rhae

You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room she’d ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.

“Right,” you said. “Not helpful.”

You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someone’s mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.

“Okay,” you said finally. “I have to go up. If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll figure something out.”

She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasn’t about to start now.

She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if she’d never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.

“Absolutely not,” you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. “You’re coming upstairs. You’re eating something. We’re figuring out who you belong to.”

She didn’t struggle. She settled against your shoulder like she’d been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadn’t been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.

Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.

“It’s not much,” you said defensively, setting her down. “But it’s warm.”

She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.

“What do you even eat?” you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didn’t have cat food. You didn’t have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.

“This is probably terrible for you,” you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. “But you look like you’ve survived worse.”

She ate like she’d never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.

You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didn’t do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.

“This is full-grain Italian leather,” the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. “And the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.”

“But no tag,” you said.

“But no tag,” the vet agreed. “Some people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. How’s she been eating?”

“Everything,” you said. “Anything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.”

The vet laughed. “At her age, that’s a good sign. She’s healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.

“You’re someone’s, aren’t you?” you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. “Someone filthy rich.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.

You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.

MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.

There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the cat’s name, the reward, and a number.

Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.

“Your name is Vhagar,” you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. “That’s you, isn’t it? Vhagar.”

She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since you’d found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, you’ve figured it out.

You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work you’d been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadn’t had since you’d moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.

But it wasn’t the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way she’d been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.

You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes.”

Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.”

A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.

“Proof,” the voice said. “Send me proof.”

“What kind of...“

“A video that shows she’s alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.”

The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and you’d already decided.

“Do you have Whatsapp or something with this number?” you asked, “I’ll send a video.”

He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.

“Charming,” you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.

You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.

That’s her. Where can we meet?

You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You weren’t stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.

His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.

His LinkedIn profile was not private.

The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like he’d been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.

Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies you’d seen on the news. A master’s degree. A bachelor’s from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.

Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.

“You belong to him?” you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email you’d been drafting. “You belong to a billionaire’s son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?”

Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.

The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.

Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.

He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the cat’s reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Vhagar,” he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. You’d made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.

“She’s fine,” you said, setting the carrier down. “She’s been eating well. Sleeping a lot. She’s very…opinionated.”

He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like she’d been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.

“Where did you find her?” he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.

“Outside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.”

His jaw tightened. “How long?”

“About three weeks ago.”

He didn’t say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagar’s back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.

“The reward,” he said. “Thank you for returning her.”

You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.

“Right,” you said. “Well. Take care of her. And maybe…put a tag on her collar next time.”

He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you weren’t sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.

“She has never run away before,” he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.

“Well,” you said again, because his stare was unnerving, “she’s home now.”

He didn’t thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured “Mr. Targaryen” that you caught on the wind.

You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.

You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagar’s fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadn’t expected to miss.

Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.

What did you do to my cat?

You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.

Sorry?, you typed back.

The response came immediately. Vhagar. She won’t eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?

You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.

“Milk,” Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. “You fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?”

“She liked them,” you said defensively. “She ate them right up. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” he said, “is that Vhagar’s normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my family’s private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.”

You sat down on your bed. “She ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of feels like the point.”

He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “The point is that she’s refusing to eat. She’s refusing to eat and she’s refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.”

You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldn’t resolve.

“Have you tried…playing with her?” you asked.

“She doesn’t play,” Aemond said, as if you’d suggested she do her own taxes. “I throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. That’s not playing. That’s destruction.”

“What about cardboard boxes?”

Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.

“Cardboard boxes,” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Yeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.”

“You want me,” Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, “to give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?”

“I mean, it can’t hurt?”

Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.

“This is absurd,” he said, and hung up.

The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.

Vhagar has been eating again. The box was…effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.

Attached was a number that made your eyes water.

You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isn’t over. You thought about Aemond Targaryen’s voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.

“This is insane,” you said to your empty apartment.

But you typed back: When do I start?

The first visit was awkward. Aemond’s apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, you’ve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.

“She’s been waiting by the door since this morning,” Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. “I don’t understand why.”

“She’s a cat,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. “They’re mysterious.”

“She’s never sat in anyone’s lap but mine. And my mother’s. And occasionally my sister’s, though that ended badly.”

“What happened?”

“My sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.

“Tea?” he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.

“Sure,” you said. “Tea would be great.”

Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryen’s penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.

“You said you’ve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,” he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. “That’s not nutritious.”

“I’m aware,” you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat café that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.

“You’re not a cat person,” you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.

“I’m a Vhagar person,” he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“I’m beginning to think there might be,” he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.

Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagar’s benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I don’t understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.

“There’s no recipe,” you told him. “You boil them.”

“I told him that. He didn’t believe me.”

He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didn’t notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldn’t remember why you’d ever found him cold.

Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.

“She likes you,” Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.

“She tolerates me.”

“No.” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. “She likes you. She’s particular. She doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.”

“What did your brother do?”

“Breathed too loudly, I think.”

You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something you’d never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.

“I’m glad you found her,” he said quietly. “The cat. I’m glad you found her.”

“Me too,” you said, and you weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.

Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.

You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.

You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.

You learned about Alys by accident.

It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.

"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."

"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."

"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She gets…unsettled when I'm gone too long."

The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.

"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Riverlands."

You waited for elaboration. None came.

"That's…specific."

He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."

The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.

"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.

"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I prefer…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."

"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."

He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.

The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.

You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.

On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:

Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.

Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.

When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.

"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.

"Fine."

"How's Alys?"

The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."

"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."

He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."

"Practice?"

"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."

"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.

After that, you started noticing things.

The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.

"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."

You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.

"She must be very special," you said.

"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.

The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.

He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.

You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.

And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.

The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.

The call came on a Thursday in late April.

"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"

You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."

"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"

A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."

The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?

"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.

When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.

He looked terrible.

His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.

"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."

"You're having surgery."

"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."

You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.

"When is it?" you asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."

"You're going alone?"

The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"

You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.

"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.

Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."

"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."

"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"

"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."

He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.

"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."

"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."

You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.

Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."

"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.

"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"

"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."

"Of course you do."

The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.

"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."

"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."

"You made breakfast?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."

He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.

Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.

You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.

"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."

"I don't trust your definition of pasta."

"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."

"Sauce from a jar?"

"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.

He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."

"Of course they do."

That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.

"Does Alys know you had surgery?"

Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."

"You mentioned it."

"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."

"She's not coming to visit?"

He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."

"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"

"It's not that simple."

"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."

His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys is…she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."

"What does she accept about you?"

The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.

Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."

You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.

At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.

"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.

"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."

"That's not what I asked."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."

"I said a lot of things at dinner."

"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."

"It's not," you said.

"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."

"She stayed for the hot dogs."

"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."

Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.

"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."

"How do you feel about it?"

He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.

"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."

