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“My sweet?” your husband calls gently as you flop facedown onto the bed.
“Mhm…” you croak.
The bedframe creaks slightly as he sits on the edge of your shared bed, “Long day?” he asks gently.
You don’t respond.
His brow creases, “Do you feel under the weather? Have you eaten something disagreeable, then?”
“Oh no, darling, it isn’t that,” you reply weakly.
His jaw hardened.
“Has someone come after you? Are your colleagues giving you a difficult time because of your marriage to the Reaper?” Barok snaps.
“Oh no, no!” you roll on your side to face him, “I’ve gotten my period.”
“Ah.”
With that, he strolls out of the room, presumably to give you space.
Of course, you think, he wouldn’t want to hear about this.
You feel slightly miffed that he’s left you alone, though. Especially when you’d appreciate his support, whether it be through a hug or a few kind words.
You curl up in the bed, toss the cozy, heavy blankets over yourself as your eyes slowly slide shut.
“Hm…?” You awaken to find an extra blanket atop you, this one heavier and cozier than the last. As you become reoriented, you realize there’s a pleasant, constant heat sitting on your belly.
Once your fingers grope for it, clothing gives away to a rubber…balloon?
No, it’s a hot water bottle, you realize gratefully. The dull throb still thrums in your stomach and lower back, but the pain is much more manageable now. Inhaling, you hold it closer.
Your ears register the muffled echoes sloshing of water in the adjoining ensuite bathroom. It isn’t the toilet, and it’s too loud to be the sink. Barok was probably bathing before dinner, then.
Carefully, you sit upright, assessing how you feel. The dull stabbing pain still persists in your lower back while a kicking ache reverberates through your stomach. A few more hours and maybe the nausea & headaches would kick in, as they always do monthly.
Your back sags into the pillows behind you, your body refusing to leave the bed.
Just a few more minutes.
“You’re finally up, my love. How do you feel now?” Barok saunters in, carrying a tray covered with a cloche.
“Oh!” you say in surprise, “Honestly…I’m freezing, everywhere hurts, I feel heavy, and…” you shook your head, “Terrible. Just terrible.”
He sets down the cloche softly. Leaning over, he kisses your forehead gently.
“You are rather cold,” he presses a hand between the curve of your neck & shoulder, “Your heart is beating quickly too. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I’m a heavy bleeder,” you mutter.
“I comprehend, love. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Especially not in front of me.” He pulls one of his heavy dressing gowns – the dark teal woolen one heavily embroidered with gold peacock feathers – which he prefers in winter.
“Sit up and lean forward,” he commands in the same soft, gentle tone. You obey, albeit gritting your teeth a little when your stomach does a nosedive.
He pulls his dressing gown around you tightly. You assist by pushing your arms through the arm holes.
Sighing in pleasure, whiffs of his cologne waft to your nose: cedarwood, sandalwood, musk, a little leather…and if you sniff hard enough, there’s a even remnants of firewood and smoke, old paper, and his favourite burgundy wine and Darjeeling tea.
He sits on the edge of the bed and removes the cloche from the tray.
“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” you tease half-heartedly, smiling wanly, face flushing.
“A bit of sugar should make you feel a bit better. Is it all right to put the bed tray in your lap?”
“Yes. The hot water bottle has done the trick.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he presses his hand to your forehead this time, “Your temperature is better.”
“I’m menstruating, not having a fever,” you argue.
“That may be, but when you suffer blood loss, it’s normal to feel cold. You still feel slightly cool, but it’s better than before.”
You nod once, paying more attention to the tray laden with goodies served on the van Zieks’ family best porcelain in front of you.
“So many cups?” You tease, “Are you the King of Cups?”
There’s a cup-and-saucer of rich drinking chocolate with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg, a indulgently large butter croissant on a small plate, a glass of water, and another cup-and-saucer of what appears to be one of Iris’ lovely concoctions.
“Well, sugar is good after blood loss, you must be thirsty after your nap, and Iris gave me a special blend with specific instructions to make you drink it once a month for a week as much as you need. I confess at first, I was confused – I believed it to be a fertility aid or some such. Now I realize it’s for your period. She did say something about “nutrients during the ordeal” and “easing pain”.”
You blushed, “That’s very sweet of her,” noting that you must thank her later for her foresight.
“I arranged the rest of it, though.”
