Chapter 55: Selfish Punishment

Amor woke with violence. His entire body jolted upright before his mind had fully escaped the dream, a broken gasp tearing from his throat while the blankets twisted around his legs and his fingers clawed uselessly at silk sheets that, for one terrifying instant, still felt like blood-slick pavement beneath his hands. Sweat soaked his nightgown until the pale fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin, plastered against his chest and spine, while every muscle from his shoulders to his thighs burned from having spent who knew how long locked tight against horrors that no longer existed. His breathing came shallow and quick, each inhale stopping somewhere high inside his chest as though his lungs had forgotten that there was no longer anything chasing him.

Pain shot through his injured ankle. Amor sucked in another breath and looked down, horror briefly replacing whatever remained of the nightmare as he realized his panicked movement had knocked his leg partially free of the carved support. His heel had struck the edge of the mattress and his ankle had twisted just enough to awaken a vicious pulse beneath the bandage, not enough to reinjure it completely but more than enough to make his eyes water. He carefully reached down and, with trembling hands, guided his calf back into the leather-lined curve Valdor had made for him.

Rest. I will return.

The words beneath the wood came to him without being visible. Amor swallowed.

For several moments, he could do nothing but sit there beneath the crumpled blankets, sweat cooling against his skin while the pain in his ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His room slowly returned around him piece by piece—the pale curtains, the dying orange glow beneath the hearth, the delicate furniture, the moon-shaped mirror on the far wall, the silver embroidery along his bed curtains. None of it resembled the world he had just escaped, yet his body continued behaving as if opening the wrong door would reveal ruined streets beyond it.

He pressed a shaking hand against his mouth. The dream had been bad. Worse than the earlier ones.

This was not the first time he had awakened tonight; once he had surfaced because he thought someone screamed his old name, another time because phantom teeth closed around his arm, and once because he smelled something burning so vividly that he had nearly called for water before remembering there was no collapsing apartment building to extinguish. Each time, Amor had forced himself back down, remembered Valdor’s heartbeat, repeated the Blackstone words he’d just learned inside his head in an attempt to drift into another restless sleep.

This time his body refused. His muscles ached too much. His skin felt wrong. His heart would not slow. Amor closed his eyes and counted through his breathing the way Lovell once counted supplies after a bad night:

Four breaths, then another four, then eight more because counting gave his thoughts walls to walk between. The first several breaths stuttered badly, but eventually air traveled farther into his lungs and remained there long enough to stop the faint dizziness clouding his vision. When he opened his eyes again, the room no longer seemed to tilt.

His gaze drifted toward the bell cord. It hung beside the bed exactly where it always did, a braided lavender rope ending in a silver tassel within easy reach of his hand. One pull would summon someone from the night staff; two would bring one of his personal maids immediately. Elsie had told him more than once that he was never to hesitate if he needed anything. Amor stared at it.

His hand moved. Only slightly. He could call. Elsie would come first if she was awake, or perhaps Mary, or Junia with her hair half braided and worry already gathering across her face. One of them would bring warm water, fresh sheets, medicine, tea, another nightgown, whatever he asked for, and none would complain about the hour. If his condition frightened them enough, they might fetch Doctor Haverin, Lanslet, or—

’Valdor.’

His fingers twitched. The thought of Valdor entering nearly broke his resolve. Amor could imagine him too easily:

Dark eyes immediately searching for injury, enormous body lowering beside the bed, one calloused hand offered rather than imposed. Valdor might say almost nothing because he had learned that questions sometimes made Amor retreat, and perhaps he would simply place Amor’s hand over his chest again until that deep, impossible rhythm drowned everything else away. The desire was so immediate that Amor’s fingers nearly closed around the cord. He stopped. His hand dropped into his lap.

"No."

The whispered word sounded weak inside the large bedroom. Amor bit his lower lip hard enough to hurt and forced himself to turn away from the bell cord. If he summoned them in this state, he feared he would not be clever enough to hide everything; exhaustion had stripped too many layers from him already, and whatever explanation he invented might collapse the moment someone asked the wrong question. He could not face Elsie’s eyes while shaking from memories belonging to a world she had never known.

What would he say?

That Amor Moons dreamed of buildings taller than palace towers made from steel and glass?

That he remembered machines carrying people without horses, lights powered without magic gems or candles, and weapons capable of killing from hundreds of feet away?

That he remembered millions dying after a virus turned ordinary human beings into monsters?

Perhaps he could lie and call them dreams. But then came the harder question.

Why did he sometimes cry for people none of them knew?

Why did he call himself Lovell?

Amor’s throat tightened. That was the name he feared most. Not because he hated it. Because it was his. Lovell had existed.