You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.

the difference, in bb's mind, between doing what you ask and submitting is that he is choosing to listen to you. he's a dog that prefers being on a leash, after all, but being leashed doesn't mean that a dog won't pull until you're off-balance, if it wants to. (a leash might prevent them from wandering off, but it won't stop a mutt from turning on its owner instead, moving in closer and baring its teeth. ...not that bb would ever do anything like that to you, never you.)

you can try to ask bb for what you want. he'll hear you out, at the very least, unless you're being a brat about it. he doesn't have much patience for that, and is likely to nip it in the bud. this is one of the few aspects in your life together where he'll consistently, directly, assert his power over you in such an obvious way.

if he doesn't like what he's hearing, bb has no qualms about just pinning you down on the bed. the fingers of one hand crammed into your mouth, the other digits stuffed into your pussy as he grunts out that "you're making too many demands. i'll help with that."

As of now, I'm not going out of my way to fill out the ship chart, as there's still honestly not much to go off of about his character. I'm sure we'll learn a bit more about him in Shift 3.5, or at least, how mc thinks about him.

I have to get it off my chest. The very first thing I noticed about the chart, was his name. It's scribbled out, of course, with Red written on the side, but if you look closely you can very barely make out a few strokes to at least imply the first letter is M. This is a big deal! And I may be crazy to think about this so quickly, because I poured the comments in hopes of someone else thinking the same, but I didn't see anything. Maybe people are holding back? Maybe they know and don't want to spoil this detail? I'm sorry that I can't help myself, so at least I'm doing it under my own blog. I hope you read the warning at the top!

There is another stroke towards the center of the scribble, a long straight line. And there's another somewhat interesting line stroke at the very end, also a straight line, but somewhat shorter than the previous one I mentioned. Now why are these lines so important? What do they mean? I'm sorry I'm just so excited idk how to just come out and say it.

My initial thought was his name was... Morkheim.

If this name doesn't mean anything to you, please go back and play Shift 3. Refer to Laly's guides for some secrets, because this is a big deal to me!!!!!

I will not be providing screenshots for this, because I want to preserve the.... sight? Feeling of seeing it yourself? Idk how to describe it, but I hope you understand what I mean. Anyway, let me get into what I mean and why I think this.

RB's identity has always been a hot debate. It's obvious he haunts mc, but why? The biggest theories usually boil down to whether he is or isn't BB. Now if you do recognize Morkheim, you would know that's the surname you see on the dog tags in BB's locker in Shift 3. I think he mentioned it's Norwegian, his father's, when you ask him. Does this mean RB is BB? Not necessarily. First, just because it's in the name field, doesn't mean it's his first name or surname or nickname or whatever. We don't really know any of that yet anyway. But... If I'm allowed to speculate, then it's still rather important. There's a story in the game that pops up across multiple shifts: A story about an owner who had two dogs, practically brothers even if not by blood. Even this story was analyzed and people tried to figure out what it could mean, who it could be referring to, if anyone at all, which characters it could relate to, or if it relates to multiple characters. I think it's possible that there's many stories that resonate with many characters within the game for different reasons, but that's a whole other can of worms for another post.

Well, what do I think, then? It's hard to say. I do think that it's very likely RB was a real person who is no longer around, so following that logic, I think he was a separate person from BB. But why share his last name? There's a few possible circumstances... Maybe RB was adopted into his family. BB claims to have a rather "normal" relationship with his parents, but the story about his father and the bear, and the strange comment about having to bear the weight of his father's last name... Maybe societal pressure deemed it so that his family needed an heir. When BB wasn't "good enough" in the eyes of his father, maybe they looked elsewhere.

Then here's my wack-ass theory that's completely out of pocket so idk y'all can ignore this I guess, but following that potential scenario, I can imagine that BB wasn't particularly loved if RB ended up becoming whatever his parents, or his father, may have wanted at that time. Maybe he couldn't bring himself to hate him, because why would he? RB did nothing wrong. He just simply, existed. But it doesn't mean it didn't hurt. So he left. He joined the US Army. And he never felt so lost and without guidance. And then he somehow got picked up by the garage owner (sry his name escapes me at the moment), gets his life together, barely, and tries to live in society. But maybe... he meets RB again. Why was he here? Maybe his duty was done. Whatever their father needed him for, he was no longer needed. Maybe RB rebelled because he felt it wasn't right. Maybe he searched for BB, and he found him. Here. In the US.

It's awkward as fuck, the reunion. They hadn't seen each other in years. BB didn't hate him, not really. Never did. But it was odd to see him here. Maybe he was already wearing that bright red racing gear. It was so different from back home. But that wasn't home anymore. RB takes the reunion in stride. He's happy to see BB again, whether he was really looking for him or not. They talk, or maybe him mostly. There's the bike that catches his eye. Maybe it's Scarlette? He teaches BB how to ride. He crashes pretty badly, not that either of them mind. The more BB rides, the more he feels the rush again. The thrill. Like he's alive. Almost like when he was in the army, but different. He wasn't seeing people dying around him. But the danger was always lurking.

Maybe they make a stop by the convenience store. BB has never really stopped by here before. Never really felt the need to. His meals at home were good enough for him, but RB insisted. It's late, well past midnight, but it's quiet, and BB doesn't mind the quiet. RB isn't exactly quiet himself, but BB doesn't always mind it. His eyes land on the cashier...

Now why the hell did I write a fuckin novel... 😔Writing's not really my thing... But anyway, you get my point right..... Maybe that's how they meet mc, at first. RB, being the more charismatic, extroverted one, was the one who was able to open up and approach mc first, much to BB's dismay. It's then up to popular debate if the traumatic event mc experienced involves violence between RB and BB or a crazy accident (a bike crash perhaps?). Or maybe it wasn't anything that 'dramatic' at all. But accidents, no matter how big or small, can affect people differently, so who's to say it wouldn't still badly affect mc this way, especially if someone still died in the end?

But then what of the paranoia? The stalking? The knife? The candles? The neighbor? It could be just that. Paranoia. It's clear that people call out to mc with less than savory intentions, and there was a post recently that analyzed the color red and how in a certain flashback involving Lane, his unsavory comment dyed his name red. I think there's heavy implications that BB is currently stalking mc, but there's no confirmation of any stalking happening before the game's timeline. With mc's memory problems, the trauma and paranoia, maybe it all mixed together to give her this big mix up of discomfort in everything. Unable to trust anyone. The knife was said to always be there, but maybe it really was always there, in that drawer. She thought she needed it, but maybe she really didn't. The candles? Her friendship with Amelia was only recently strained/broken off, so there's a chance that whatever traumatized/deeply hurt mc, she tried to help her cope. But Amelia isn't a therapist, there's only so much she can do, and if mc continues to spiral or eventually lashes out and chooses to mistrust even Amelia, then it wouldn't surprise me that Amelia would drop her in that instance. Why bother helping someone who doesn't want to be helped? The neighbor... That makes things harder, but if he's anything like Lane's neighbor, then maybe he has his own prejudices about guys in biker gear. Whether what he said was true or not, we don't know.

I think he'd struggle with someone who argues just for the sake of arguing. Like, someone who constantly talks back in a really aggressive way instead of actually trying to explain their perspective or help him understand where they're coming from. Basically, people who create conflict out of nothing and keep doing it over and over.

I also don't think BB would be into mind games. He'd much rather people be honest, upfront and transparent with him. So if you're expecting him to constantly read between the lines, or you're seriously playing hard to get instead of just teasing or flirting, he'd literally be like 🧍

It'd probably hurt his brain a little. Sometimes he'd genuinely wonder if all of that was necessary or if you're just trying to torture him.

