Chapter 46: Insecurities

Valdor left Amor’s room with the dinner tray and closed the door quietly behind him. For a moment, he remained still in the corridor, listening to the faint sounds within. Elsie had not arrived yet, but the household moved around Amor’s rooms with familiar care, and Lanslet’s voice echoed from farther down the hall as he gave instructions to someone about bathwater, medicine, fresh linens, and no unnecessary excitement before bed. Valdor judged that Amor would not be alone long. That was the only reason he kept walking.

He returned the tray to the kitchens instead of handing it to the first servant he passed, because the meal had been his responsibility from beginning to end. Cook Brenna had already retired from the main hearth to review morning stores, but one of the kitchen maids accepted the dishes with a knowing little smile that Valdor chose not to acknowledge. He remained until he saw the bowls rinsed, the utensils placed properly aside, and the dessert dish cleaned without wasted crumbs. Only then did he leave.

Rest would have been sensible. He did not go to rest.

The manor had begun settling into its night rhythm, lamps dimmed in the less-used corridors and footsteps quieted beneath carpets. Servants spoke in lower voices now, doors closed softly, and the smell of dinner faded beneath beeswax polish, dying hearth smoke, and lavender oil drifting from the family wing. House Moons, so bright and ornate by day, became almost reverent in the hush.

Valdor crossed back toward the workshop. The ash wood waited where he had left it. He gathered the cut pieces, the smaller carving tools, a rasp, fine sandcloth, a small hand drill, clamps, and a bundle of padding materials Mister Harrow had set aside with unexpected tact. The older carpenter had also left a pot of wood oil and a strip of soft pale leather that would suit the support’s inner channel. Valdor noted the silent assistance and stored gratitude for later. He carried everything to the guest room he shared with Vervath.

His father was already asleep, or appeared to be, sprawled heavily across his bed with one arm thrown over his face and his breathing loud enough to suggest complete unconsciousness. Valdor knew better than to trust it fully. Vervath could sleep through a storm and wake at the first wrong footstep, depending upon whether the disturbance interested him.

Tonight, Valdor hoped wood carving did not qualify.

He set the materials near the writing table, moved a lamp closer, and lowered himself into the chair. The first pieces were practical. That mattered most. A gift that failed its purpose was vanity disguised as care.

He tested the base against the floor, checking weight and balance. The support needed to remain steady if Amor shifted in sleep, but not so heavy that a maid could not move it for cleaning. It required enough width to prevent tipping, enough height to keep swelling down, and enough gentleness in the angle that the injured ankle would not strain while the calf rested.

Valdor marked a curve into the ash. He cut slowly. The blade moved through wood in controlled strokes, shaving away unnecessary edges until the shape began appearing beneath his hands. The lower curve formed first, meant to cradle Amor’s calf rather than press against it. Then came the raised side supports, shallow enough not to trap his leg but high enough to keep it from rolling. Every practical correction led to another.

The channel needed padding. The padding needed to be removable. Removable padding required fastenings that would not scratch skin. Fastenings required holes set deep enough not to catch silk bedding. Valdor worked through each problem with the quiet patience of a man building something that must not fail while its owner slept.

Outside the guest room, the manor grew still. Somewhere far away, a clock chimed the hour. Valdor did not count it. The carving became intimate because no one watched. There were no courtiers to impress, no fathers to tease, no maids to sigh, no kitchen staff to whisper, and no Amor looking at him with pink eyes that turned every practical gesture into something more difficult to perform steadily. The work existed only between his hands and the thought of Amor’s injured foot resting safely upon what he made. That privacy gave the gift weight.

Almost like a vow.

Valdor smoothed the inner curve with the rasp. Fine ash dust gathered across his fingers, wrists, and forearms, pale against the dark marks of his skin. He tested the surface again and again, imagining Amor’s calf resting there beneath nightclothes, the ankle supported without pressure. If one rough spot remained, it might irritate him after hours of sleep.

’Hours of sleep...’

Valdor’s hand slowed.

’Would Amor sleep?’

The question entered more sharply than expected. He had seen the fear when the tray was taken, the quick old wound that opened before reason could close it. He had felt Amor’s hand over his heart and heard the careful explanation that if he memorized the rhythm, perhaps he would sleep better. The request had been gentle, almost shy, but the need beneath it had not been small.

Amor’s fear was not in his ankle. Valdor looked at the half-shaped support.

This would not stop nightmares. It would not erase old hunger. It would not prevent Amor from flinching when food moved unexpectedly or from waking in the dark with memories Valdor did not yet know how to name. It would not place a heartbeat beside him through every hour of the night.

