Fiction Friday:
The Book of Micah, Ep. I

Micah sat in the darkness of his cell. He had lost count of the days. It was difficult to keep track of time when days and nights looked the same. No sunlight streamed in the window. No windows broke up the stark, packed-earth walls that surrounded him on each side. The only opening to his cell was a trapdoor in the ceiling. Once or twice a day it opened to drop down a few bites of food. A silent hand reached down with a water pouch. This was his only human contact, the only presence he'd known for days. Or maybe it was weeks now. He could no longer remember.

Time stretched out endlessly in the small space he now called home. Little water, less food, no blankets or pillows, but he had plenty of time to consider his crimes. He'd thought back through his last day of freedom, pondering every moment, elaborating each detail at least a dozen times.

The sun was bright as it rose over the prairie, unshrouded by clouds. A brilliant square moved from his ceiling down over the bed as he became aware it was morning. Micah felt a stretch beside him and heard a yawn. His wife was waking up. Vestia was a good woman. His parents had arranged the best match they could, knowing only that he was growing year by year and had shown no interest in any of the prospective brides they'd brought by for parties, supper, or merely a tense discussion in the large front room.

He'd kept his secret from everyone. Never once had Micah shared with them the singular desire that scalded his soul. He loved Vestia. She was wise and witty. She loved him and doted on their children. But even she didn't know the truth. So he'd believed that morning.

Vestia's kiss served as his daily greeting before she slipped out of bed to prepare the morning meal. Micah sat up, allowing the bedclothes to pool at his waist.

If only . . . he allowed himself a few moments of wishful musing first thing in the morning. If only he could follow his heart. If only Balaban—and there he stopped. Balaban was no longer a part of his life. The stolen moments in the woods, the discovery that they shared a forbidden passion for one another, that existed only in the past. It was illegal, immoral, punishable by imprisonment or even death. They'd held themselves back, beyond the bounds of propriety, yet not giving full reign to their wishes. A kiss. A whisper. A fevered dream.

Micah would have gone forward. He knew what dropped his heart to his feet. Never mind the law, perish the thought of what their parents would think, how they must hide, he was ready to open himself fully to his love: mind, heart, and body. Balaban was already betrothed. Micah had never heard him utter her name, but he'd discovered, years later, it was Esiri. Virtue. How ironic. Even more, Esiri and Vestia had lived on the same estate as children. They'd played together. Giggled over shared jokes. Lost touch when Esiri had been selected to serve the royal court, while Vestia was apprenticed to a local baker.

His daily allotment of sighing over what could have been at an end, Micah slipped out of bed, washed, dressed, and stepped out of their bedchamber for breakfast. The children had already been gathered up by his mother-in-law, Vestia informed him. It was then he remembered. Yes, today was the anniversary of their avowal ceremony. The children would be gone and his wife would expect a private celebration dance that had been becoming more and more difficult for him to perform as the months and years had gone by.

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