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The room Kal had rented was barely larger than a closet, with a narrow bed, a washstand, and a window that looked out onto the grimy alley behind the boarding house. But it was his room, paid for with his own carefully hoarded coins, and for the first time in his life, no one could enter it without his permission. The thought should have been liberating.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, trying to make sense of what the healer had just told him.
Seven weeks. Maybe eight. Early enough that he hadn't been certain, had told himself the nausea was from the stress of escape, the heaviness in his gut from the shock of freedom. But the healer's examination had been thorough, and her words had left no room for doubt.
He was carrying Marcus's child.
The irony was so bitter he might have laughed if he weren't afraid he'd start crying instead. Here he was, finally free of Marcus after six years and now his body tied him to Marcus more tightly than ever. No matter how kind Marcus had tried to make it, nothing about getting the child had been Kal's choice.
Kal pressed his palms against his still-flat belly, trying to feel some connection to what was supposedly growing there. All he felt was the familiar hollow ache of hunger—he'd been rationing his money carefully, and food was expensive in Leucarcum's crowded helot refugee quarters.
The practical concerns were overwhelming. He had no trade beyond what he'd learned at the brothel, no connections in this vast city beyond the other refugees who were just as desperate and lost as he was. The small amount of money he'd managed to save wouldn't last more than a few months, and that was if he was careful. Adding a child to the equation--
He could get rid of it. The healer had mentioned it as an option, clinical and matter-of-fact. There were ways, she'd said, especially this early. Herbs, procedures. Safer than trying to birth and raise a child with no resources and no support.
The thought made his stomach lurch, though whether from nausea or something else he couldn't tell. He'd spent so many years having no control over his own body, having every decision made for him. He'd been terrified of that first choice, taking off the collar, and the choice to take every step further from Marcus, but this one felt crushing.
What would Marcus do if he knew? The question rose unbidden, followed immediately by a surge of anger at himself for even thinking it. It didn't matter what Marcus would do or think or feel about this.
Except it did matter, because the child was half Marcus's, and despite everything, despite the years of performance and carefully hidden resentment, Kal couldn't quite make himself hate Marcus. Marcus had been kind, in his way. Gentle, when he could have been cruel. But Marcus had never truly seen him as anything more than a beautiful thing to be protected and possessed.
Kal stood abruptly and began to pace the small room, his mind churning. Three steps to the window, turn, three steps to the door. The movement helped him think, helped quiet the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
If he kept the child, he would be tied to Marcus forever, whether Marcus knew it or not. Every time Kal looked at the child, he would see those familiar dark eyes, that stubborn jaw, would be reminded of all the nights spent wishing things were different. The child would be born free, at least—that was something the annexation had given them—but it would still carry Marcus's blood, Marcus's claim to him.
But if he didn't keep it--
Kal told himself he didn't shy away from the thought because of Marcus.
There was a third option, one he barely dared consider. He could contact Marcus, could tell him about the child. Marcus had money, could provide for both of them. But it would mean going back. Would mean binding himself to Marcus again, letting Marcus decide everything for him again.
Would Marcus even want to know? Or would he see this as an inconvenience, a complication to be dealt with quietly and discreetly?
Kal sank back onto the bed, exhaustion washing over him. His whole life, everything had been planned for him, every decision made by someone else. He'd barely let himself think about what it would be like to decide for himself, too dangerous. Now that he had it, the weight of choice felt heavier than any collar.
Outside his window, the sounds of the city continued—vendors calling their wares, children playing in the streets, the general bustle of people going about their lives.
The money wouldn't last long, but there were other helots in the city, people who might help, who might understand. He could find work, could learn a trade. It would be hard, but he'd endured harder things. The child didn't need to be Marcus', it just needed to be Kal's.
Marcus had gone to the market looking for distraction—six months after asking for his dower and moving out of his sister's house and he still wasn't sure how to spend his time without the press of laundry and household accounts. He'd been examining a set of pens at a vendor's stall when he heard the laugh.
It was bright and delighted, the kind of uninhibited joy that made passersby smile without knowing why. Marcus found himself turning toward the sound before he could stop himself, and his breath caught in his throat.
Kal stood maybe twenty feet away, crouched down to the eye level of a small child who couldn't have been more than three years old. The boy—it was definitely a boy, dressed in a well-tailored child's coat that spoke of prosperity—was pointing excitedly at something in a baker's stall, chattering in the rapid, breathless way of a beloved child.
But it wasn't the child's obvious happiness that made Marcus's world tilt sideways. It was his face.
Dark hair that curled just like Marcus's own had at that age. The same jaw, the same eyes that were currently sparkling with delight as he tugged on Kal's sleeve and pointed again at whatever had caught his attention. Even the way he tilted his head when he spoke was achingly familiar—Marcus had seen that exact gesture in the mirror a thousand times. There was enough of Kal there too, around the boy's eyes and in the line of his nose, that there was no mistaking him for Kal's either, but there was no doubt the child belonged in the portrait of all the children Marcus' mother had hung in the parlor.
Something primitive and possessive in Marcus's chest knew the child was his.