For one moment, the work felt insufficient. Then Valdor set the rasp down, brushed dust from the curve, and continued.

He could not carve away nightmares. He could not undo the hands that once made Amor fear losing food. He could not heal everything hidden behind those careful smiles and clever deflections. But he could make one small part of Amor’s world easier.

He could keep the ankle from aching in sleep. He could reduce swelling. He could bring food. He could return to his side whenever he asks. That was what his hands could do. So he did that.

The next hour passed through steady labor. Once the structure held, Valdor began the details.

At first, decoration felt indulgent. The support would function without beauty, and Doctor Haverin would likely care more about angle than carving. Yet Amor’s world did not divide usefulness from beauty as sharply as Valdor sometimes assumed. Amor noticed embroidery, gemstone cuts, metalwork, fabric quality, color harmony, and the hidden meanings carried by ornament. A gift for Amor should not be plain only because Valdor feared seeming too eager.

He began with moons. Small crescents along one side of the support, shallow enough not to weaken the wood, each slightly different because handwork should not pretend to be stamped by a machine. They belonged to House Moons, to Amor’s inheritance, and to the pale light that seemed to follow him even when he wore Valdor’s dark mantle. Valdor carved them with careful respect.

On the opposite side, he carved northern flowers. Not large blooms. Tiny ones. The kind that grew stubbornly near stone, low to the ground, fragile-looking but difficult to kill. He shaped narrow petals around small centers, imagining purple and pink fireheart blossoms pushing through cold earth after winter. Sarka had loved those flowers.

Valdor’s knife paused. He turned the base slightly and chose a place beneath the support where Amor might not notice immediately. There, hidden from casual view, he carved one small fireheart blossom. The flower sat under the base, tucked away like a private ember. If Amor discovered it, he would know there was more to the gift than function. If he did not, the flower would still remain, carrying meaning whether witnessed or not.

Valdor thought of Amor’s conditions for courting him. He turned the support in his hands and began smoothing the moon side.

"You will not issue orders when you mean to express fear."

The sandcloth moved across ash in long, even strokes. He had already failed once in the alley. The memory remained unpleasant, not because Amor disobeyed, but because Valdor had heard his own fear become command. He would need to be more precise and learn more of the language to avoid his mistake again. Fear could be spoken without being sharpened into authority. Another stroke.

"You will not decide what I want without asking."

That promise cut deeper. Valdor had believed himself already careful, yet wanting to protect Amor could still become deciding where he should go, what risk he should take, when he should rest, and how much freedom he could afford. Asking did not weaken care. It made care honest. He turned the support and worked along the flowered side.

"You will not threaten every man who looks at me."

The blade slipped slightly. A shallow cut went deeper than intended near one flower stem. Valdor stared at it. Then he exhaled through his nose.

’That condition will be difficult.’

Men looked at Amor constantly. Women too, though the condition had named men because Amor understood where Valdor’s possessive irritation gathered most fiercely. He could avoid threatening harmless compliments. He could perhaps avoid threatening mild flirtation if Amor seemed amused rather than uncomfortable.

’If someone touches him without permission—’

Valdor’s grip tightened. The wood creaked faintly. He loosened his hand.

"[I... will try.]"

He muttered. The overly-deep cut remained. Valdor considered smoothing it away, then changed his mind. He carved the mark into a thorn beside the flower, slender and intentional. A reminder, not a flaw. Across the room, Vervath stirred.

Valdor did not look up. The floors under his mat creaked. A heavy silence followed. Then his father’s voice, rough with interrupted sleep, said.

"[Yahh! You are courting loudly, boy.]"

Valdor continued sanding.

"[I am carving.]"

"[At night?]"

"[Yes.]"

"[... In our room?]"

"[Yes.]"

"[... With the lamp aimed at my face? Next time, we get separate rooms.]"

Valdor glanced toward the lamp. It was not aimed at Vervath’s face.

"[It is not.]"

"[It is bright enough to enter my dreams! I thought my time had come and I was going to reunite with my wife and ancestors!]"

"[You were snoring.]"

"[I was dreaming of snoring! Pah! What do you know? You care for no one but your Little Wife now.]"

Valdor returned to the support. Vervath sat up slowly, hair loose around his shoulders, beard flattened on one side, and the expression of a man who wished to complain more but had begun understanding what he saw. His gaze moved over the wood shavings, the tools, the ash dust covering Valdor’s arms, and the half-finished object beneath the lamplight. The teasing faded.

