Frozen Heart

[AMAL POV]

I turned my head slowly, as if it were made of lead, the motion taking what felt like hours. The muscles in my neck protested, stiff from sitting motionless in the same position. Water lapped gently against the marble edges of the tub with the movement, the sound echoing off the bathroom's tiled walls. I looked at him.

He stood in the doorway, one hand still gripping the bronze handle so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His face was a mask of shock and something deeper—horror, perhaps, or recognition of what he had created. His dark eyes swept over me, taking in the scene: his wife, naked and blue-tinged, sitting in what must have been ice-cold water like some broken statue.

"How long have you been in there?" His voice was strangled, raw, as if the words had to claw their way out of his throat.

"I don't know," I said, and it was the truth. Time had become as fluid as the cold water that surrounded me. Had it been minutes? Hours? The candles on the windowsill had burned down considerably, wax pooling in ivory puddles on the marble ledge. The fire in the brazier had died to glowing embers.

He moved toward me then, his usual measured gait abandoned for quick, urgent strides that ate up the distance between us. His silk slippers splashed through puddles of water that had sloshed over the tub's edge, soaking the intricate tile work. "The water is freezing. You're blue, Amal. You're freezing."

Was I? I looked down at my hands, noting with detached interest that they were indeed a pale shade of blue-white. Fascinating. I hadn't noticed.

"You need to get out. Now." His voice cracked on the last word, and he was pulling linens from the heated shelves beside the bath, thick cotton towels that had been warmed by the brazier. His movements were jerky, panicked, so unlike his usual controlled grace that it was almost interesting to watch. "This is dangerous. The baby—"

"Yes," I said, because he seemed to expect a response. My voice sounded strange to my own ears, flat and distant as if it were coming from underwater.

His hands were shaking as he held out the towels, unfurling them to create a barrier of privacy between us. Steam rose from the warm cotton in the cool air. "Can you stand? Can you get out on your own?"

"Yes."

But when I tried to rise, my legs wouldn't obey. The cold had seeped into my bones, my muscles, turning me into something carved from ice. My thighs trembled with the effort, and I slumped back into the water with a splash that sent more water cascading over the edges, pooling on the floor around his feet.

"Damn it," he muttered, and then he was reaching for me, the towels forgotten as they fell in crumpled heaps. His hands slid under my arms, his fingers warm and alive against my frozen skin. I could feel the calluses on his palms, rough from sword practice, as he struggled with my weight, my awkward bulk, the slippery reality of my transformed body.

Water cascaded from me as he pulled me upright, rivulets running down my legs and arms to splash back into the tub. I found myself pressed against his chest, my naked form shivering uncontrollably against the silk of his evening robes. The fabric immediately darkened where it touched my wet skin, clinging to his body. I could feel his heart hammering against my cheek.

He wrapped me immediately in the thick cotton, his movements desperate and efficient. Towel after towel appeared, layered around my shoulders, my arms, my swollen belly. His hands moved quickly, rubbing circulation back into my limbs through the fabric, the friction almost painful against my numb skin.

"Foolish," he was saying, his voice rough with emotion I couldn't name. His breath was warm against my ear as he worked, his words coming in short, harsh bursts. "So foolish. You could have died. The baby could have died. How could you be so reckless again?"

His hands were everywhere—rubbing my arms through the cotton with firm, warming strokes, pressing heat into my shoulders, his fingers checking my pulse at my throat where it fluttered weak and slow.

He did not scream at me.

He did not rage or strike me.

Once, this would have undone me. Once, his touch would have sent fire through my veins, his concern would have brought tears to my eyes. I would have melted into his embrace, overcome with gratitude and love and the sweet pain of being cared for. I would have whispered apologies against his throat, would have promised to be more careful, would have let him carry me to bed and hold me until the warmth returned.

Now, I felt nothing.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, his arms strong beneath my knees and shoulders. My head lolled against his shoulder, and I could feel the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, could see the tension in his jaw as he carried me the few steps to the upholstered chair by the brazier. The silk had been positioned to catch the warmth from the glowing coals, and he settled me into it with infinite care.

More towels appeared, and he knelt beside the chair, wrapping them around my feet, my legs, tucking them carefully around my form like a mother swaddling a child. His fingers worked with practiced precision, creating layers of warmth and protection. When he reached for my hands, I felt him pause at their iciness before enclosing them in both of his, breathing warm air across my knuckles.

"There," he said, his voice softer now, though I could hear the strain beneath it. He was still kneeling beside the chair, his dark eyes searching my face for some sign of improvement. "Better?"

