Chapter 22: The Post-Partum
The key turned in the lock.
Briya’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of sore bone and stretched skin. She was propped up in the bed, the three swaddled bundles arranged in the basket beside her like an offering. She had managed to pull on a loose, high-necked linen shift. Her hair was still in the simple braid from the midwife’s ministrations. She felt, and knew she looked, like a woman who had just been pulled backwards through a knothole.
The door swung open.
Rain stood in the doorway, his travel-stained cloak dusted with road, a canvas pack slung over one shoulder. His face, kind and open, wore an expression of eager exhaustion that melted into pure, uncomplicated wonder.
“Briya?”
He dropped his pack with a thud, his eyes wide. He took in the scene: her in the bed, pale and washed out, and the basket with its tiny, sleeping contents. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face.
“By the stars… you… when?” He rushed to the bedside, falling to his knees beside her, his hands fluttering, unsure where to land. He finally took one of hers, squeezing it. His fingers were cool from the morning air. “The midwife’s message found me on the road last night, but she just said ‘come quick.’ I rode all night. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Are you alright?”
His concern was so genuine, so Rain, that a sob threatened to claw its way out of Briya’s throat. She swallowed it, producing a thin, unconvincing smile.
“I’m… tired,” she said, and it was the truest thing she could manage. “It happened last night. It was… fast.”
“Fast? But it was early, wasn’t it?” His brow furrowed with worry as he leaned over to peer into the basket. His breath caught. “Three. Three! Gods, Briya. My love.” He looked back at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You are incredible. Look at them.”
He reached a tentative finger into the basket, stroking the cheek of the nearest infant—the girl. “A daughter? They’re so small. Are they well? Are you well?” The questions tumbled out of him, a waterfall of loving anxiety.
“They’re healthy. The midwife said all is well.” Each word felt like a lie, even though the facts were technically correct. “Two boys. And a girl.”
“A girl,” he repeated, wonder in his voice. He was completely captivated, his novice-mage’s mind, usually buzzing with arcane theories, now utterly focused on the miraculous math before him. “What shall we name her? And the boys? We talked about so many names, but for three…”
He was babbling, pure happiness radiating from him. He didn’t see the shadows under her eyes for what they were. He didn’t question the early arrival, attributing it to the mysterious ways of childbirth. He didn’t scrutinize the features of the sleeping newborns—the girl’s hint of red, the first son’s neutral palette, the third son’s shock of unmistakably dark hair. He saw only his children. His.
The poison of her secret spread through her veins, cold and sickening, even as warmth from his hand seeped into hers. She was splitting in two, right down the middle.
“We have time to name them,” she whispered.
“Of course, of course. You need rest.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead, his lips chapped from travel. The gesture was so familiar, so spousal, it was a physical pain. “My brave, beautiful Briya. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It’s alright,” she heard herself say. “You’re here now.”
Just then, the dark-haired son—Snake’s son—stirred and let out a thin, reedy cry. The sound seemed to trigger the other two, and within seconds the room was filled with a dissonant chorus of newborn hunger.
Rain jumped back, startled, then laughed, a sound of pure delight. “They’ve got lungs! What do we do?”
“They need to feed,” Briya said, already moving with a weary expertise that felt both new and strangely innate. She unbuttoned the front of her shift, the movement causing Rain to blush slightly and look away for a moment, before his curiosity won out. He watched, fascinated, as she gathered the crying son first.
Rain observed quietly as she fed them, one after another, his head cocked. “You’re a natural. It’s like you’ve done this for years.”
She said nothing, concentrating on the latch, on the swallowing sounds, on anything but his admiring gaze.
Once the babies were settled back into their basket, sated and drowsy, Rain sighed contentedly. He’d shrugged off his cloak and was pulling a small, cloth-wrapped parcel from his pack. “I brought you honeycakes from Silverhill. They’re probably squashed now.” He offered it, boyish and hopeful.
She took it. “Thank you, Rain.”
