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Attolia lay in near-darkness, in her bed draped in gold. Lying awake was not unusual for her. The reason for her wakefulness, though, was entirely new—a sort of effervescent fluttering in her chest.
It was her wedding night.
It hadn’t begun at all well. There had been shouting. She had thrown an ink jar. But then Eugenides had been surprisingly tender toward her, and she had been—surprising herself even more—tender toward him in return.
The small lamp burning beside the bed gave just enough light for her to watch him now, breathing softly, sound asleep. He lay curled around the stump of his right arm, but he lay facing her.
She had never slept in the same bed with anyone else before.
She had been the one to ask him to stay.
o–o–o
“Are you sure?” Eugenides had twisted a little sideways to look up at her from where his head was pillowed on her shoulder. The warmth in his eyes made her breath catch. “Sometimes I have nightmares.”
“So do I.” Her finger skimmed along the feather-shaped scar on his cheek, and she felt him smile.
After the vulnerability they had just shared, and the ecstasy, she couldn’t bear to sleep alone.
“I’ll slip away early in the morning,” he murmured, his grin turning sly. “It wouldn’t do for your attendants to catch us being—affectionate.”
“Soppy, you mean.” She pressed a kiss to his temple.
He hummed, burrowing closer. But then, opening his eyes again—“You should wake me.”
“In the morning?” She raised an eyebrow. “Surely you will wake with the dawn?”
“No, I meant—if I have a nightmare. You had better wake me quickly, because sometimes, I scream. That wouldn’t do much for our privacy.”
She swallowed, at that, but nodded once, and then smoothed his wiry curls until he fell asleep, smiling again.
o–o–o
Attolia had almost fallen asleep herself when something jerked her back to wakefulness.
It took her only a moment to remember why she wasn’t alone. She let go of the knife hidden beneath her pillow and sat up, blinking.
In the dim lamplight, she could see that Eugenides, beside her, had gone rigid. He was gasping for breath, but he was drawing in more air than he was breathing out—
Her brow furrowed. He had said that she should wake him, but he hadn’t said how.
She put her hand on his shoulder and shook it, firmly. “Eugenides!”
He started, and opened his eyes, looking straight up at her. He exhaled sharply, but he didn’t scream.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said, quietly.
He stared for an instant, uncomprehending. Then he began to scrabble for purchase on the fine linen sheets, trying to sit up and back away. “No,” he whispered. “No—please—“
His eyes—so soft and warm not an hour before, when they smiled for her alone—were wide and dark with terror.
Had she really thought, once, that she wanted to encourage his fear of her?
“Eugenides,” she said again, around a lump in her throat. “Listen to me. You were only dreaming.”
He whimpered, shaking his head, pressing back against the headboard.
Had she really thought, tonight, that he would feel safe in her arms?
The tentative fluttering in her chest was gone, leaving behind something cold and heavy. She was an utter, utter fool.
“Come.” She spoke as gently as she could, which was perhaps not so gently, after years spent cultivating a mask of stone. “Lie down—it’s all right.”
His terror, she had made. Was there nothing she could do to ease it? Even now, having lost all hope that he could still love her, she found that she would give anything to soothe him, let him sleep, let him forget.
Her hand, newly familiar with the warmth of his skin, reached for him of its own accord.
He flinched away, fighting for breath.
The tears were hot on her cheeks.
“Gen.” In her desperation, she used the name she had only heard others call him—Eddis, his father, his soldier cousins. “Gen, I won’t—” her voice broke—“I won’t hurt you, I promise—you have my word—” A sob slipped out. “Please, Gen. Wake up.”
He blinked.
He stilled.
He drew a deep, shaking breath and let it out again. “Irene?”
She was crying in earnest now. “Yes.”
“Irene.” He was the one who reached out, this time.
She met him halfway, tentatively, touching the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers. She would not trap him, not here, not now.
He turned his wrist and twined his fingers with hers, holding her gaze. “You married me.”
“Yes.”
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“You never call me Gen, in the nightmares.” His fingers tightened gently over hers, holding on. “You never cry.”
She saw the tears in his own eyes. He was still shaking.
“What can I do?” Her voice, too, was unsteady.
The flush that darkened his cheeks was barely visible in the low light. “Tell me again.”
It took her a moment to understand.
“I will not harm you.” She swallowed. “I love you.”
His tears spilled over. “And my name?”
“Gen,” she whispered.
He let go of her hand and stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders, turning his head from side to side. He drew another long breath and let it out.
She took two clean, pressed handkerchiefs from a small stack on the bedside table and handed one to him, keeping the other.
“Thank you,” he said, sounding like himself again. He wiped his face and placed the handkerchief carefully on the table on his side of the bed. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t,” she snapped, flushing in turn. “Don’t ever apologize to me for nightmares.”
“All right.” He gave her a wry, lopsided grin and slid back down under the covers, burrowing into the pillows and closing his eyes. “Let’s try for some sleep, then.”
She remained sitting, frozen in place.
He opened one eye, then the other, and turned his head to look up at her. “Irene?”
She stared down at his face, seeing faint traces of tears still on his cheeks and nothing but concern—and, yes, warmth—in his eyes.
The hope that surged again, unbidden, made her furious with herself. Still a fool.
“Are you really going to sleep here?” Her voice was sharper than she had intended.
Eugenides sat up, frowning. “Would you rather I went back to my apartments? I don’t think I’ll have another dream like that tonight. Usually it’s one, at most. But if you’re worried that I might wake you again, I’ll go.”
He started to push back the bedcovers.
“No!” She reached for him again, but stopped short of touching him. “It’s not that—”
He looked at her with his head tilted, clearly trying to read her expression.
She had to close her eyes before she could force the words out. “How can you bear the thought of waking next to your nightmare?”
He slid over, closer, and stroked her cheek gently with his fingers until she looked at him again. New tears hung from her lashes. She blinked them away, angrily.
“You are not my nightmare. You are my queen. My Irene, who calls me Gen, and doesn’t want to hurt me.” His gaze didn’t falter.
“But I did hurt you.” There would never be a way to change what she had done.
“That time was—bad.” He shivered, and her heart ached. “But I understand why you did what you did.” She started to speak, but he shook his head. “You asked me then, and I answered, and it was true. You did not offend the gods.” He smiled, just a little. “And you can’t say I didn’t provoke you.”
She brushed her fingers softly over the stump of his right arm where it lay on the golden bedspread, and he reached across to take her hand in his, twining their fingers together again.
“I may need a moment to remember where I am, if the dream was a bad one. Embarrassing.” His smile held a trace of self-mockery, for a moment, before it faded altogether, leaving behind only naked honesty. “Once I’ve come to myself, I’ll know you won’t hurt me.”
“I love you,” she said again, hoping that he could read in her eyes how much she meant it.
He actually leaned in and kissed her, lingeringly. “That is why you are not my nightmare.”
She kissed him, then, and he let go of her hand to slide his fingers through her hair. She pulled him close, as she had been aching to do since he woke.
“You have nightmares about me, too, don’t you?” he murmured.
“Among other things,” she said, rather dryly. There were also heads on pikes around her megaron, and Kallicertes, and the plague. Plenty of opportunities for terror in the night.
“Are you afraid of waking next to me?”
“No.” Not when his eyes held such warmth. “I think—it would help.”
“So, so,” he said, his lips against her hair.
They lay down together, under the covers, and he rested his head on her shoulder again. She stroked her hand slowly along his back. He sighed, deeply, and murmured her name.
“Gen,” she replied, drowsily.
The fluttering in her chest was back, but it was gentler now, and it didn’t stop her from drifting off to sleep.
~ fin ~