“Why the croissant?”
Barok turned away slightly, toying with a button on his waistcoat.
“There’s a lovely patisserie just near the Old Bailey that sells heavenly French pastries and savouries. I’ve been meaning to take you there for the longest time. Their butter croissants are always a wonderful snack with afternoon tea or four o’clock tea.”
“We should go there with Iris sometime. She’d enjoy it.”
“Yes, she would,” he agreed, “But not before I take you first.”
“I can get behind that.”
Barok shoots you a quiet smile.
“Eat up,” he prods lovingly, “I’m running a bath for you. It’ll take some time to get ready. Take your time.”
He kisses your forehead once more and heads toward the bathroom.
You smile into your cup of chocolate. God, he’s perfect!
After you finish your thoughtful snack, Barok comes back in and uses his body to support you after you get off the bed.
You gently squeeze his hand once in appreciation.
Neither of you thank each other aloud anymore. Instead, the two of you have taken to squeezing each other’s hands. You both hold hands so frequently, it evolved organically. One squeeze, one flicker of the fingers is all it takes for him to understand what you wish to convey and vice versa.
He places his large hand on the small of your back and smiles gently as he guides you to the bathroom.
Sure enough, he’s filled the large porcelain clawfoot tub just under three-quarters-of-the-way with bathwater.
Your nose picks up the homey scent of vanilla, shea butter, and hints of almonds and cinnamon.
“I rec --”
“Darling, you found it?!” you cry out, your hand rushing to your mouth, “Pardon. Go on.”
“It’s of no consequence, love. I recalled how much you loved a similarly scented perfume when I was trying to repurchase a bottle of it for you. Shameful that they discontinued it.”
“I concur. I suppose this is a suitable substitute.”
“This fragrance never fails to remind me of you,” he said fondly, working open the dressing gown and easing it off.
A pile of clothing gradually heaps around your ankles until you’re fully bare. He then pushes your hair out of your face, helps you step out of the ring of clothing, and guides you toward the shower.
“Rinse yourself off quickly,” he instructs.
You always thought it was strange that he chose to have a separate tub and shower, but you’ve grown to enjoy the convenience -- you both can speak to each other while one luxuriates in the tub and other in the shower. And on multiple occasions, the one in the shower joins the other in the tub after they’ve rinsed off.
Feeling his hands on your uncovered skin still makes your breath hitch, even after all this time. Especially now that your skin feels so sensitive because of your raging hormones. How lovely this man is doesn’t even begin to encapsulate it.
“Shall I wash your hair, dear?”
“No, darling. Not today. I could go for a neck and a foot massage though.”
“Soak for a bit, then I’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” you say. He moves behind you, as if to sit on the sink behind him. Instead, he deftly moves your hair out of the way, nuzzling your cheek and mouth, covering them in fervent kisses.
You groan in pleasure as his thumb trails down the underside of your jaw rests on the crook of your neck.
“Barok!” You pout as he pulls away.
“Not now my sweet,” he kisses the top of your head before working his fingers into the back of your neck.
His touch is gentle and firm. Soon your muscles relax and you practically melt into the tub, sighing in pleasure shamelessly and loudly.
“I’m glad you enjoyed that,” his warm breath touches your cheek as he cups your face again.
“Mmm…of course,” you say, nearly breathless, “You’re phenomenal. As always. However, it was sensational tonight.”
“Perhaps that is due to your body being extra sensitive today?”
You nod in agreement. You trust neither your tongue nor your eyes; either may betray you. You’re losing control of your waning willpower -- especially every time he makes remarks about your body. Just hearing that word roll across his tongue in his silky, lush baritone is just enough to send you into overdrive.
Pity that you’re on your period, or else you’d beg him to take you right there and then. It is possible for you both to replicate these sensations in the coming days, post menstruation, though.
He’s massaging your feet when you remark, “You’re so sweet, you know. You knew exactly what I needed.”
His touch is firm but gentle. “Of course. I sympathize.”
“Oh? When was the last time you had yours?” you tease carelessly.
His hands momentarily tense and slacken. Your spine stiffens instantly. Tendrils of his blue hydrangealike curls block his face. You pull your feet back into the tub involuntarily.