He rose without speaking. For Vervath, that was significant. He crossed the room, took the small whetstone from the tool pile, and sat on the edge of the table opposite his son. Without asking, he picked up one of the smaller blades and began sharpening it in slow, practiced movements. The sound of stone against metal joined the quiet scrape of sandcloth on wood.

Neither spoke for several minutes. Valdor accepted the sharpened blade when Vervath offered it. The edge was better. He resumed carving the underside. Vervath watched.

"[Hmm, I don’t know what this is but I’m just going to take a guess. Is it... for his ankle?]"

"[Yes.]"

"[... And not only for his ankle, I see.]"

Valdor did not answer. Vervath nodded as though the silence confirmed everything. He picked up the oil pot and opened it, testing the scent before dipping a cloth into it.

"[Sarka liked that flower pattern...]"

Valdor’s hand stilled over the hidden fireheart blossom.

"[She said tiny flowers had more courage than large ones...]"

Vervath continued.

"[Large blooms waited for warm weather and soft soil. Fireheart flowers pushed through ash, frost, and stone.]"

Valdor looked toward him. Vervath’s thumb moved absently to his ribs, over a black mark of a blade where the hilt was made of small flowers with the sun behind it. The gesture was so familiar that Valdor had almost stopped seeing it over the years. Beneath his father’s sleeping cotton shirt, hidden under skin and age and memory, Sarka’s marriage mark rested along his side still. Whenever she was mentioned too directly after her death mere months ago, Vervath touched the place where he still carried her reflexively. Tonight, Valdor saw it clearly.

"[Do you still feel married?]"

He asked. Vervath’s thumb stopped. The question might have been too direct for another family. Blackstone survived by naming what mattered.

"[Yes.]"

Vervath said.

"[She has been gone for five months now.]"

"[Yes, she has...]"

Valdor waited. His father looked toward the carved support, not at him.

"[Death ends many things. It does not remove what was carried willingly.]"

The room quieted again. Vervath returned to oiling a small scrap of wood to test the finish. Valdor carved more slowly. Then, because night made honesty easier and the lamp softened his father’s face, he asked the question he had carried since the carriage.

"[Does insecurity go away after being chosen?]"

Vervath looked at him. Valdor kept his eyes on the wood.

"[I thought learning of Aunt Samara would quiet it.]"

"[Oh? It did not?]"

"[It did. Some.]"

"[But... it did not rid all of it.]"

"[No.]"

Vervath set the oil cloth aside and leaned back.

"[Good.]"

Valdor’s blade paused.

"[Good?]"

"[If blood relation to a queen fixed your heart, then your heart would be foolish...]"

Valdor considered that. His father continued.

"[Being chosen does not end fear. Sometimes it makes fear louder.]"

"[That is not encouraging.]"

"[Ah—no, but it is true. I can’t deny that...]"

Valdor’s mouth flattened. Vervath smiled faintly.

"[When Sarka agreed to let me court her, I was unbearable.]"

"[You remain unbearable.]"

"[Hohohaha! I was way worse, boy! Trust me, I am only like this now because of age and experience...]"

Valdor believed that with ease.

"[She was stronger with a bow, faster with traps, better at reading weather, and had three warriors who wanted her before I managed to bring her anything more impressive than bruises and bad flirting...]"

Vervath’s expression warmed with old memory.

"[Every time she laughed with someone else, I felt like tearing bark from trees.]"

"[Did you?]"

"[Ah... O-once...]"

Valdor looked up. Vervath shrugged.

"[The tree had done nothing wrong, it was merely there at the wrong time.]"

"[That seems unfair to the tree.]"

"[Hohohahaha! Sarka said the same thing...]"

Despite himself, Valdor nearly smiled. His father’s expression softened.

"[What I’m trying to say is that the insecurity never vanished because Sarka chose me once. It became less important because I kept showing up, and she kept choosing me back...]"

Valdor absorbed that.

"[Not every day loudly...]"

Vervath said.

"[Not with declarations and marks and witnesses. Sometimes she chose me by saving the last honey chestnuts. Sometimes by letting me sit beside her when grief made her sharp. Sometimes by yelling at me instead of walking away.]"

"[That counted?]"

"[Ha! With Sarka, yes...]"

Valdor looked back at the ankle support. Amor had chosen him while awake, chosen his arms while asleep, chosen to place a hand over his heart, and chosen courtship with conditions. None of those choices guaranteed tomorrow. Perhaps they were not meant to. Maybe courtship existed to let choosing happen repeatedly until fear lost authority. Vervath pushed the oil pot toward him.