Being really close with male coworkers or male friends while you're already in a relationship would probably bother him too.

Like... what are we? 😭 Why are you acting like that when you've got him all to yourself? 🥺

(Let him go kill those men real quick.) /j

But seriously, I don't think he'd like you being too friendly with any male species, even if it's completely platonic. He's very much an "exclusive" kind of person.

Exclusive. Exclusive.

He's yours, and you're his too. 🥺 Please don't ever be closer to anyone than you are to him.

As for being super jacked, I feel like Lane would probably joke about it. Something like "Oh, you're trying to be cool and funny like men now?" 😭

(let not forget he's into face slapping so slap him Queen)

Like I've mentioned before, I think Lane actually needs someone willing to confront his behavior and attitude. So if he met someone who always dropped difficult conversations or just walked away instead of talking things through, it'd hurt him way more than he'd admit.

He'd probably act all unbothered like "Wow, okay. If you don't want to talk to me or even look at my face, that's fine."

Walking away or ignoring him would probably make him feel like you've already decided he's a lost cause. Like you don't think he's worth understanding or helping anymore. That'd probably bring back a lot of insecurities he thought he'd buried.

So I think people who avoid confrontation completely, or only confront people when it's convenient, might actually be the type he'd avoid. There's a high chance he'd end up getting hurt by that kind of attitude.

I don't think he'd handle the silent treatment very well either.

Another trait he probably wouldn't like is being a party pooper.

It's not about whether you can take a joke or whether you're a serious person. It's more about being unnecessarily pessimistic or taking harmless things way more seriously than they need to be.

For example, someone who hates kids in a genuinely negative way or constantly villainizes teenagers instead of trying to understand why they're so rough around the edges.

Yeah, I don't think Lane would really vibe with that.

I like to think one of the reasons he's actually good with kids is because he understands their mindset more than he realizes. They probably remind him of himself when he was younger. Instead of immediately labeling them as "difficult" he'd try to put himself in their shoes and figure out why they're acting that way.

So if someone's constantly judging kids for just... being kids or having fun, I don't think he'd enjoy being around that person very much.

As for physical appearance, honestly... I have no idea.

I don't think it's really about appearance itself. I think it's more about the stereotypes attached to certain things that influence how they see them.

For example, I feel like BB wouldn't want you wearing something too revealing. Not because he dislikes it or thinks you should cover yourself up.

It's more because he knows other men are going to stare and apparently can't keep their eyes to themselves.

If you wanted to wear whatever you wanted though, he'd absolutely fight those men instead XD

But deep down he'd probably still wish those kinds of outfits were something only he got to see 🥺🥺🥺

As for Lane...

Honestly, that man is such a whore. Or at least he tries really hard to make himself seem like one.

I genuinely don't know what he'd find physically unattractive.

He keeps talking about "ugly chicks" but like... what even counts as ugly to him? I have no idea where his standards actually are.

I don't think he's ever sat down and made a list of physical traits he dislikes. If he does have any, we'd probably only find out completely at random.

One thing I do think might throw him off is if someone looked a little too much like his mom or his sister.

That'd probably be a landmine for him because seeing someone who resembles them might trigger some emotional war flashbacks. He'd probably end up feeling awkward around them more than anything.

Age would matter too.

Not even in an illegal sense. Like, if he's around 28 to 30, I don't think he'd want a 19 or 20 year old approaching him romantically. The difference in maturity and life experience would probably make him uncomfortable.

And please don't flirt with him if you're under 18. 

Not only would he think it's really weird, he'd probably assume people only lust after him because they think he's "that kind" of guy. Like some predator who'd go after younger people.

I think he'd actually be kind of offended by that 🤔

How long had he been in here? hours? days? who knows. who cares. the fact that he can even think about that means he is not drunk enough.

he is never truly drunk enough. he always ends up remembering. remembering the visions, the meanings, the doom. he doesn't want to remember but he's forced to he's bound to. he's cursed to.

this power, only written about in those history books he was forced to read as a child, is a curse. Its a curse on his life on his soul on his body every waking moment is misery. maybe he should go to the whore house? no he's certainly not drunk enough for that.

he hears the barkeep place a new jug next to his head. he lifts his head slowly, his hands moving to grasp the large cup with both of his hands and raises it to his lips and quickly chugs it all down. its bitter and gross. his head slams back down onto the counter and the jug falls to the ground. he can feel liquid running down his chin, down his chest. his eyes begin to droop and he feels that familiar dread fill his stomach. he does not want to sleep because he does not want to dream what if he see's something, anything. he does not want it.

yet he cannot fight it, the drowsiness takes over his body like a plague seeps into ones soul. so he sleeps.

he hasn't had a dream like this since he was a young young boy. back then he had dreamed of a woman, the most beautiful women he had ever seen. she and him were together in a comfy cozy home he did not recognize. or at least that is how he wanted to interpret it. his chest had filled with a warmth he had never experienced before. he remembers waking up with his chest pounding but a smile on his face. he hadn't had a happy dream since then. he believed he had gone mad and made up some grand paradise future for himself and quickly rid himself of that memory.

but for the first time in many years he finds himself dreaming of the same face. its the very same woman. shes as gorgeous as the day he first saw her. this time she is at the place he recognizes, summerhall, and she is pressing a dragon egg against her stomach. his signet ring lays on her ring finger. shes grinning with the brightest most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

his eyes burn as he forces them open. the barkeep gives him an odd look as he sits up quickly, his body sways side to side as he tries to ground himself back in reality for the first time in years.

he knows what it means. the woman is to be his wife and to bear his child. maybe the child's egg will hatch? no he is thinking too hard about it, he should try to focus on what he knows to be true. she had the most pleasant smile on her face, the rush of happiness he felt seeing seeing it left him feeling rather strange.

"would you like another drink?"

the barkeep is speaking to him, clearly put off by how odd the prince was acting. he opens his mouth, his throat his hoarse and dry.

"water."

if he was looking at the barkeeps face he would have seen the look of shock and horror given to him. he had never asked for water, if he needed water he would just chug down more wine until he didn't need it anymore. he was staring off into space, what was he to do if he ever saw this woman, go up to her and proclaim her to be his wife? that would be ridiculous. he did not even know if she was of right birth, what if she was a whore from the house maybe he should go there later today to check it out.

he barely registers the scratching of the stool near him scrapping along the ground as some sits down. he takes a small sip of the water placed in front of him.

"whatever's cheapest." the woman's voice is unfamiliar to him so he pays it no mind. he hears the barkeep grunt and the sloshing around of liquid filling into a cup but his gaze stayed fixed on the wall in front of him. what was he going to do? maybe he should go on some wild goose hunt to find her, it could be a good excuse to get him away from home for awhile. he should just leave it alone. he has never sought out his dreams before, he was definitely not going to start with this one.

he groans and lets his head fall back on the table. his hands come up to cradle his head to try and soothe the aching of his head.

what he does not expect is to hear a what was possibly the rudest scoff he had ever heard in his whole life followed quickly with a, "this is unbelievable."

was she talking to him? a scowl grows on his face, he's not in the mood to talk to anyone especially not some rude woman. he slowly tilts his head towards her until one of his eyes peeks out from his arm. he lets out the loudest gasp, standing up so quick the stool he had been sitting on goes flying backwards. he steps as far away from her as he can, his heart pounding in his chest as he blinks his dry eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

it was her. the woman from his dreams sitting on the bar stool of some shitty bar with the nastiest glare on her face directed right towards him.