The fire crackled beside us, sending dancing shadows across the walls. The towels were blissfully warm, and gradually I could feel sensation returning to my extremities—a painful tingling that might once have made me wince. He watched me intently, his hands still moving over the cotton, still trying to warm me, to care for me, to fix what he had broken.

I should thank him. A proper wife would thank him. A grateful woman would weep at his kindness, would reach out to touch his face, would whisper words of love and appreciation. She would let him see that his efforts mattered, that his touch still held power to heal.

"Thank you," I said, the words falling from my lips like stones into still water. They landed in the space between us with a dull thud, devoid of warmth or feeling. "You are... kind."

He went very still, his hands freezing in their gentle ministrations. Something flickered across his face. 

His jaw worked as if he were chewing something bitter, and his eyes searched mine with an intensity that might once have made me flush. I looked back at him steadily, noting the way the firelight caught the gold flecks in his irises, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breath had quickened. All these details I catalogued with the same dispassion I might use to inventory household supplies.

Finally, he cleared his throat and adjusted one of the towels around my shoulders with unnecessary precision, his fingers careful not to touch my skin. "You can't do this again," he said, his voice clipped and businesslike, the tender concern already hardening into command. "Three hours in cold water. It's dangerous."

"Yes."

The single word seemed to hang in the air between us. He stared at me for a moment, as if waiting for more—an explanation, an apology, some sign of the woman who had once filled silences with chatter about her day, her thoughts, her dreams.

"I mean it, Amal. The physicians say—"

"I understand."

 I could see frustration building in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh. He stood abruptly, the movement sharp and angry, and began pacing to the window and back. His wet slippers squelched against the flooded tiles, the sound oddly loud in the silence. His hands were clasped behind him, his spine rigid with barely controlled emotion.

"Mira should have been watching you. Where was she?"

"I sent her away."

"Why?" He whirled to face me, his robes swirling around his legs. His hair had fallen across his forehead in dark waves, and there were water stains on his silk shirt where he had held me. Once, I would have wanted to smooth that hair back, to ease the tension in his shoulders with my touch. Now I simply catalogued these details like a scribe recording inventory.

"I wanted to be alone."

He stopped pacing and turned to face me fully, his dark eyes boring into mine. "You're with child. You don't have the luxury of wanting things that could harm the baby."

"You're right."

Something flickered across his face—frustration, perhaps, or the same look he might wear when dealing with a particularly stubborn horse that refused to respond to bit or spur. He ran his hand through his hair, mussing it further, and I could see the effort it took him to keep his voice level.

"Don't just agree with me. Talk to me."

"I am talking to you."

"No, you're not. You're..." He gestured helplessly at my still form, his hand cutting through the air as if trying to grasp something invisible. "You're not here."

I considered this observation. He wasn't wrong. I wasn't here, not really. I was somewhere else entirely, somewhere gray and quiet where nothing could touch me.

"I'm here," I said anyway.

"The baby needs you healthy. Strong. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why—" He stopped himself, pressing his lips together in a thin line. I could see him mentally counting to ten, could watch him pull on the mask of controlled authority he wore in council meetings. After a moment, he straightened his shoulders and adopted the tone he used for difficult courtiers. "I'll have the servants monitor your bathing from now on. No more than twenty minutes at a time."

"If you think that's best."

"I do."

He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "Try to eat something tonight. The kitchen prepared that soup you used to like."

Used to like. The words hung in the air between us, a reminder of the woman who had once had preferences, opinions, desires. I wondered briefly what that soup had tasted like, why it had pleased me. The memory was there somewhere, buried beneath layers of gray indifference.

"I will."

He nodded once, sharp and final. "Good. I'll check on you tomorrow."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was alone again with the fire and the silence and the weight of the child pressing against my ribs. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the servants moving about their evening duties, their voices a low murmur of normalcy.

I closed my eyes and felt nothing at all.

And as I sat there, wrapped in his towels and his desperate kindness, surrounded by the warmth he had tried so hard to give me, I felt the vast emptiness inside me expand a little more. Soon, I thought, there would be nothing left of me at all.

The child came on a night when the winter wind howled through the palace corridors like a banshee. I had been sitting by the fire, my hands folded over my massive belly, when the first pain seized me. It was sharp and sudden, like a blade drawn across my insides, but I registered it with the same detached interest I might show a piece of news from a distant kingdom.

"Mira," I called, my voice steady despite the contraction. "Send for the midwives."

She rushed from the corner where she had been mending linens, her face pale with excitement and fear. "Your Highness, is it time?"

"Yes."