He settled into the chair the midwife had used, looking suddenly very young and very tired. “The mission was a success, by the way. Nuisance spirit in a mill. Flickering lights and cold spots. Just a minor grudge, really. I negotiated its release with a bit of channeled moonlight and a promise of regular libations of cider. The miller was grateful. Paid the guild fee, plus a bonus.” He patted the purse at his belt. “It’ll help. Three! We’ll need a bigger cottage. More everything.”
He was planning. Building a future on a foundation of sand, and he had no idea.
Briya felt a desperate, clawing need. A need to connect with him, to anchor herself to the man she had vowed to love, to somehow sew the two torn halves of herself back together with the thread of his innocence. It was a selfish, terrible need.
She beckoned him closer with a finger. He leaned in, his expression open.
She whispered, her lips nearly brushing his ear, her voice a low, husky thing she barely recognized. “When I’ve healed… I want more.”
Rain drew back a little, his cheeks flushing a deeper pink. He smiled, a shy, pleased smile. “More? Briya, we’ve just been blessed with three.”
“I know,” she said, holding his gaze, forcing her eyes to soften, to show desire. “But I want them. I want a house full of them. With you.” Every word was a betrayal, but she poured all the genuine, chaotic emotion churning inside her—the fear, the desperation, the latent, shocking hunger that not even the trauma of birth could completely erase—into the performance. “I want you to give me more.”
His breath hitched. He was so easy, so trusting. He saw only his passionate, fertile wife. He took her hand again, squeezing it. “I… I would be honored. We’ll… we’ll have as many as you want. I’ll do my best.” He said it like a solemn vow, touching his forehead to hers.
Over his shoulder, movement caught her eye.
The door to the adjoining small chamber, which Rain had assumed was empty, opened quietly. Snake stood there, leaning against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. He must have come in through the window. He was freshly washed, his dark hair damp, wearing a simple, clean tunic that did nothing to hide the muscular leanness of his frame. In his hands, he held three beautifully carved wooden rattles, each painted with a different tiny animal.
He’d been there the whole time. Listening.
His eyes met Briya’s over Rain’s oblivious shoulder. And he smiled. It wasn't a broad grin, but a slow, dirty, knowing curl of his lips that went no further than his mouth. His eyes remained dark and absorbing, pinning her in place. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He had heard her whisper. He had seen her performance. And he approved.
Rain, feeling her tense, pulled back. “What is it?”
Briya’s eyes snapped back to her husband’s face. “Nothing. Just a twinge.” She forced a smile. “I’m still sore.”
Rain nodded, full of sympathetic understanding. Just then, he finally noticed Snake. His face lit up with friendly surprise. “Snake! You’re here! Did you hear? I’m a father!”
Snake pushed off the doorframe, his expression seamlessly transforming into one of warm camaraderie. The predatory gleam vanished, replaced by easy charm. “So I see. Congratulations, my friend.” He walked over, clapping Rain on the back. “Three at once. That’s quite the heroic feat, for both of you.” His gaze flicked to Briya, lingering just a moment too long on the neckline of her shift. “You look radiant, Briya.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at the bedsheets.
“I brought a little something,” Snake said, offering the rattles to Rain. “For the little warriors.”
“These are exquisite!” Rain exclaimed, taking them, examining the fine craftsmanship. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Nonsense. What are friends for?” Snake said, his voice smooth as oil. “Besides, I knew you’d be tied up with guild fees and baby costs. Consider it my contribution to the celebration.”
Rain beamed, utterly disarmed. “You’re a true friend. Really. I’m so glad you were here for Briya when I couldn’t be.”
“It was my pleasure,” Snake said, and the double meaning hung in the thick air, heard only by Briya. “I checked in when I could. Made sure she had what she needed.”
The days that followed were a study in surreal normalcy. Rain doted on her and fumbled excitedly with the babies. He changed swaddling clothes with more enthusiasm than skill, sang off-key lullabies, and spent hours just staring at them as they slept, his face a canvas of proud wonder. He talked of converting his study into a nursery, of building a bigger bed, of the spells he would learn to protect them.
And Snake was always there.