"[You want certainty before you begin?]"

Valdor took the cloth.

"[Yes.]"

"[Pah! You will not get it. Give up on that!]"

Valdor began rubbing oil into the ash. The grain darkened beneath his hand, revealing smooth lines in the wood that had been pale and hidden before. Moons deepened along one side. The tiny northern flowers grew more visible along the other. The support became sturdier and more beautiful at once. Vervath watched the transformation.

"[You can only make something worth choosing again.]"

Valdor’s hand slowed. Then he nodded. The oil soaked into the wood. They worked together after that. Vervath sharpened, held pieces steady, suggested where the flower stems should bend, and argued once that the support needed a wolf somewhere because—

"[Everything useful is improved by a wolf.]"

—Valdor refused. Vervath then suggested a bear. Valdor refused that too.

"[What if Amor likes bears?]"

"[He likes tiny flowers.]"

"[He can like both—]"

"[No.]"

Vervath grunted.

"[Courtship has made you narrow-minded.]"

"[It has made me focused.]"

"[Hmph! That is what narrow-minded men call themselves.]"

Valdor ignored him. The night deepened.

---

In another room, Amor tried to sleep. At first, he managed. He lay beneath fresh blankets, one hand pressed over his own chest as he followed the remembered rhythm of Valdor’s heart. Deep, slow and constant. He imagined it beneath his palm, imagined the warmth of the warrior’s chest and the steadiness of the carriage moving through late sunlight.

The first dream crept in softly. A hallway stretched too long. The floor beneath him was marble, then cracked asphalt, then the stained tile of an old courthouse. Voices argued beyond a door, and someone said Lovell’s name in the tone adults used when they needed him to perform fear correctly. He reached for the door handle and found a bone instead.

Amor woke with a small gasp. The room was dark except for the low fire. He did not scream. He did not call. For several breaths, he lay still, reminding himself of silk sheets, lavender oil, House Moons, and the dull ache of a sprained ankle. His hand moved toward the empty side of the bed before he stopped it. Valdor was not there, and calling him now would mean explaining why. Amor closed his fingers into the blanket.

"Deep."

He whispered. He tried to remember the heartbeat again.

’Slow. Constant.’

He slept again.

The next time, the dream held hunger. A hand removed the plate before he finished. Someone laughed because he should have known better than to expect sweetness. He snuck a cake into his mouth but then the cake became parchment, and when he tried to swallow, his mouth filled with torn love letters written in lavender ink.

He woke with tears in his eyes. This time, his hand reached toward the bell cord. It stopped halfway. Elsie’s words returned.

"Calling for comfort is not weakness."

Amor stared at the cord. His throat tightened. Then he lowered his hand.

’Not tonight.’

He did not know whether that was bravery or cowardice. The fire snapped softly. He turned onto his side, careful of his ankle, and pressed his palm flat against the mattress as though feeling for a heartbeat through the bed. There was none. Only the distant stillness of the manor and the smaller, uneven rhythm inside his own chest.

---

In the guest room, Valdor carved through the same hour. He did not know Amor had woken. He only knew the work needed to be finished before morning.

The support had become beautiful in restrained ways, sturdy first and elegant second. The moons were subtle, the flowers small enough to reward closeness, and the hidden fireheart bloom tucked under the base like a private secret. The leather padding fit into the channel with removable ties, soft enough for skin and firm enough to hold shape. Valdor turned it upside down. Vervath watched as his son took the smallest blade.

"[What are you adding?]"

Valdor did not answer immediately. Cook Brenna’s wedding band returned to mind.

’A vow carved inside where only the wearer knew, hmm.’

This was not marriage or declaration for engagement. It was not even certainty. But courtship could carry a promise too. He chose the underside because Amor would not see it first. A visible vow might feel like pressure. Hidden, it could wait until discovered or remain quietly present beneath the usefulness of the thing itself. Valdor carved four words. Slowly and carefully in both Blackstone and Common.

Rest. I will return.

Vervath read them upside down. His expression changed. For once, he did not tease. Valdor finished the final letter and brushed away the dust. The words were simple because he meant them simply.

Rest.

I will return.

Not sleep because I command it. Not fear nothing because I will remove all danger. Not trust me forever because I want you. Only this:

When Valdor was not in the room, he would still return; and while Amor waited, one small piece of their world would hold him more gently.

Vervath placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder. It was heavy yet warm and quiet.

