The celebration waned, its golden splendor dimming into the hush of midnight.
The chandeliers, once blazing like stars, now burned with a softer flame, and the violins drew their final breath beneath the marble dome.
Dorian sat upon the throne beside his king — his lashes fluttering like golden wings, his body weary beneath the weight of new life. Every sound — the clink of crystal, the murmuring laughter — came to him through a haze. His head tilted, eyes half-closed, a quiet battle against sleep.
He caught himself, blinking fast. Not here, he thought, not in front of everyone.
But exhaustion had already taken his hand.
Martin, from beside him, noticed. The faintest smile touched his lips — soft, protective, and unbearably tender.
"My beloved," he murmured, leaning closer, "you are fighting sleep again."
Dorian startled, his golden lashes lifting. "I— I was only resting my eyes," he whispered, though his voice betrayed him, drowsy and sweet.
Martin's smile deepened. "Come, dear. Let me take you back to your chamber."
Dorian hesitated, blinking up at him — his cheeks blooming with rose. He tried to speak, to protest, but the words tangled shyly in his throat. His gaze wavered away.
Martin only laughed under his breath. Without asking further, he bent down and slipped one arm beneath Dorian's knees, the other around his shoulders, lifting him easily from the throne.
Gasps rippled quietly through the remaining courtiers, but none dared speak.
Dorian's hands instinctively clutched at his king's robe, his face flushed crimson as he buried it against Martin's chest. "You shouldn't— everyone's watching," he whispered.
"Let them," Martin said, kissing the top of his head. His voice was low, like velvet threaded with warmth. "You are my queen. My beloved. No one will speak against me for carrying you."
He turned toward the grand staircase, his cape trailing like molten gold as he descended. Guards and ministers bowed deeply as he passed — the sight of their sovereign carrying his consort silencing even the boldest tongue.
Dorian blinked sleepily, his head resting against Martin's shoulder. The air grew quieter the further they went — the faint echo of their footsteps stretching through the endless corridor.
For a long moment, only silence and heartbeat filled the space.
Then Dorian's hand moved, resting protectively against his abdomen. His fingers traced soft circles there, almost unconsciously.
"Martin," he murmured, his voice small and dreamlike, "how long will it take… before I can hold our baby?"
Martin looked down at him — the sight so gentle it nearly broke him. He leaned in and kissed Dorian's forehead. "A little time yet, my love," he said. "You must be patient."
Dorian smiled faintly, eyes shining beneath half-lowered lashes. "I can't wait," he whispered, "I want to see our child… to see how will our baby look like."
Martin's throat tightened. "Be patient," he said again, softer this time, as if the words were for himself.
They walked through the last corridor, moonlight pouring through the tall windows like melted silver. The night air drifted in, cool and fragrant with jasmine.
"I love you, Martin," Dorian murmured, the words trembling with sincerity. "You're… wonderful."
Martin froze for the briefest moment. The simple confession struck through him like a blade made of light.
He drew in a slow breath and managed a faint smile. "I love you more than anyone ever could."
Dorian laughed quietly — a sleepy, boyish sound — and the tension broke. His laughter was always the sweetest thing about him; even the marble seemed to echo it fondly.
By the time they reached the royal chamber, the palace had fallen silent. The celebration was nothing more than a fading hum in the distance.
Martin pushed open the great double doors. Candlelight spilled over them in warm ripples, painting the chamber in gold. The vast canopy bed shimmered softly, its silken drapes stirring with the night's breath.
He carried Dorian inside, each step unhurried, reverent.
"Now," Martin murmured, "let's get you into bed before you fall asleep in my arms."
Dorian's lips curved faintly, his cheeks still flushed. "You say that as if it would be such a terrible thing."
Martin chuckled — a deep, quiet sound. "Perhaps not terrible. But I'd rather you rest comfortably."
He lowered him gently onto the bed. The silks folded around Dorian's form like light embracing dawn. Dorian lay there for a moment, his eyes soft with drowsiness, one hand still over his stomach.
"I can't wait to see you," he whispered, half to himself, half to the life within him.
Martin stood watching — the candlelight reflected in his eyes, making them look almost wet. Then he set aside his golden cape, the metal clasps gleaming faintly as they touched the floor.
He slipped off his crown, placing it quietly upon the nearby table, and then climbed onto the bed beside Dorian.
Dorian turned toward him immediately, smiling — that same small, trusting smile that always undid him.
Martin brushed back a strand of golden hair that had fallen across his beloved's forehead. His fingers lingered there, tracing the curve of his temple, the softness of his skin.
"Sleep now," Martin whispered. "You've had a long day."
Dorian's eyelids fluttered. "Not yet… stay with me a little longer."
"I will," Martin promised. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Dorian's forehead — slow, lingering, full of quiet adoration. "Sleep well, my love."
Dorian smiled — a fragile thing, blooming and fading in the same breath — then nestled closer, hiding his face against Martin's chest. The steady rhythm of his king's heartbeat lulled him, and soon, his breathing deepened.
Martin tightened his hold, resting his chin atop Dorian's head.
For a while, there was peace — the kind that comes only before sorrow. The kind that feels eternal when it isn't.
Then, slowly, his expression changed. The mask slipped.
His smile faded, replaced by a shadow that flickered through his eyes. His hand trembled as he brushed a final lock of hair from Dorian's face.
"I can't bear to leave you," he whispered, voice breaking. "My darling…."
The words vanished into the still air, unheard by the one they were meant for.
He leaned down once more, pressing another kiss to Dorian's brow — gentle, reverent, desperate.
"Forgive me," Martin murmured, his voice barely more than breath, "for what I did…."
The night was breathless.