He never overstepped in front of Rain. He was the perfect, helpful friend. He arrived with bundles of soft, expensive lambswool for blankets. He procured a wet nurse from a nearby village on days when Briya was overwhelmed, a woman discreet and well-paid for her silence. He slipped Rain extra coin for "guild dues" and "necessary provisions," easing the financial strain that three newborns inevitably brought.
Rain’s gratitude deepened his trust. “I don’t know what we’d do without him,” he said to Briya one evening as she nursed the girl by the fireplace in their small, rented cottage. Snake was outside, ostensibly repairing a loose shingle on the roof. “He’s been a rock.”
Briya hummed a non-committal response, her eyes on the flames. Her body was healing, but the internal fissure was not. Snake’s presence was a constant, low-grade vibration in her life. He looked at her with proprietary calm across the dinner table. His fingers would brush hers when handing her a cup of tea. Sometimes, when Rain was out in the garden or engrossed in a magical text, Snake would catch her eye and simply hold it, his silence a louder declaration than any words.
The peace was a veneer, polished to a high shine by Snake’s money and Rain’s joy, but brittle as an eggshell.
One afternoon, Rain was at the guild hall submitting his report on the mill spirit. Briya was alone in the cottage, the babies napping in their crib. She was kneading dough at the table, flour dusting her wrists, when the door opened and closed softly.
She didn’t need to turn. She felt him.
Snake leaned against the table next to her, watching her work. The domestic sound of the babies’ soft breathing filled the quiet.
“He’s choosing names,” Snake said conversationally. “He’s leaning towards ‘Kaelan’ for the dark-haired one. A strong name. Means ‘mighty warrior.’ I like it.”
Briya’s hands stilled in the dough. She stared at the white, pliant mass.
“He loves him,” Snake continued, his voice a low murmur. “He looks at that boy like he hung the moon. Tells everyone he has his mother’s eyes and his father’s… spirit.” He let out a soft chuckle. “He’s not wrong.”
She replied with silence.
“Why? It’s the truth. This is the life you wanted, isn’t it? A devoted husband. Beautiful children. A helpful friend to share the burden.” He reached out and caught a lock of her crimson hair that had escaped her braid, twisting it around his finger. “You have it all. You even have me.”
She wrenched her head away. “I have nothing.”
“You have everything you asked for,” he corrected, his tone hardening a fraction. “You whispered for more children. You’re getting them. This peace, this comfort, is what you crafted with your lies. Enjoy it.”
He pushed off the table and walked to the crib, looking down at the sleeping infants. His silhouette was stark against the sunlit window. He pointed a casual finger at the dark-haired son—Kaelan. “That one,” he said, not turning around. “He’s mine. The others… they’re ALSO mine. A happy family. But every time Rain looks at them with love, he’s loving my children. Every time he plans a future for them, he’s planning it for my bloodline.” Finally, he turned. His expression was calm, utterly certain. “You belong to two men now, Briya. But only one of us knows the full truth. That makes you more mine than his.”
He left then, as quietly as he came. The dough dried and cracked under Briya’s motionless hands.
When Rain returned, he was full of news from the guild and a parchment with inked names. He kissed her floury cheek. “What do you think of ‘Kaelan’ for the little one with the dark hair? And ‘Elara’ for our girl? ‘Benn’ for the other boy?”
She looked at the names, written in Rain’s careful, scholarly script. “They’re perfect,” she said, her voice hollow.
Months passed. The babies grew, their features becoming more distinct. Kaelan’s eyes, a shade too dark to be Rain’s, began to show a familiar, sharp alertness. Elara’s crimson wisps grew into curls. Benn remained a quiet, observant child. The rhythm of their lives found a strange, sustainable cadence. Rain took on more guild work, his confidence growing with each successful minor enchantment. Snake’s financial contributions became a regular, unspoken expectation, woven into the household budget.
Behind his back, Snake keep a tight clutch over Briya. Whenever it's possible, Snake would push her down. Briya only offer the most little resistances before she sunk down to the pleasure, moaning Snake's name.