"oh so you do know what i look like."

his ears could barely register what you were saying he was still too shocked you were actually there in person since he was just dreaming about you. his breath was short as his brain tried to catch up with the sight in front of him.

"….what?"

a loud slam filled the air as she slammed the now empty jug on the counter and stood up. "you are the worst man in all of westeros. i have been trying to call on you and i sit through these stupid marriage meets so i can finally meet my supposed betrothed and now i find him covered in his own spit and shit in some shitty-"

"i dreamed of you."

there's an odd silence that fills the air. the scowl she's had this whole time falls for a moment. just a moment but he almost smiles at the sight before it twists back up again.

"fuck off."

she turns quickly, her hand on the table for a moment where he can hear the clinking of metal coins before she storms out without another word. he stands motionless as he rethinks the entire conversation.

marriage? husband?

he can vaguely recall his father summoning him and telling him of some marriage alliance with a girl from the free cities. that was about him? maekar had probably said it was but he was barely paying any attention. he was asked to attend a couple meetings in the same conversation. he can barely believe it.

he hisses and grips his head. its pounding louder than his heart his.

he's let himself get too sober. he's not drunk enough.

—

it had taken you at least a moon cycle to get to kings landing. you had now been in kings landing for yet another moon cycle.

you had not seen the man you were promised to a single time. it was humiliating. you had never been so humiliated in your whole life. you would sit during your marriage talks and stare at the empty seat a rage burning deep inside your stomach. you had asked for him, requested his presence more times than you can remember and not once had he shown himself.

you finally had enough and decided to go search for him on your own. it was rather easy with enough coin you found out where he regularly frequents and simply watched him for awhile. now that you had finally seen him you were so embarrassed you had even been calling on him at all. he was a wreck through and through. you had heard things, that he was a drunk who spent all his time drinking, a man whore who spent all his time in a whore house. both seemed to be completely true, you were sick to your stomach.

when you saw your father again you were going to kill him. was he purposefully trying to piss you off? was it because you had rejected the proposal from that old slave master from volantis? you remember he was very unhappy about that. you were going to kill him.

when you got back to the palace you stormed into the library and sat against the window. you knew if you went to your room your mother would likely be there waiting for you, wanting to talk about about the wedding and the marriage.

you were so frustrated you ripped the cloak you were wearing off and tossed it far away from you.

"you should watch where you throw things."

the voice is meek but mighty. your head turns to look and immediately stand up in horror.

"prince aegon i am so sorry please forgive me."

you lowed yourself to a deep bow. the cloak had just barely missed him, pooled up in a ball right next to where he was sitting. you didn't dare raise your head until you hear him laugh.

"its fine. it would have been funnier if it hit me."

you and aegon had formed a sort of weird friendship. neither of you had anyone in the palace you got along with, you being a foreigner with only your mother and two maids you had no other connections out here. then there was aegon who had his brother he was closest with taken away from him, he cant connect with his oldest brother who 'lives in his own world,' and the second oldest who he stays away from at all costs. his sisters were no better he tended to just stick to himself most of the time.

aegon had decided he liked you after you cursed aerion under your breath after he made an off comment about aegon in front of you. now the young prince liked to hang around you whenever he saw you and aerion tended to stay away.

so the two of you stuck together, he requested to eat meals with you basically every day and since your mother couldn't dare refuse a request of the prince he always ate with you. whenever he wasn't in lessons he would find you where ever you happened to be and would spend the day together out with you.

people thought it was strange. your mother especially. you had almost slapped her after she tried to suggest you married him instead. he was nice and cute when he wasn't trying to deliberately piss you off, he also was the only person who had been even remotely friendly towards you so you two decided to stick together.

you glare at the young boy who shrugged before going back to his book. you dragged your body over to him and sat down on a free cushion next to him.

"your brother is awful."

"which one?"

"my betrothed."

"he's not that bad."

"he's awful."

"you can't come up with a different word?"

"i would hit you if i could."

he giggles, hiding his face in his book before he glances at you, his eyes more serious than before. his tone lost his usual sass as his eyes filled with worry.

"did he do something?"

you shook your head and he immediately relaxed, you ignore quiet sigh of relief he lets out from what he's alluded to you can imagine he probably thought the worst even if it was the better brother.

"i just cant believe hes a drunk slob."

"you already knew that."

"i know! i just can't believe i saw it with my own two eyes."

he rolls his eyes as you bang your head against the table. this was the worst. you would be doomed to a life of misery with a whore for a husband. you never thought this would be a marriage of love maybe one of mutual respect but that seemed to be too much to hope for now that you knew what you did.

your voice is muffled as you speak again, not even bothering to lift up your head.

"i mean what nerve he has. the first thing he says to me is that he dreams of me. what does that even mean?"

there's a loud slam as aegon shuts the book he had been pretending to read as he shakes you urgently. he tells you to sit up with an urgency in his voice you had never heard before. you glare at him as do as he asked. the look on his face makes you nervous.

"what did you just say?"

"i said he has some nerve."

"no the thing after that!"

you face twists in confusion as he seems like what you had just said is the most important thing in all of the seven kingdoms. he had grabbed your arms and was leaning in close to you, eager to hear the words that would escape your mouth. he had never looked more like the young boy he was than he did right this second. his eyes shined with that childlike wonder. you had almost forgotten the boy was not even ten yet.

"he said he dreams of me?"

"yes that part! did he say anything else?"

"i stormed out before he could."

aegon deflates, letting go of you as he sighs. he places a hand on his forehead like a father disappointed in his son would. despite all this he has a big grin on his face. if he wasn't so cute and if he wasn't a prince you would slap him.

"what has gotten into you?"

"all my brothers dreams come true."

he stands up leaving you lost as he looks along the big wall of books, searching for something. he ends up having to jump up to pick a book off the shelf before he brings it back over to you. the book is rather old, it looks heavy you're shocked he can even pick it up.

"have you ever read the story of the doom of valyria?"

"do you think me stupid?"

he rolls his eyes, his mouth opening to say something in retort but he closes his mouth, flipping through the book until he lands on the page he's looking for.

"well then you must know of daenys."

of course you know of her. daenys. the one who foresaw the destruction of valyria and got the targaryen family out of valyria to westeros where they survived. your father called her a madwoman who simply had a 'woman's temper tantrum' and forced her father to relocate after some 'silly dream.' your father hates the targaryen's but it is too beneficial of a marriage for him to refuse and for you, a third daughter with an older sister and an older brother who were already married your mother called it a stroke of luck.

"the one who predicted the doom yes of course."

"she did not predict it. she knew it was going to happen. she saw it. she dreamt it. just like my brother has dreamt of you."

you did not like the sound of this in the slightest. did that mean you were going to do something bad? did the targaryen's only dream of doom? were you going to bring doom? no. you were just a normal girl, maybe you had a poor temper but did that mean you would bring terror?