Lovell had laughed, eaten cheap food from convenience stores, complained about bills, hung out at gay bars looking for hook ups with no strings attached, ignored his parents’ calls when he had the courage and once believed the worst thing that could happen to him was being forced into the middle of another argument after their divorce. Then the world ended, and everything petty enough to feel unbearable before became embarrassingly precious afterward.

Lovell had survived.

For a while.

He survived hunger, infected neighborhoods, abandoned shelters, betrayal, contaminated food, winters without reliable heat, and parents who discovered that their unwanted son became useful once civilization collapsed. They used his willingness to still love them with a cruelty more efficient than any monster’s teeth. And then they fed him to the dead.

Amor’s fingers curled into his nightgown. He remembered the last expression upon his mother’s face more clearly than he wanted. Not grief. Not horror. Relief.

Her son was buying her time.

His father had worn almost the same expression.

Lovell had found that funny in the final seconds before the horde reached him, because the only thing his divorced parents had ever truly accomplished together was sacrificing the child neither had wanted enough to protect. Even at the end, some pathetic part of him had still wondered if one of them would turn around. Neither had.

Then Lovell opened his eyes as Amor Moons. A father stood beside the bed crying because his son had been unconscious too long. Servants hovered outside the room praying. Elsie kissed his forehead. Mary cried into a handkerchief. Junia promised to make his favorite tea. Everyone loved him. They loved Amor.

The thought hurt more tonight.

Amor looked down at his borrowed hands. Pale, slender, beautiful and nothing like Lovell’s. The face inside the mirror was not his either, though he had grown accustomed enough to it that sometimes he forgot. Lavender hair had begun feeling normal beneath his fingers; pink eyes no longer startled him every morning. Even the body’s grace had become familiar, movements and habits inherited so deeply that separating himself from the original Amor became harder with each passing day.

But he had not been born here. He had not been the infant Elsie protected. He had not been the child Lanslet adored. He was not the little baby Valdor once stole into a garden cave and called his wife. That Amor was gone. Lovell remained. Amor’s nails pressed crescents into his palms.

If he called Elsie now and broke apart in front of her, what happened if the truth came with it?

What would her face look like?

The thought alone nearly stopped his breathing again.

Would she back away?

Would Mary cry?

Would Junia look at him as if he had murdered someone?

Would Lanslet understand that the son he believed had returned to him after some strange illness had actually never returned at all?

Amor squeezed his eyes shut. He could not bear it. Lanslet loved him too fiercely. That was the problem.

If the man had been cold, distant, or merely polite, confession might have been easier. Amor could have treated the relationship like another useful arrangement and accepted whatever consequences followed. Instead, Lanslet fussed over missed meals, remembered childhood habits, offered his personal card without limitation, defended Amor from dukes, worried about alleys, and ate an entire second lunch merely because leaving his son alone with a suitor made him anxious. Amor had begun loving him back.

That made everything worse.

He had begun loving Elsie too. Mary. Junia. Perhaps even the ridiculous household as a whole, filled with servants who gossiped about his romance, cooks who conspired with Valdor over vegetables, and footmen who learned very quickly that removing an unfinished pastry was a dangerous decision. He had accepted their affection because, after everything Lovell endured, being spoiled felt too precious to reject.

’I’m so selfish.’

Amor knew that. He was stealing something that belonged to someone else. A father. A home. A name. A future. Sometimes he wondered whether the original Amor still existed somewhere, watching another soul live the life that should have been his. The thought made his stomach twist.

’Perhaps the nightmares are my punishment.’

Amor opened his eyes. The room was quiet.

Maybe some god, system, author, or incomprehensible force had placed Lovell here but refused to let him forget what he had done simply by surviving. He did not know whether transmigration counted as theft when he had never chosen it, but that distinction felt increasingly meaningless when he knowingly accepted the love intended for another man.

’If suffering through nightmares was the cost...’

Amor looked toward the bell cord one last time. Then away.

’I could pay it.’

If the price of staying here was waking terrified every night, he would wake terrified.

If the price was remembering monsters while everyone else slept peacefully, he would remember.

If the price was guilt, he had survived guilt before.

He only wanted this life a little longer.

That admission should have disgusted him. Instead, it gave him a strange, exhausted peace. Lovell had once selfishly wanted his parents to love him. He had hurt people for scraps of their approval. He had lied for his mother in court when she promised to spend more time with him afterward, then lied for his father several months later when the custody arrangement changed and his father promised the same. Even as a child, he had learned that affection was something to compete for, bargain for, and occasionally damage others to receive.