“Oh Barok! I’m so sorry! That was cruel of me -- I was only teasing you. I didn’t mean --”
“I know my love,” he replies darkly but calmly, his voice softer than usual and withdrawn. He turns his face away from you for a moment. A wet spot spread on his waistcoat near his left breast.
You open your mouth in an attempt to call out to him, but you instantly snap it shut.
He needs a moment, you tell yourself sadly. The spectres of assassination attempts he needn’t any reminders of, if it weren’t for your stupidity.
You sit numb in the cooling bathwater as his hand moves limply back to his side.
Tentatively, you reach out and place your palm against the back of his hand, the undersides of your fingers tracing faded, jagged scars etched into his skin.
He blinks, slowly turning to you, his blue eyes coming back into focus.
“Now where were we?” he murmurs gruffly, motioning for you to extend your feet toward him once more.
Numbly, you do so.
Silence.
His fingers lightly and gracefully press circles into the undersides of your feet. A single tear slides down your cheek -- or so you think. Possibly you’ve misremembered? Surely he would’ve noticed if you had.
“Darling,” you call, barely audible, hoping he’s present.
“You inquired of how I am so knowledgeable of blood loss and mood swings earlier,” he stated, still focusing on the pads of your feet. You gulp and nod automatically.
The previous attempts on your life, you wish to say aloud.
“You already are informed of the attempts on my life,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts. He likely can after all this time.
“Yes,” you respond mechanically in a low, clear voice, hoping he won’t withdraw.
“Everything I’ve done for you today is a culmination of what I’ve learnt through healing from those repeated ordeals. I developed this regimen when I had no one else to aid me in my convalescence,” his fingers continue to work at the same pace as before.
You stay still. Are you hearing correctly? There has been no change in his tone from before. He speaks in the same crisp, even tone he uses when he reads from the newspaper.
You bite your lip, knowing he is building to spit something petty at you -- totally deserved, of course.
“And, I am glad I can share it with you.”
Your feet stiffen.
“What ?”
His tender gaze catches yours, his eyes glassy with tears. Only now…they appear to be tears of… joy?
“Your claim is correct, of course. I cannot menstruate. So, how is it possible for me to understand your experience? I do not bleed as you do -- but I have lost copious amounts of blood in the past and felt the resulting mood swings, pulsing racing, exhaustion, and similar symptoms,” he says with a small but warm grin,
“Not quite the same as what you’re experiencing, my sweet; I would never -- and could never -- assert that. What I am trying to demonstrate is that I sympathize. I can only thank God that I’m able to share this knowledge with you today. And for having you in my life today.” he gently -- reverently -- lowers your feet back into the bathwater.
“Hm,” he grunts, sticking his hand in, “You must be chilly again. How counterintuitive.”
“Uh,” you reply in shock, sure that you stare at him wide-eyed.
“Back to bed with you, then,” he extends his hand again to help you out of the tub, then kisses your forehead gently.
“Afraid?”
“I thought I…that…I hurt you.”
You aren’t prepared for him to continue smiling and gazing gently at you.
“That dark mire…somehow I have developed the courage to forge ahead. Particularly when I’m with you. Truthfully, I’m glad you said that. I failed to realize how far I’ve progressed,” he cups your face again, “Usually, such memories would sink me deeper into the darkness. Now…they still smart, but no longer consume me.”
You lay your head against him and wrap your arms around him.
“Oh Barok…” you utter into his chest, unsure of what to say, fearing that you’d say something else insensitive.
“Tell me. What weighs on your conscience?”
“I don--” you stop immediately.
A pause to think.
“You were already so kind, strong, and had such depth when we first met. Somehow though…you’re even kinder, stronger, and…more firmly rooted than before. I didn’t think such a thing was possible.”
The pad of his thumb brushes underneath your eyes. Then his lips meet your forehead.
“You’re handling this so well,” you blurt out, blinking tears from your eyes.
He begins toying with your dampened tendrils, never taking his gaze from your face. It’s a little more intense than you expected, so your eyes glance away every now and again.
He parts his lips, then his eyes dart downward.
“There’s more salient matter at hand.”
You nearly jump out of your skin! Fortunately, the blood had only started to run down your thigh. He towels it off and you quickly stick a pad to your undergarment and pull it up to your hips.
“That was a close one,” you say, flushing.
His calloused but soft hands travel down the length of your arms. Such an interesting juxtaposition.
“All right. Your skin still feels warm.”