"[You are doing well, son.]"

He said. Valdor looked at the finished support.

"[I do not know that.]"

"[Mm, no...]"

Vervath replied.

"[But you are showing up and that’s the first most important step.]"

They remained in silence until dawn light began thinning the dark beyond the windows. Valdor’s hands were sore. Fine dust covered his forearms, clothing, hair, and the edge of the table. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his shoulders ached from hours bent over the wood. The support, however, was finished.

He checked every surface one final time. Smooth, stable and warmly oiled. The ash had deepened into a soft honey tone, elegant without fragility. The leather padding lay pale against the carved channel, and the moons-and-flower patterns curved along either side like two halves of a conversation. Beneath, hidden from view, the four words waited.

Rest. I will return.

Valdor lifted the support. Vervath stood beside him, less steady than he would admit after being awake half the night.

"[Yaahhh! You should sleep.]"

"[After.]"

"[After giving it to him?]"

"[Yes.]"

"[Mhm. Or maybe after seeing his face so he knows how hard you worked on this?]"

Valdor glanced at him. Vervath smiled.

"[I know, I know. I’m shutting up and going back to sleep.]"

He left the guest room quietly. The manor had begun waking, servants moving like shadows through early corridors, opening curtains and coaxing fires back to life. Morning had not fully arrived, but the house already breathed differently. Valdor carried the support as carefully as he might have carried a sleeping child.

When he reached Amor’s door, Elsie stood outside with a tray of fresh water. She looked at the carved support. Then at Valdor’s sleepless face. Her expression softened in immediate understanding.

"He had a difficult night."

She said quietly. Valdor’s grip tightened.

"Did he call?"

"No."

The answer struck exactly where it needed to. Elsie lowered her voice.

"He is awake."

Valdor nodded. She opened the door for him. Amor sat propped against the pillows, pale beneath the morning light. He had clearly tried to repair himself before anyone entered. His hair had been smoothed, his robe adjusted, and his fan placed within reach like a weapon of dignity. Yet the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed him, as did the faint redness around them. He looked toward Valdor and immediately smiled. Too quickly.

"Good morning!"

Valdor entered. The room smelled of cooling fire, lavender, and the restless night Amor had attempted to hide. He did not ask whether Amor slept well, because the answer was already visible and he would not force a lie into the space between them. He crossed to the bed and set the carved support beside it. Amor’s gaze dropped. His expression shifted from practiced brightness to surprise.

"What is that?"

Valdor looked at the support. Then at the ankle still resting upon stacked pillows.

"For your foot."

The words were plain.

The meaning was not.

Amor stared at the carved moons, the tiny northern flowers, the smooth channel lined with leather, and the quiet care built into every inch. His fingers moved toward it before stopping, as though touching would make the gift heavier. He looked back at Valdor and finally saw the dust on his clothes, the tiredness around his eyes, and the faint fresh roughness in his hands.

"You made this."

"Yes."

"Last night?"

"Yes."

"All night?"

Valdor did not answer quickly enough. Amor understood. The smile he had forced earlier disappeared. Something softer and more vulnerable replaced it. Valdor moved closer, stopping at the side of the bed.

"May I place your foot?"

Amor looked at him. The question was simple, exactly as it had been the first time Valdor asked to touch his injury. This morning, after a night spent not calling for him, it felt like mercy.

"Yes, please."

Amor said. Valdor lifted the injured leg with careful hands and transferred it from the shifting pillows into the carved support. The fit was precise. The calf rested in the smooth curve, the ankle remained elevated without pressure, and the leather padding held him gently enough that Amor’s body relaxed before his pride could decide whether to allow it. He exhaled. Valdor noticed.

"Better?"

Amor swallowed.

"Yeah. Much better."

The room quieted. Sunlight spread farther across the floor. Amor looked down at the gift again, tracing one carved moon with the tip of his finger. He did not yet know about the fireheart blossom hidden beneath it or the words carved underneath. Those discoveries could wait. For now, he understood enough.

Valdor had not been in the room. But he had still been trying to protect him. Amor’s eyes warmed dangerously, and he looked away before tears could gather.

"You should have slept, dummy."

Valdor stood beside him, exhausted and steady.

"You should have called."

The words held no accusation, only recognition. Amor’s fingers stilled upon the carved moon. Neither apologized nor explained. The first courtship gift sat between them, practical enough for Doctor Haverin and intimate enough to make Amor’s chest ache.

Valdor had made something solid for the place his hands could reach. And somehow, impossibly, it reached farther.