"did he point a knife at you?"

"no."

"then it couldn't have been a bad dream."

there's a silence in the air. what were you even supposed to say to that. all this talk of dragon dreams, doom, and the future made your head spin. what had your father gotten you into? maybe you should try to convince them to send you back so you never have to think about any of this ever again.

"my prince."

the both of you turn to see a servant, there's too many of them too many names to remember but you certainly had seen him before, he bows his head before he speaks again.

"its time for your evening bath sir."

aegon groans but stands dutifully. he wipes his hands on the front of his cloak before he goes to put back his books.

"where will the young prince be taking his dinner?"

"with the lady of course she already invited me."

you certainly did not but you did not refuse. you smile at the servant who bows back at you before leading aegon out the room, you wave at his retreating form only once he is out of view do you finally let the smile fall and hit your head on the table.

this whole thing was turning into a bigger mess than you had ever planned it to be. maybe you should not have sought him out and just let nature take its course. the pit in your stomach grew large as you remembered the look on the eldest son of maekar's face. it was not anger or sadness. it was shock, disbelief. worst of all, there was warmth.

—

the chair is empty once again and for the first time this whole time you have been in kings landing you have never been more thankful for it.

you didn't even hear whatever excuse maekar tried to give this time. you simply smiled and let your mother control the conversation like you usually did. these talks bored you, if you were simply just going to sit here you wondered why you even be invited at all. maybe it was the proper lady like thing to simply sit around.

what you did not expect is for the door to open and for footsteps to approach the table.

"daeron!"

the three of you stand and stare. maekar seemed the most shocked out of you all, exclaiming his name like he was seeing a ghost.

"sorry I'm late."

he offers no excuse, simply bows for a moment before standing to his full height. his eyes immediately locking onto you, not looking away for a single second. he had cleaned up rather well after the mess you had seen him in before. his hair was neat, his outfit was red it stood out remarkably from the clothes the three of you were wearing. he swayed where he stood and his eyes were a little red that told you he was not completely sober. he was still sober enough to come. it was far too early for him to even be awake yet based on what you knew. what in the hells was he doing here?

maekar introduces him, forcing a smile on his face as he grabs daeron and leads him towards the table where you and your mother stood. you did not want him to come anywhere near you. that same pit of doom returning to your stomach. what could he possibly have dreamed about? you need to know but you would also rather die before finding out.

you step towards him to greet him. your mother tells him your name and he whispers it lightly as if hes trying it out on his tongue. you dip into a deep bow. as much as he might irritate you he is a prince nonetheless. when you stand up you expect that to be that, you move to go back to your seat before his wordless actions stop you.

he holds out a singular hand out to you, the palm up. you stare at it for a moment confused before you realize he wants you to give him your hand. your hand twitches as you lift it up. you should slap his hand away, what his he grabs your hand and calls for the guards for your arrest then you are public ally hung in the street for being a terror?

you place your palm in his as a deep breath fills your lungs. your free hand clenches at your side as you try to come up with what he could possibly want.

he slowly drops to rest on one knee, his eyes still locked onto your face as he brings your hand towards him. his lips press against the back of your hand, they're chapped and hard but there's something soft in the way he lets his lips linger for a moment too long, the way an exhale tickles against your skin. his head had dropped so his forehead was practically pressed against your forearm. your breath his caught in your chest, it feels like you heart has suddenly stopped pounding.

after what feels like a lifetime stuck in that singular moment he finally looks up.

"my lady."

you gulp. your mouth suddenly feels rather dry. had it been dry this whole time? your eyes stay locked as he stands, your hand still in his. the moment lingers for far too long before he slips his hand out of yours. your fingers twitch as if they miss the warmth, its unintentional.

it felt like there was a fire between the two of you. it burned. it was so warm. your chest had begun to pound in a way it had never before. there was something about the way he was looking at you. the intensity of his stare burned into you like he was trying to see beyond your flesh and peek into your soul.

as he's finally stood all the way up you take a large step back and manage to rip your eyes away from him, staring down at your hands which you had cupped to lay in front of you. the hand he had touched was burning. you fought the urge to clench your hands together in the hopes it will hide how affected you are by him. why were you acting this way? was it because you knew you were in his future one way or another? there was something about him. something you wished to stay away from.

he greeted your mother too. albeit much faster than he had greeted you, he barely had bowed his head and despite the fact he lifted her hand his lips had not even grazed the back of it before he dropped it back down and turned back towards you.

"i have something for you my lady."

'i do not want it.' you bite your tongue. you watch as he reaches into his pocket and presents you want had to be the most beautiful clip you had ever seen. it was an intricate golden flower design. the flower's were made out of some sort of pink crystal. it was beautiful.

"a matching necklace and earrings will be done soon. this was all i could have prepared for today i apologize."

your mother cups her heart against her chest like this was the most romantic thing in the whole world while maekar stared at his son like he had grown a second head. you reach out to grab the clip from him and once your hand his close enough his fingers reach to graze against your hand as you grab it. even though you pull your hand away as quickly as possible it does not feel quick enough. your hand continues to burn.

"this is very kind. thank you."

you don't dare look up at him, keeping your eyes firmly on the clip as you can still feel his eyes on you. maekar grants you a blessing as he insists we all sit down and continue the meeting. your mother catches daeron up to speed. you were to get married come the summer, which was in a fair few moon cycles from now as winter had just begun. the two of you would return to summerhall along with the rest of his family within the next cycle or so, only truly having come so you could receive the kings approval and for your mother to do some courtly things you had no clue about.

your mother will be returning back to lys to get your side of the family prepared for the wedding. she will return a good while before the wedding to help you prepare, bringing your family with her. you would make periodic trips back to lys to meet with your family and conduct business. you would get married in the one of the septs in the city..

quite frankly you had stopped paying attention at some point, you had heard this information countless times now that you could recite it word for word. the only reason you had even been listening at this point is to try and distract yourself from the fact he is still looking at you.

he didn't contribute much to the meeting. simply agreeing with what his father said before drinking from a flask and continuing to stare at you. he should go rot in a hole and die. fall down a well. why was he terrorizing you like this? why was it bothering you so much.

you instead chose to admire the clip he had given you. it was very nice, you tried to imagine how it would look with the matching necklace and earrings he was going to gift you and found a light smile resting on your face. it would look beautiful. the surface is cold as you run your finger tips along it. you wonder what it's made of, where it was made. did he have this custom made? no that wasn't possible you said seen him yesterday mid afternoon and it was now early morning there was no time.

you raise your head from your lap and smile at your mother before you dare to look across from you.

he's still staring.

you had never actually gotten take take a good look at him. he was very handsome, he looked exactly how you imagined a westeros prince to look. sure he did not bare the targaryen white hair but if anything you preferred him that way. it reminded you more of home strangely. he had noticeable stubble on his face but that many women in back home would definitely find repulsive but if anything you think it makes him more handsome. he has an odd expression on his face one you're not able to make out. is he happy? upset? confused? you don't know.

the meeting both flies by and feels like it goes on forever until you are dismissed. you remain in the room until maekar leaves, your mother had said it would be rude to leave before him. your mother tells you she has other affairs to attend to and she'll see you later until its just you are your betrothed.

