The castle was silent.
In the early morning's dim, cold light, Michael paced the stone corridor outside Theodora's chamber. His footsteps echoed against the ancient walls, and the floorboards creaked beneath him. The chill seeped through his clothes, settling into his bones, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He was far from the comforts of his 21st-century life. Here, death was never far.
He paused at the heavy oak door, pressing his ear against the rough wood. Muffled whispers, a stifled cry, the clatter of metal against metal, each sound tightened the knot in his stomach. Hours earlier, the midwife had barred him from entering.
Now, he waited, helpless.
The silence was unbearable. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the pain grounded him. His hands trembled, rough and calloused, a warrior's hands. How had it come to this? He had given the orders himself. Wash your hands, and wash them again. Boil the water before it touches her. Pass nothing to the bed that has not been through the fire, not the linens, not the blades. The midwives had obeyed, puzzled, murmuring among themselves about the Despot who feared invisible filth on clean hands. And still he had been sent from the room, made to watch Theodora carried away, her face pale, her eyes wide.
A faint creak jolted him from his thoughts. He turned sharply as the door inched open. One of the midwives stepped out, her face drawn, her eyes red-rimmed.
"Despot..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Theodora has passed, and... the child did not survive."
Michael stared at her. He had heard the words and could not make them mean anything.
"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "No, that can't be."
"I am so sorry," she said, and looked at the floor. "It was God's will, my Despot. She is at peace now."
"God's will." A bitter taste filled his mouth. How could they accept it so passively? Theodora was dead. Their child was dead. And he was expected to accept it as a divine decree?
He pushed past the midwife into the chamber. The scent of beeswax candles and herbal remedies hung in the air. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the stone walls.
His gaze fell upon Theodora. She lay upon the bed, her face serene, almost as if she were merely sleeping. Her hands were clasped over her chest, fingers entwined. Beside her, swathed in linen, was the still form of their daughter. Their daughter. A life that had never truly begun.
He had let himself imagine her growing up. A daughter in a world he was trying to change, one that did not take its children so easily. Where she might never know the fevers, the early graves, the fear that came with every illness and every war.
But now, that future had been stolen from him. From them both.
He reached out and touched the linen-wrapped child. So small. So fragile. He had thought he could change everything, and he could not save the two who mattered most.
His throat closed. He brushed his fingers against Theodora's. Her skin was cold.
He knelt beside her. What haunted him was not only her death. It was the quiet moments, the ones that had drawn them closer over the last year.
Their marriage had been arranged, a political alliance, and for a long time it had stayed one. But somewhere in the last year that had started to change.
He thought of the nights they had sat together in the gardens, long after the rest of the castle had gone quiet. She had always been curious about him, pressing at the oddness in his ideas, the way he spoke of the future as if it were something already written.
There had been moments when he had thought about telling her the truth. The 21st century. Who he really was, and how he had come to be here. He had wondered if she would believe him, and held back every time. Would she still have loved him if she knew?
Now that chance was gone. He had kept his secret, and she had died never knowing the man she had loved.
"I am so sorry," he whispered. He thought of the way she laughed, the warmth of her smile, the future they had talked about, all of it lifetimes ago now.
A rustle sounded behind him. He rose and turned. A priest stood in the doorway, dark-robed, a silver cross at his chest.
"She is with God now, Despot," the priest said, stepping into the room. "Her suffering has ended. She has found eternal peace."
Michael's jaw tightened. Peace? What peace was there in a room like this? But he knew his words would land on deaf ears here. There was no arguing with faith.
"Yes," he said, his voice hollow. "God's will."
The priest laid a hand on his shoulder. "We must find solace in His plan. Through our trials we are brought closer to Him."
Michael nodded. The words meant nothing to him. His gaze went back to Theodora. I failed you.
The priest murmured a prayer and withdrew. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
He sank to his knees beside the bed, the cold stone biting through his clothes. He was still a stranger here, and all his knowledge had set him apart and spared no one.
He thought of his grandmother's stories, the legends of Byzantium, the fall of empires, the myths of the Marmaromenos Vasilias, the Marble Emperor destined to awaken and restore glory. He had cherished those tales, the way they bridged his old life and this one. But now they felt like a cruel joke.
A memory surfaced, Theodora laughing in the garden, the sunlight catching in her hair as she playfully scolded him for his clumsy attempts at handling a sword. "You may have the mind of a scholar, but you wield a blade like a farmer swatting flies," she had teased. She had been laughing at her own joke before she finished it.
The memory tore at him. Why could I not save you? He had thrown himself at the big things, the presses, the guns, the shape of a whole war. He had even tried to make them wash their hands. And he had not saved her.
He stood slowly and went to the window and pushed open the shutters. The morning air rushed in, dew-wet grass and distant woodsmoke. The horizon had gone pink and gold at its edge.
A sob escaped him. "I should have told you," he whispered. "I should have told you everything."
He wiped his eyes and went back to the bed. If he could not save them, he would honor them. He would drag this world into a future where a birth like this did not have to kill.
He leaned over and kissed Theodora's forehead. "I promise you," he said. "I will make a difference."
When he stepped out into the corridor, George was there, against the far wall, beneath a bracket where the candle had burned down to nothing.
"Despot," he said, and drew breath to say more.
"Send a rider to Epirus today." Michael walked past him. "Her family should not hear it from a merchant."
"They will not," George said to his back. "Word will go to the Emperor as well. The rites, the household, the rest of it. None of it needs you today. I will see to it."
Michael kept walking.
"I grieve with you," George said.
Michael did not answer. At the turn of the corridor he heard George's steps go the other way, and then his voice on the stair, low and even, setting the household in motion.