Martin watched Dorian's chest rise and fall beneath the silken sheets. The candlelight trembled across his lover's features — those golden lashes casting faint shadows over flushed cheeks. Tenderly, Martin drew the coverlet higher, cocooning Dorian in warmth, as though the blanket might shield him from every ill that lurked in the dark.
He brushed one last kiss across Dorian's brow. "Sleep well, my love," he whispered.
Then, quietly, he straightened.
The chamber seemed to dim without Dorian's soft murmur of laughter. Martin turned toward the tall arched windows, where the heavens stretched wide — a black sea flecked with diamond stars. The moon hung swollen and luminous, the light silvering the faint pallor on his face.
He smiled faintly at the sky. A fragile, fleeting smile.
When he turned again, Dorian was fast asleep — the faintest curve of a smile on his lips, as if dreaming of something gentle. Martin's heart clenched at the sight. He took a long breath that rasped faintly in his throat, then covered his mouth when the cough came. It was brief, but sharp. When he lowered his handkerchief, a smear of crimson bloomed across the white fabric.
He stared at it for a moment. Then simply smiled. "It's nothing," he murmured to himself, voice raw.
He slipped from the chamber, closing the door behind him with the softest click. The corridor stretched before him, all marble and shadow. His steps echoed faintly — a rhythm of restraint and exhaustion.
Another cough seized him halfway down the hall. This time he pressed the cloth tighter, feeling the heat behind his ribs, the pulse of sickness creeping through his veins.
"Your Highness."
The voice came low, quiet — burdened.
Martin looked up to find Lirael approaching from the far end of the corridor, his movements graceful despite the faint drag of pain. His golden curls were unbound, cascading down his shoulders.
"Your Highness," Lirael repeated, his tone unsteady. "Your condition is worsening. You shouldn't be out here."
Martin smiled faintly and looked away. "It's alright. It's not like I'll die before seeing my child."
Lirael's eyes widened, the magenta hue catching the moonlight through the high glass panes. "Don't speak like that," he said softly. "You will definitely see your child, your highness."
Martin's smile faltered. His gaze fell to the floor. "I only wish I could… before I die."
The words hung between them — heavy, final, like the slow closing of a door.
Lirael's chest tightened with something close to panic. "Your Highness—"
"Why," Martin interrupted, his voice cutting low, "do you keep calling me that?"
Lirael hesitated. His head bowed, a curtain of shining hair falling forward to hide his expression. "It would be… improper to address you by name."
"You and your formality," Martin muttered, half weary, half fond. "You needn't stand on ceremony with me, Lirael."
"My apologies," Lirael said quietly. His voice trembled.
Martin's brow knit. "For what?"
"For everything," Lirael answered, still not looking up. "For what I let happen. For what I failed to prevent."
Martin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How am I supposed to speak to you when you drown every word in guilt?"
Finally, Lirael lifted his gaze — those luminous eyes catching the dim light like twin amethysts. "Because I can still help you," he said, the words breaking from him like a confession.
Martin's expression darkened instantly. "No."
"But—"
"I said no." His tone was iron now. "Didn't I forbid you to not mention that thing before me?"
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of torches and the rustle of distant curtains.
Lirael's jaw clenched. Then, quietly, he bowed his head again. "As you wish… Your Highness."
Martin exhaled sharply. "Stop calling me that," he muttered, though his voice softened at the end — wearied, pained.
The silence in the corridor deepened, the air heavy with things neither dared to speak.
Martin drew a slow breath, steadying himself against the faint tremor in his chest. "Go and rest, Lirael," he said quietly, his voice low but firm. "You really need it."
Lirael's lips parted, but before he could answer, Martin's cough cut through the stillness. It came sharp and wet.
Instinctively, Lirael's hand lifted — a motion born of habit, of centuries of healing — but Martin caught it midair, his fingers closing around Lirael's wrist.
"I don't need anyone's help," Martin said. The words were gentle, but the command beneath them was unmistakable.
Lirael froze. His hand hung suspended between them, trembling faintly beneath the strength in Martin's grasp.
"Let me just—" he began, voice hushed, pleading.
"No."
The single word struck with quiet finality.
Lirael's mouth fell shut. His throat worked, but no sound came. He lowered his gaze, and his long golden hair fell forward, veiling his expression. The torchlight played along the strands, turning them into threads of fire that framed his bowed head.
Martin exhaled softly. His steps echoed once as he turned away, fatigue bending the straightness of his shoulders.
The great royal doors opened with a long, low groan. For a moment, Lirael thought to speak again — to beg, to confess, to disobey. But the words never left his tongue.
The doors closed behind Martin with a hollow sound that seemed to echo all through him.
Silence returned.
Lirael stood there alone, his hand still half-raised, his chest tight with an ache that had nothing to do with his injury.
When he finally let out a breath, it came ragged. He pressed a palm to his shoulder — too hard — and felt warmth bloom beneath his fingers. The linen darkened; blood seeped through. He hadn't even noticed.
He took a step back, leaning against the wall, his eyes unfocused. Then slowly, a smile ghosted across his lips — fragile, fractured, and drenched in quiet despair.
"Whatever you say, Your Highness," he murmured, voice breaking around the title he no longer wanted to use. "I'll break everything just to heal you."
His gaze lifted toward the high windows, where the stars still burned — bright, indifferent witnesses to mortal sorrow.
He blinked up at them, the faint sheen of tears catching in the magenta of his eyes. "Forgive me, everyone," he whispered.
The air shimmered faintly around him, light bending at his outline. His golden hair caught the moonlight one last time, like a flame about to vanish.
Then, with a soft rush — as if the night itself had swallowed him — Lirael was gone, leaving only silence and the lingering scent of incense in the empty corridor.