"well, good day my prince."

you bow your head and swiftly move to leave the room not wanting to spend a single second more in his presence. the swift footsteps that follow after you tell you its not going to be easy to lose him. a familiar scowl twists off your usual put together expression.

"can i join you my lady?"

"i have prior plans my prince good day."

"what plans?"

"nothing you should be concerned with my prince."

"you are to be my wife it should be my concern."

you freeze in the hallway. his steps cease as well. he's like a well trained dog. you spin around to face him. he has an small smile on his face. you are so tired of this of him.

"may i ask you a question?"

"you may."

"what are you doing my prince?"

he laughs. he actually laughs at your question. you find yourself consumed with the need to slap him or spit on him or do anything to get rid of that delightful sight on his face.

"you were calling on me before and now i am answering. i simply wish to spend some time with you."

he knew you were calling on him and now he wants to answer what a dick.

you force your jaw from opening, your mouth ready to spit some ridiculous retort back at him. what nonsense was he talking about. he had spent a whole month probably not even thinking about you and suddenly he meets you once where you said somethings to him you should not have said and now he wants to spend time with you. there is something terribly wrong with him.

was the dream a good thing then? if he's trying to seek you out and wishes to see you that must mean it is a good thing. or maybe he's just playing the long game and he's trying to catch you in some nefarious act. either way looking at him pisses you off.

you swallow down what you truly wish to say and dip into a bow.

"i apologize my prince but i have prior plans. good day"

you spin around and continue on your way as if you had not even spoken to him before you do something to his pretty face. his footsteps trail after you despite your deceleration.

"you continuing to say good day is not going to make me go away my lady."

your eye twitches. you don't even dignify him with a response as you hurry along you way. you do actually have plans despite what he may think. you're probably already late. not that you have a set time for your meeting but it would be better for you to hurry there in case he gets swept up by someone else.

the library is a far too familiar sight at this point in your visit. the maesters and others who linger about look at you in shock, not necessarily directed at you but the dog trailing behind you. your head bows in a greeting as you continue to walk along until you stumble into your usual meeting area.

the young prince smiles upon hearing you say his name, looking up from his textbook his face falls in shock.

"brother?"

"you would rather spend the day with my nine year old brother than with me?"

you ignore him sitting down in your usual spot with aegon with a smile on your face.

"can you get him to leave?"

you can see aegon fight a laugh from his throat as he looks between the two of you. you had leaned closer to aegon to whisper to him while daeron remained standing, looking almost bewildered at the sight before him. aegon, who was no help, simply shrugged with a smug look. you wish you could hit him.

"what are you two even doing?"

you take one of the textbooks from the table and flip it open, not even glancing in daeron's direction.

"he is currently studying the free cities. who could be a better tutor than i?"

"are we actually going to study?"

you shoot aegon a very pointed look and he shuts his mouth. it was a good excuse to spend the day locked up in the library with aegon. he tended to have a secluded part all to himself so you two would usually just sit and chat until someone came to fetch him. but since daeron was here you might actually need to teach him some stuff.

you open up a map and push it towards aegon.

"point to me where every free city is on the map and name them."

aegon gave you a hopeless expression. he did not want to study, at least not about the free cities. he liked to spend his time reading about knights and war history. you would tell him stories about the 'knights' you have back at home and he would stare at you with that starry eyed look, hooked on to each and every single word you said. these stories were few and far in between however and he would get very mad when you said you had none to tell. truthfully it took you awhile to remember those stories in which it was appropriate to tell someone his age, the people of the free cities can get very violent.

he stared at you for a minute as if hes trying to get you to take it back but you hold your ground despite how cute he looked. his eyes trail to his older brother for a moment in a silent glare before he looks down at the map. the older brother in question still stood with his arms crossed watching you.

its only for a moment. only until he leaves, until he gets bored aegon I'm sorry. he can't hear your thoughts of course but you stare so hard at him trying to push the message into his mind.

he points an uncertain finger at a spot on the map.

"volantis?"

"not even close."

aegon huffs, his lips poking out into a pout as he stares hard into the map. as he's lost in thought you stupidly let your eyes wander to the older prince. he was looking at you. as he seemed to always be at this point. you suddenly found it a little harder to breath. there was something so intense about his gaze. it burned. maybe it was just a targaryen trait.

his eyes were so dark. his hair was so yellow. it was strange to think that if the two of you stood side by side you would look much more targaryen than he does. the purple eyes and white hair were a regular sight for you, many of the other noble ladies and men sharing similar features, but here many of them did not even have white hair. you wonder if he likes the way he looks, maybe there's something comforting about it.

"lys?"

you rip your gaze away from him and look back to aegon who's still staring hard at the map. you shake yourself before you lean over to glance at where his finger laid.

"you're right."

"don't sound so shocked."

daeron much to both you and aegons dismay chooses this moment to make himself comfortable sitting next to you, pulling out a flask from his person before sipping on it. you shoot aegon an apologetic look. looks like the two of you would actually be studying after all. in the hopes of saving aegon some headache and saving you from having to sit there all day you change the task.

"tell me everything you know about lys."

"its where you're from."

you frown at the grin he shoots you. daeron must think you are the worst tutor in all of westeros.

"do you know anything else?"

he sits quiet for a moment before shrugging. why did you even ask. the boy knows nothing but knight and swords.

"well then lets go even further back then. following the doom of valyria came the century of blood."

for the next couple hours you beat information about the century of blood and the founding of lys. aegon looked miserable as he tried to remember everything you were saying as you would periodically ask him questions about something you had told him earlier.

and daeron sat there the whole time. sometimes he would stare out the window or he would stare at his flask before he took a long chug out of it but most of the time he would be staring at you.

you tried your best to ignore him but sometimes you looked over while aegon was writing something and look back at him. you almost wanted to say something to him, the silence between you two was not awkward but it was strange. he seemed like had no interest in even starting a conversation despite his staring. so you decided to do it for him.

"can i ask you something my prince?"

you had kept your voice low in order to try not to distract aegon from the task you had just given him, listing all the free cities and what type of government they had, but the young boy still looked up anyway.

"of course my lady."

"when you said you dream of me…" your throat clogs up at the sight of him flinching at the mention of dreams. you muster your courage to push on and the words manage to escape your throat. "what did you mean by that?"

"oh i want to know too."

"focus on your work."

aegon grumbles as he looks back down at his paper but its not subtle the way he looks back up and glances between the two of you.

"you know of the curse then."

curse. its an odd word to use. many people would call it a gift. he was blessed by the gods your mother would likely say. a curse is a terrible thing. a burden. you don't have enough time to dwell on it.

"you were at summerhall wearing my signet ring. you were holding a dragon egg."

you had almost expected him to dodge the question but he answered it without even a second thought, as if it had already been on his mind. he had a serene look on his face like the idea didn't bother him at all.

his eyes widen as the huge sigh of relief you let out. you felt a whole lot of pressure exit your body. you laugh actually, covering your mouth as you try to keep it down.

"sorry sorry gods im so relieved. i had thought i would do something horrid."

daeron watches you fully turn to face him, his heart pounds out of his chest as you take your hand away from your mouth a give him a huge grin. just like the one from his dreams.

