Finally, it steadies.
A soft giggle escapes from Amara.
It’s faint. But it’s something. I cling to it like a lifeline.
Still, the words spill from me, uninvited and unforgivable.
“I noticed your nightgown was wet,” I say. “Did you go below deck? To seehim?”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. The shame of even asking knots my throat. But I hear her heavy, exasperated sigh.
“I did,” she says flatly. “Am I not allowed?”
I shrug, the hammock groaning beneath me. “He’s dangerous. Our prisoner. I’m just not sure why you’d want to see him.”
She doesn’t answer.
Only the sound of our daughter nursing, the soft rhythmic pull and swallow, fills the room between us.
I clear my throat, trying to pretend this doesn’t matter to me. Trying and failing.
“Well,” I say, with a cough. “Whydoyou want to see him?”
“Husband,” she says at last, but it sounds more like a reprimand than a vow. “Does it matter?”
I shift in the netting, trying to get comfortable, but it’s like curling into barbed wire.
Itdoesmatter. Gods, it matters more than anything. But I can’t say that. Not if I want her to look at me again. Not if I want to be allowed within three feet of her heart.
“No,” I lie. “You’re right. It doesn’t. I trust you.”
That earns a dry, mocking scoff. “Oh, do you?” she mutters. “Well thank you so much for trusting me, consideringI’mnot the one who tried to sacrifice the other to a demon god. Goodnight, Daedalus.”
And just like that, she blows out the candle. A softwhoosh, and the room is swallowed by shadow.
Silence creeps in. The hammock rocks with every breath I take, every regret I cradle in my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, wide awake.
I don’t think that could have gone any worse.
I may be a prince. A commander. A legend in battle.
But when it comes to being her husband, I am endlessly, irreparably,fucking lacking.
The sea is fickle this far out. Some mornings break clear and blue, the sun gilding the waves with gold, so bright it almost blinds. Other days come in gray and low, with wind that claws through the sails and rain that drums like war on the deck. On those days, everything is soaked. Boots, mood, spirit.
We make steady progress, but each day stretches long.
Amara and I speak little. What we say is often about our daughter, nothing more. She keeps her voice soft when she hands me the child, keeps her hands from touching mine. I hold the baby close, trying to memorize her warmth, her smell, the small sounds she makes when she wakes in my arms.
I carry her on deck when the sun is gentle. Show her the sea. Point to gulls. Tell her stories of leviathans and cloud serpents and all the things that once lived out here. Her eyes, still too young to focus, seem to follow the sway of the sky.
Amara watches from a distance, sometimes. Sometimes she doesn’t.
One night sleeping apart folds into several, without discussion or apology.
Each night, I return to the hammock.
