Fiction Friday:
The Book of Micah, Ep. II

It was time for his breakfast, such as it was. A few swallows of water, a crust of bread, a single, overripe berry. A treat, Micah mused, as the trapdoor slammed closed above him. Chewing slowly, for what need had he of haste in this darkness which knew no passage of time, Micah recalled the look of disappointment that had come over Vestia's face after their last failed attempt at intimacy. Disappointment, he had realized, but not surprise.

“How long?” He'd asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How long have you known? "

“Always,” Vestia's gaze was fixed on his bare chest.

Micah was speechless. He stared unseeingly at his hands and allowed the silence to spread between them until his wife spoke again.

“You never watched as I undressed. You never glanced my way when I was washing,” her strong voice broke quietly over the confessions. “I never had complaints to share on market day with the other wives who wished their husbands didn't ask for their physical union quite so often, nor so vigorously. I had to . . . ” As her voice trailed off, Micah raised his eyes to her face. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Vestia took in a gulp of air. “I had to imagine what it was like and offer a knowing smile at their stories, as if I could do more than merely imagine what it would be like.”

Micah had mentally filed away the knowledge that women shared such stories when their husbands were not present. He supposed, as he chewed his last bite of bread, he ought to have known. Men certainly discussed their sexual conquests with wives, concubines, and other women, willing or otherwise. It should not have surprised him that women had similar discussions about the men in their lives.

“I'm sorry,” Micah whispered into the darkness, repeating the words he'd offered his wife. He still knew nothing else to say. He knew the pain of which she’d spoken, understood the pretending, the imagining, the feeling of being outside the circle of those with whom he was supposed to fit. He had begged the gods for an appetite to match that of the beautiful woman who shared his bed. He longed to desire her with the same intensity he'd felt for Balaban and toward men in general. He'd made offerings of grains and wine, small game, even his own blood, but it had all been for naught. His love for Vestia remained closer to that of a brother for a sister than one lover for another. Their couplings had been accomplished with closed eyes and conjured images of broader shoulders, a darkly haired chest, narrow hips, and a muscled backside that bore no resemblance to Vestia's soft curves and blonde hair.

In her tears, his wife had cast no blame, only grieved what he could not give her. As her tears dried, she told him she hadn't taken an extended visit to her father's house for months and would be staying for several days with the children. Micah had nodded his assent.

From there, he lost track of the day. Vestia had gathered her things for the journey and left without a kiss. The royal land guards had arrived after nightfall. Though all evidence indicated her having alerted them, he still could not reconcile himself to that belief. His wife was disappointed in him, but he couldn't accept that she had betrayed his secret.

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