"im so glad."

he was done for. you were going to ruin him.

he watches your face fall as it seems like something occurs to you and it instead turns into a look of annoyance and you look away from him. he feels a rush of joy flow through his body. you are just as beautiful as he dreamed you.

"is something wrong my lady?"

"do not think you have my favor my prince you are still…. not up to standard."

his smile only grew. his hands clenched to press down the pure need to grab you to hold you. he's never felt like this before. he had never felt such comfort such warmth he wanted to cling to it desperately like a mad man. he did not care if he seemed crazy, maybe he had actually gone mad. but he needed to cling to this feeling even if it killed him. if this was some foolish trick the gods were playing on him then he would happily fall into their grasp. he was so desperate for anything to take him out of his misery he clung to you put of desperation.

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!

⚜ tags: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world,@kingraspberry12-blog

You wouldn’t have needed to hold back tears when you stumbled upon a random alley to throw up after having one too many vodka shots, only to see the image that would be imprinted in your mind even years later.

The stop-motion scene before you showed the unmistakable broad shoulders of your longtime crush being caressed, then pressed against the alley wall. When you caught sight of who was kissing him, your eyes nearly bulged out.

What the fuck? Wasn’t she his…weren’t they—

You shook the scene from your mind, willing it to dissipate as if an iron-clad eraser had been taken to it, rubbing furiously and tearing it apart like a flimsy sheet of paper. 

You had backed out of the alley on shaky legs, stomach still threatening to revolt despite being smacked right out of your tipsy haze. A million questions bubbled in your mind, and you weren’t sure why you were having such a strong reaction towards the situation.

Caleb Xia was not your boyfriend, you were the one with the stupid crush, so his alleyway hookups shouldn’t bother you this much.

It's said that when you’re attracted to someone, you start to notice them everywhere, and back in college, it was a rare occurrence for you to not end up in the same room as him one way or another.

Caleb sat a few tables away from you in the library, coincidentally picking the same times to study that you did. He would hover bare inches away from you when you stood in line to get lunch, so close you could’ve sworn you felt the warmth of his body against your back.

Then he started talking to you, and you were done for.

Already psychologically wired to see him everywhere; his charisma was like the final nail in the coffin that cemented your feelings for him. 

Unfortunately, someone had let your little crush slip, and you braced yourself for rejection that never came.

In hindsight, you really wish it had.

Caleb started lingering outside your lectures, waiting for you, then offering you a ride home. Admittedly, you shouldn’t have brushed it off when he drove straight to your house without needing any directions, but you were too busy floating on cloud nine to do so.

Some days, Caleb would make the occasional detour to a cafe where he, rather rigidly, only ordered apple crumble pie at. And when you would walk back to his car side by side, your mind tricked you into thinking that his knuckles brushed over the back of your hand, just shy of holding it. 

How naive you were to think that meant he reciprocated your feelings.

Thinking back on it now, you wholly believe his actions were more of a kindness to you, because Caleb was just too good a guy to embarrass you by outwardly rejecting you in front of your mutual friends.

But after seeing them together that night at the party, you did it for him.

The day after you found him outside your class, leg propped against a wall as he waited for you, you walked right past him. You made it all of two steps before a hand latched around your wrist. It wasn’t exactly rough, but it was firm enough to stop you in your tracks. 

“Where are you running off to so fast?” That adorable chuckle of his almost made you forget yourself. “It looks like it’s about to rain. I can drive you home.” 

You tugged your hand out of his and shook your head at him, “That’s not necessary, I think I’ll beat it if I head out now.”

“Come on, I really don’t mind—”

Never one to bite your tongue, the words tumbled out.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m gonna get dragged into some back alley in broad daylight.”

Caleb’s dark eyebrows knitted in confusion, lips parting to tell you that your little ‘joke’ only made him want take you home more, but then, as if something clicked into place, he froze.

Dragged into an alley?

You had seen him. Seen them. He was sure of it. A hand went to scratch the short crop of hair just above his neck, “Oh, you saw that, huh? Pips was drunk, probably mistook me for Zayne or something—”

Your hand lifted to stop him. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Caleb.” His hand dropped to his side, smile wavering at the sharpness of your voice. “But I think it’s best we stop whatever this is while we’re ahead. Just so no one gets the wrong idea.”

Namely you.

You’d like to say a strange look passed in his peculiarly purple eyes, but that wasn’t the truth. They just sort of…went blank. Scarily so. As if you were looking at a walking corpse whose soul had just been scooped clean out their body. It unsettled you enough to make you walk away without waiting for his response. And he let you. Or at least you think he did. 

If love were truly a choice, that would’ve been the end of it. Your eyes wouldn’t have looked for him in every room, heart nearly thumping out of your chest when you found him already watching you. And you wouldn’t have envisioned every partner you had thereafter as having those boundless indigo eyes everytime they looked at you. 

For some reason, none of your relationships lasted. It was like a switch would flip, and they’d want to call it quits. And you, so worried that they had seen through you, seen that you were thinking about someone else every second you were with them, didn’t pay attention to the busted lips and black eyes most of them sported. 

Moving away after graduation did you good. It gave you a fresh start with a man who didn’t randomly go hot and cold. Of course, until that fateful day, he did go cold. Dead cold.

You hated funerals.

Not that you thought anyone sane liked them, but there was something unnervingly wrong about being at your boyfriend's one. 

During the service, the room was saturated in a dark, suffocating gloom. Everyone mechanically moved towards Aaron’s coffin and just placed their hands on it, as if they wished they could touch him one last time. Some people you had never seen before were sobbing harder than his family was, harder than you were and falling over themselves while their bodies jerked like they had been dipped in acid. 

Aaron couldn’t have an open casket, and it was just as well because you don’t think you could see him that way again. 

His voice rang so clearly in your ears that it was hard to believe he was gone. Just days ago, he had hulked into your shared apartment with his cap sitting low over his face, greeting you before saying his famous catchphrase. 

“What’s for dinner, babe?”

“I thought we could order in tonight.” You told him without even looking up from your laptop, way too engrossed in finishing a presentation. Aaron closed the door behind him, footsteps loud with his heavy work boots and the sound he made had you bristling.

“You didn’t cook?” He asked with his voice gruff, and when you finally looked up at him with a raised brow, he offered you a pacifying smile. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“Mhm.” He moved in on you, and you turned back to your work as a soft kiss was pressed to your cheek.

“It’s only because I love your cooking so much.” He said, gently petting the bear (you) so it wouldn’t bite his head off.

“Yeah, yeah go shower, you oaf.” You felt him smile against your skin before pulling away.

You watched Aaron’s back as he retreated into the bathroom, and a fond smile tugged at your lips. Your longest boyfriend was a man who was rough around the edges but became as soft as a ball of cotton candy where you were concerned. He loved you and somedays, especially ones a certain dark-haired colonel didn’t plague your thoughts, you felt your heart softening towards him too. 

You loved him. And one day, college crush be damned, you knew you’d fall in love with him too. 

Feeling the strong need to take a breather after being stuck behind the screen all day long, you slid on your shoes and knocked on the bathroom door to tell Aaron you'd be going straight to the restaurant instead of having the food delivered.