“Yes, I feel much better now.”
“But do you still feel cold?”
“No, not yet. My skin is starting to feel tight though,” it’s true. But you don’t understand why you chose to address your needs over his -- why your mouth betrayed you.
“That’s no good,” he quickly reached for a bottle of lotion, popping it open and spreading it across his palms and then -- almost massaging it -- over your back, arms, and legs. You apply it to your neck and torso; he brushes his fingers over those areas to confirm that they were moisturized.
He helps you into your sleepwear and you follow him back into the master bedroom.
“How do you feel now?” he asks, tucking you into bed.
“Much better,” you stifle a yawn, your eyelids heavy.
He nods in relief, pulling the blanket up your chest. You take his hand when he does so.
“Stay with me.”
“I would’ve thought you’d prefer more space to yourself for the week.”
You shake your head, “Hold me, Barok. Please don’t let go.”
He pauses, then removes his waistcoat, shirt, socks, and trousers and crawls between the sheets. He then cradles you in his arms. You hug back, leaning forward slightly, kissing his face. His cheeks, his chin, nose, forehead, temples, above his eyebrows, his scar, and then his lips.
“I love you,” you whisper like a prayer, “I love you so dearly.”
“I love you too.”
You’re not sure how long you and him lie entangled like this. Or if you momentarily fell asleep at certain junctures of your embrace.
But when you open your eyes again in the dim candle light, you are greeted with the sight of Barok, his eyes closed.
You fixate on his eyelashes, the purple lines still in the dimness.
“You aren’t sleeping, my sweet,” you stiffen slightly, your fingers momentarily going limp.
“I can tell from your breathing,” he explains, his eyes still closed.
“No, I’m not,” you agree.
“What weighs on your conscience? Tell me.”
A pause.
“Had I hurt you earlier? With my off-hand comment? It wasn’t my intention -- I was merely jesting without then considering the consequences. It was heartless of me.”
He…smirks?
“My sweet. Do you intend to atone for the rest of your life for such a minor misspeak?”
Your mouth hardens into a line.
“If it comes to that,” you muse almost to yourself, “Forgive me.”
“No, I will not. For you’ve made no mistake. And you have not hurt me. I cannot forgive a misdemeanor that never occurred in the first place,” he says firmly.
“You haven’t had any nightmares? Or at least a plunge into your mire of despair after I “misspoke”?”
His eyes open. They focus on yours.
“That’s what I find interesting. I was being honest before -- I did not spare your feelings. Truly, I do not feel so fragile. Not even so much as a step toward the darkness.”
His shoulders relax, “I should say, the mire isn’t as dark as it was originally. It isn’t lit up either -- rather, it’s…faded. Fading, gradually, I’m pleased to report.”
You silently send a grateful prayer. He’s healing .
“That satisfies you, finally.”
“Yes. You have a bad habit of reassuring people that you’re fine when you’re shattered. And you have an even worse habit of concealing your heartbreak so well, which is why I went to such lengths to verify that I didn’t wound you.”
Barok nods, “That’s fair. I laud your honesty, my love. You’re correct -- I should be a little more vulnerable with you. You have my word. We cannot maintain a solid relationship without trust, integrity, and honesty, after all.”
His values are still steadfast.
“It won’t be easy for you to open up after so long. You will experience fragility again,” you warn.
“It is a step I will undertake. It is worth it. You’re worth it,” his breath catches slightly.
“It’s a step we will undertake together because it is worth it. Because you’re already worthy.”
His arms slacken for a second.
“Thank you for believing in me, my love,” he sniffles.
You brush his lower eyelids with the pads of your thumb, “Thank you for your willingness to grow. We would’ve never made it this far without it --”
“Both are important for our relationship,” you and Barok say in unison, chuckling.
He rolls over and stared at the ceiling with a frown. You raise an eyebrow and squeeze his hand in askance.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I fear that I have not quite held up my end of the bargain. I was to allow you to relax this night.”
“You’ve done an admirable job, darling. It is I who shouldn’t have worried about your feelings so much.”
“And yet, I’m glad you did,” he says with a gentle smile, gripping your hand lovingly.
You turn to look at him only to realize that he’s been gazing at you, his smile widening, crinkling his eyes slightly.
You lean over to kiss him once more, which he counters by touching his lips to yours first. Oh, Barok …