The apocalypse had only sharpened the instinct. Selflessness was beautiful when food was plentiful. When there was one can left and three people hungry, beauty became complicated. When the person beside you was slowing the group down and monsters were coming, morality became something survivors argued about after reaching safety. Lovell had not always been good.

Amor did not pretend otherwise. Perhaps that was why he could accept being selfish now. He wanted Lanslet’s love. He wanted his maids. He wanted this room. He wanted pastries brought whenever he asked. He wanted silk clothes, warm baths, gardens without infected bodies inside them, and nights when doors existed for privacy rather than barricades. And, increasingly, he wanted Valdor.

That last desire frightened him differently.

Amor looked toward the empty place beside the bed. The mattress still carried no impression from anyone else tonight, yet memory supplied one. Valdor had slept there earlier, exhausted from carving Amor’s ankle support through the night, and Amor had curled toward him without waking. No nightmare reached him during those hours. His hand moved across the blanket. Then stopped.

"Dummy."

He whispered. He did not know whether he meant Valdor for making safety so tempting or himself for refusing to call. The fire clicked softly as one ember collapsed. Outside, darkness had begun changing.

Amor looked toward the tall windows and noticed the two moons hanging lower than before, one already touching the distant horizon while the second followed close behind. The black sky had softened toward deep blue, and a thin gray line announced that dawn would arrive soon. He knew this hour.

Lovell had always known it. Before sunrise was when survivors moved. Night creatures weakened with approaching light, infected humans became less active after hours of wandering, and hostile groups were often exhausted enough to miss quiet movement. Lovell had learned to wake before everyone else, check doors, inspect supplies, count exits, and erase evidence of weakness before anyone could exploit it.

Amor’s body remembered the habit even when this world did not require it. The nightmare had left evidence. Sweat-soaked nightclothes. Damp sheets. A tangled blanket. Disordered hair. The faint redness around his eyes. He needed to remove it.

By the time the maids entered, he would be clean, calm, beautiful... Amor.

He pushed the blankets aside. The movement immediately reminded him of his ankle. Amor looked down at the bandaged joint and frowned. Normally he would simply stand, cross the room, bathe, change, and have everything corrected before the servants arrived. Tonight the carved support, wheeled chair, and inconvenient distance between the bed and bathroom turned the familiar ritual into an operation requiring actual planning.

He eyed the chair. It stood only a few feet away. That distance looked insulting. Amor shifted toward the edge of the mattress. His injured leg moved first, supported beneath the calf by both hands as he lifted it carefully from Valdor’s wooden rest. He lowered the good foot toward the floor, keeping the other elevated, then attempted to slide his body sideways without putting pressure upon the sprain. The nightgown immediately tangled around his knees. Amor froze.

"Of course."

He tugged the fabric loose. The sheets came with it. One corner wrapped around his good ankle. Amor stared down in growing offense. He freed himself, shifted again, and reached toward the wheeled chair.

’Ugh—Too far.’

His fingertips brushed the armrest. The chair rolled away. Amor blinked. He had forgotten the brake.

"No..."

The chair continued another insulting couple of inches across the carpeted floor.

"You come back here."

It did not. Amor leaned farther. His weight shifted dangerously. The injured ankle brushed the bedpost. Pain flashed through him. Amor bit back a cry so violently that his teeth hurt.

For several breaths, he remained bent sideways, one hand gripping the mattress while the other clutched his calf. Sweat prickled again along his hairline, this time from exertion and frustration rather than nightmare. He looked toward the bell cord. Still within reach. Amor glared at it.

"No way. I can do this."

He maneuvered again. This time he gathered the sheets completely away from his legs before moving, then used both arms to drag himself toward the bed’s edge until his hips nearly hung over it. His good foot found the floor. He stretched toward the chair. His fingers caught the wooden armrest.

’Victory!’

Amor pulled. The chair rolled toward him too quickly.

"Oh—"

He tried to stop it. The wheels continued. His good leg became trapped awkwardly between the chair and bed while his injured foot lifted instinctively to avoid impact. The sudden redistribution of weight sent his entire body tipping forward. For one horrifying second, Amor saw plush pink carpet rushing toward his face.

He twisted. His shoulder struck the chair back. His hips dropped. And instead of collapsing headfirst onto the floor, Amor landed squarely in the seat with a graceless *plop* that rattled the wheels and sent his lavender hair flying around his face. Silence.

Amor sat frozen. His breathing came hard again. Then he looked down. Both feet remained attached. The injured ankle hurt but had not taken his weight. His face was hot from exertion while the rest of him remained unnaturally pale from the night’s fear. Amor leaned his head against the chair.

