartbreak and sympathy. He wants to grab her—whether to hold her or to shake her, he can’t decide. But in the storm of his emotions, she is the eye, and no matter what he does in this moment, it all circles right back to her.
Then it strikes him. She’s really, truly changed.
He breathes a quiet sigh and settles next to her on the bed. Long fingers draw a handkerchief from inside his robe and wrap it gently around the wound, then he takes the offending hand and cradles it gently in his grasp, preventing any further damage. And it feels… good, in a strange sort of way. Because he really can’t remember the last time he held her hand like this and meant it.
“Thank you.” He’s silent for a long moment as he composes his thoughts, trying to find the right words for them. Nothing feels quite adequate to contain the tightness in his throat, the desperate quaking in his belly. But the least he owes her is to try.
“I’m not going to say that it’s okay, because we both know it’s not. And I’m not going to say you’re forgiven, because you killed good, innocent people—and I don’t think that forgiveness is mine to give.” His weight shifts on the bed. He leans into her, as if he knows they both sit on the verge of collapse. “But the fact that you’re willing to say you’re sorry means everything. Truly. And I think it would be a well-deserved break for us both if we said goodbye to the past and started over.”