It took a few tries for you to remember everything he wanted as he called out his order over the light pitter-patter of the shower, but once you finally memorised it, you were off. 

You had been gone for over an hour, so coming back to the apartment to hear the shower still running had you at a loss. 

“Just how much work were you doing at the site to need an hour-long shower?” You got no response when you walked past the bathroom and went to put the paper bags on the counter. 

You were curbing your rumbling belly with one fry at a time when you decided that you had waited long enough. Why he always insisted on eating together just for you to always beat him to the table, you’d never know.

“Aaron, come on.” Sliding out the chair and leaving your cheeseburger behind was no small feat, but you managed.

You leaned against the bathroom door, knocking a little too hard. You always got moody when you were hungry. “I’m eating without you if you don’t come out in the next two seconds!”

Silence.

“Baaabe.” You lamented over another hunger pang, but aside from that sound, you were met with silence again. 

You wished you never pushed that door open because through the thick blanket of steam billowing around the room and the pour of water from the showerhead, you saw it. 

The deathly still outline of a silhouette.

“Aaron…?”

You squinted your eyes as if that would force more light to pour into the space, and maybe it worked because you finally saw him slumped against the once pristine bathroom wall.

Because now it was anything but, as a large splatter of blood strained it, spoiled it, and formed a halo of crimson around his head. He looked like some kind of underworldly creature with his once tanned skin dimmed ashen white and his veins skirted under it in thick ropes. They were coloured a bright blue, like a bolt of lightning had shot through him.

Except it wasn’t lightning.

The unseeing curtain that fell over his eyes and refused to ever open told you that. And the gaping hole between his eyebrows told you more. At complete odds with the mess of blood and gnarled debris spurred over his ghostly face, the wound was a clean, professional shot that cut right through his skull and came out the back of his head matting his stringy hair dark red.

Your legs gave out, and you weren’t sure what sound wrenched itself from your throat, only that it was loud enough to make your own ears ring. Knees meeting the tiles in a hard blow, the jolt of pain surging through your bones was the last thing you remembered before your vision went dark. 

A week had passed since then, yet the image still gave you sleepless nights. Your red rimmed eyes stung when you rubbed at them and when you heard your name being called, you almost thought you had finally drifted off to dreamland.

Everyone had left, but you were still at the cemetery, gaze sightlessly hollow as you stared at Aaron’s tombstone, but that voice…the familiarity of it, it had your head turning.

Then your eyes landed on him, and you decided that this was undoubtedly the worst week of your life. 

First, a dead boyfriend and now Caleb.

Clad in a plain black suit, Caleb had a beautifully crafted wreath in his hand, and seeing you needed some time to gather yourself, he didn’t rush to greet you. He just walked to the tombstone, set the flowers down, then wordlessly stood at your side. 

It was just your luck that, along with your mutual friends, the man was back like a bad rash to see you in your most vulnerable state.

Caleb stood in the back of the hall during the service, and your soft cries were heart-wrenching.

It was almost enough to make him feel bad for being the cause of your distress. But he didn’t have much of a choice.

He could blame his actions on the Toring chip, say that when it dampened his mood, it also clouded his judgment and made him act out of character, but that simply wouldn’t be true.

Because even before joining the Fleet and getting the implant, Caleb still had a short fuse.

When he heard that you liked him, his excitement nearly had him sprouting goddamned wings and taking flight. He had liked you for longer than he could remember, so the prospect that you felt even half of what he did made the nature of his crush a little obsessive.

It turned into a ghastly, twisted thing that had his feet following you around before he could even stop himself. But despite this, Caleb was smart enough to know that he couldn’t come on too strong and risk scaring you away.

He needed to be careful, and he needed to be patient.

It was hard enough when you cut him off after seeing that accidental alley kiss, a kiss he immediately broke away from, but apparently, you didn’t see that part.

It was even harder when you moved to the other side of town and shacked up that foreman of yours. 

Caleb was always nearby, of course, whether that be digitally via the cameras he installed in your house or physically as a dark shadow in the deep corners of the rooms you walked into.

It was all going well until he broke his routine and decided to follow Aaron instead of you.

His heart painfully shuttered in his chest when he saw the man walk into a jewellery store. Caleb’s breath was heavy when he saw the man pick out a ring. One that you wouldn’t even like, but an engagement ring nonetheless.

No, that simply wouldn’t do. He thought.

Aaron wasn't like one of those spineless boys Caleb roughed up to make them stop seeing you. The man would sooner laugh in his face and rush to propose if Caleb even tried anything.

So, he knew he needed to take more extreme measures.

Caleb wanted to be quiet about it. He didn’t want to take care of Aaron in a way that would weigh on you too much. He wanted to make the man disappear quietly…but he had put up a fight.

Caleb reached for his gun before he could even stop himself, and even as he stared unblinkingly at the man shuddering as his last few breaths left him, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

He really meant to clean up after the mess so you wouldn’t see the grotesque scene, but with a glance at his phone, the tracker he put in your car told him that he didn’t have enough time. As it were, leaving your apartment in that state made you the prime suspect of the murder, but the police’s power trip only lasted a couple hours before he swayed the Fleet’s influence over the department and told them, in no uncertain terms, to look elsewhere.

And a week later, in true unhinged fashion, he walked into the very funeral of the man he killed, more than ready to console his would-be fiancée.

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was odd. While clipped and sharp enough to cut through anything with unnerving ease, it had a wobbly lilt too, like it would topple over into a sob if you didn’t hold it together firmly enough.

“I wanted to offer my condolences.” His words only elicited a shaky breath from you, so he felt the need to continue. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Caleb turned to you a little, just enough to see your lower lip tremble.

“Thank you.”

Your voice came out a little too thin, and when the first tear fell, he fully turned to you, hand hovering above your shoulder but not quite touching you. A wracking sob shook them.

“Hey,” his voice was soft as he stepped closer to you, crowding in on you. And he was stunned when you threw yourself into his arms, small hands clutching at his blazer while you cried into his chest. 

It seemed you had finally reached your limit. You had come fully apart, shattered like delicate glass into a million tiny shards and turning to whoever was closest so you could try to meld yourself back together with the comfort they offered. 

As it turned out, Caleb was the closest person. And he had to catch himself when he felt the corners of his lips curling up. 

You choose him. And he would be more than happy to oblige.

“I’m sorry.” You choked out, utterly apologetic as you wet his dress shirt. 

“Shhh,” His hands wrapped around you, and he placed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “I’ve got you.” 

A hand pats your back, then rubs soothingly.

“I’ll always be here for you.”

And you knew he meant it, because when you were still considered a suspect for Aaron’s murder, the police had searched your apartment and unearthed a couple dozen hidden cameras.

Belatedly, you realised their craftsmanship was unmistakably similar to the robotics project Caleb had all the professors swooning over back in college.

So, if love were truly a choice, you would have sought justice for Aaron and immediately reported Caleb to the police. You surely wouldn’t be clinging onto him as if he were your sole anchoring force. All while a dark, pleasurable hum buzzed along your skin. Low and hissy it told you that if you ever doubted his feelings, the macabre display of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you at his side should silence all uncertainty.