The rational part of his mind tried to argue. Plenty of children had dark hair and brown eyes. The resemblance could be coincidental, could be his imagination seeing what it wanted to see. But as he watched the boy laugh again, watched him throw his small arms around Kal's neck in an exuberant hug, Marcus knew with bone-deep certainty that he was looking at his child.
Kal looked--good. Better than good. He wore a coat of deep blue wool that emphasized the color of his eyes, well-cut and obviously expensive. His hair was shorter than it had been when he'd left the estate, swept back from his face on the edge between fashionably tousled and respectable. There was a confidence in the way he moved, the way he spoke to the child, that Marcus had never seen in the years–before.
Kal looked happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way that made Marcus's chest ache with a complicated mix of joy and loss.
The child—his son, Marcus couldn't stop thinking—was tugging Kal toward the baker's stall now, and Marcus caught fragments of their conversation as they moved closer.
"—want the ones with honey, Papa, not the plain ones—"
"We'll get both," Kal was saying, his voice warm with indulgence. "But only if you promise to eat something besides sweet bread for dinner."
Papa. The word hit Marcus like a physical blow. Of course the child would call Kal that—Kal had raised him, had been the only parent he'd ever known. Marcus was nothing more than a stranger, a face in a crowd, a man who had contributed nothing but blood to this bright, beautiful child's existence.
He should leave. Should turn around and walk away and pretend this moment had never happened. Kal had built a new life here, clearly a successful one, and Marcus had no right to intrude on it. No right to complicate what was obviously working well for both Kal and the boy.
But as he watched Kal lift the boy to his hip so he could see the baker's wares better, Marcus found himself frozen in place. Four years. Four years of wondering what had happened to Kal after he'd disappeared from the estate, four years of guilt and regret and the terrible certainty that he'd failed someone he'd cared about more than he'd ever admitted, even to himself.
And now he knew. Kal had been here, in Leucarcum, raising Marcus's son and apparently thriving. Had he known? When he'd left, had he known he was carrying Marcus's child? The timing would be about right, and it would explain so much—why Kal had seemed different those last few weeks, more distant. More desperate.
The boy was chattering about something now, gesturing wildly with his free hand while Kal nodded and made appropriately impressed noises. There was such easy affection between them, such natural intimacy, that Marcus felt like an intruder just watching them.
He took a step backward, then another, trying to blend into the crowd of shoppers. He could leave now, could disappear back into the city and let them continue their lives without his interference. It would be the right thing to do, the kind thing.
But as he turned to go, Kal's head came up suddenly, scanning the crowd with the hyper-alertness that Marcus remembered from the early days of their acquaintance. Their eyes met across the busy market, and Marcus saw the exact moment when recognition dawned in Kal's face.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. Then Kal skimmed Marcus's face, that same old shuttered, measuring look as he took in what Marcus knew must be obvious shock and recognition, before shifting to the child in his arms. When he looked back at Marcus, his expression was carefully neutral, giving nothing away.
But Marcus could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hold on the boy had tightened protectively. Kal knew that Marcus knew. There was no point in pretending otherwise.
The child, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around him, tugged on Kal's sleeve again. "Papa, you said honey cakes."
"I know, sweetheart," Kal murmured, never taking his eyes off Marcus. "In just a moment."
They were at an impasse. Marcus couldn't leave now without it looking like flight, but he also couldn't approach without invitation. This was Kal's choice to make, just as it had been Kal's choice to leave four years ago. Just as it had been Kal's choice not to tell Marcus about the pregnancy, if he'd even known about it then.
The seconds stretched out between them, heavy with four years of separation and all the words they'd never said to each other. Around them, the market continued its cheerful bustle, completely unaware of the small drama playing out in its midst.
Finally, Kal shifted the boy to his other hip and took a step forward. Then another. He moved slowly, deliberately, giving Marcus plenty of time to flee if that was what he wanted.
But Marcus found he couldn't move, couldn't do anything but watch as the two most important people in his world—one he'd lost through his own failures, the other he'd never known existed—approached him through the crowd.
When they were close enough to speak without raised voices, Kal stopped. Up close, Marcus could see the fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there four years ago, the confidence that sat on him like that well-tailored coat. He looked older, more settled, more completely himself than he ever had in Marcus's memory.
"Hello, Marcus," Kal said quietly, his voice carefully neutral.
"Hello, Kal," Marcus managed, then found his gaze drawn irresistibly to the child. His son. His son, who was studying Marcus with bright, curious eyes that were so achingly familiar it was hard to breathe.
"And who's this?" Marcus asked, though they both knew he already had his answer.
Kal's arms tightened almost imperceptibly around the boy. For a moment, Marcus thought he might deflect, might make some excuse and disappear back into the crowd. Instead, he took a breath and said, "This is Joost. Joost, can you say hello to... to an old friend of Papa's?"
The boy—Joost, a foreign, helot name with Marcus’ face—smiled shyly with his cheek against Kal's shoulder. "Hi," he said in a voice that was pure and completely trusting.
"Hello, Joost," Marcus said, and was amazed that his voice came out steady. "It's very nice to meet you.”