"I survived that nightmare for this."

The chair did not sympathize. He discovered the brake. Amor stared at the small lever. Then closed his eyes. Several seconds passed before he laughed. It was not particularly happy laughter, but it was better than crying.

Once he recovered enough dignity to continue, Amor tested the brake once and rolled himself toward the bathroom. The wheels moved far more loudly than he expected across the polished floor, and every small creak made him pause, terrified some servant would hear and investigate. No footsteps came.

’Good. I’m in the clear.’

He reached the bathroom. The large chamber greeted him with cool stone, silver fixtures, pale tiles, and an enormous bathing tub designed for luxury rather than injured fugitives attempting to conceal evidence of nightmares before dawn. Amor stared at the tub’s high edge.

Another problem.

He rolled closer. The bathtub remained high. Amor looked at his ankle. Then at the tub. Then toward the bell pull installed near the bathing room door. Usually, he would have help getting in and out of the tube from his maids but now...

"Absolutely not."

He locked the chair. At least he had learned.

Removing the nightgown became the next battle. The damp silk had dried partially against his body, clinging unpleasantly beneath his arms and along his back. Amor tugged at the collar, but the fabric resisted where sweat had stuck it to his skin. He twisted, reached behind himself, and immediately discovered that attempting to undress while seated without bending the injured leg required an entirely new category of strength.

The nightgown caught around his elbow. Amor pulled. His long hair became trapped inside the collar. He stopped.

"Pfft!Pfft! Wonderful."

He carefully extracted several lavender strands. Then one of the long bell-like sleeves tangled around his wrist bandage. Amor hissed.

By the time he finally worked the garment over his head, his hair looked worse than before, his chest rose rapidly with frustrated breaths, and the ruined nightgown sat in his lap like the defeated skin of some particularly embarrassing monster. He threw it toward the laundry basket. It missed.

Amor stared at it on the floor. He refused to retrieve it. That was tomorrow’s problem. The bath remained.

He rolled beside the tub and reached for the water controls near the faucet. There was a red gem he found out from Elsie was actually garnet and a blue gem beside it that was lapis. They functioned as hot and cold water. Amor still found this world’s magic to be incredible, but his knowledge was lacking. He would need to fix that without seeming suspicious later. For now, he tapped the garnet and twisted it slightly before doing the same to the lapis, filling the tub only halfway so getting out would not become impossible. Warm water began pouring into it, steam slowly rising into the cool air and carrying the faint lavender scent of the bathing salts kept nearby. Amor added only a small amount, hoping the familiar fragrance would replace the lingering phantom smell of blood and smoke trapped inside his memory.

He waited. His eyelids felt heavy enough to close standing—had he been standing. The temptation to simply remain in the wheeled chair until the maids arrived almost won. Then Amor remembered what his current state must look like. He needed to finish.

When the water reached a safe depth, he shut it off. Amor positioned the chair beside the tub, locked both wheels, and studied the transfer. Good leg first. Hands on the edge. Injured leg elevated. Lower carefully. It sounded simple.

Nothing tonight had been simple.

He pushed himself upward. His arms trembled immediately. The good leg bore most of his weight while he kept the injured foot lifted behind him. Amor turned his hips toward the bath, braced both palms upon the stone edge, and attempted to lower himself onto it. His hand slipped against condensation. Amor’s stomach dropped.

He caught himself. His elbow struck the wall. The pain made him gasp. The injured foot swung dangerously close to the tub. He jerked it away and nearly lost balance again.

For several terrible breaths, he remained wedged between chair and bathtub, half sitting upon the rim, one arm shaking beneath his own weight and every sensible part of his mind screaming that pulling the bell cord would be infinitely less humiliating than being discovered dead from losing a fight with bathwater. Amor looked toward the bell.

"Argh—No! I’ve done this before, I can do it again. Haah—"

Stubbornness survived where dignity had not. He pushed again. This time his hips cleared the rim. Amor lowered himself into the water.

’Too quick—shit!’

Warm water splashed over the side in a wave. The injured leg remained hooked awkwardly above the tub until Amor carefully supported it beneath the knee and brought it inside, resting the heel along the shallower ledge without twisting the ankle. Only when he was certain the bandage remained dry above the waterline did he finally relax.

His entire body sagged. Warmth surrounded him. For the first time since waking, Amor stopped moving. Steam touched his face. The water loosened muscles that had remained clenched for hours, and the soreness across his back began slowly unwinding. Sweat disappeared from his skin, carrying away the physical evidence of the nightmare even if the memory itself remained stubbornly lodged beneath his ribs.

Amor lowered his head against the tub. His pink eyes stared toward the ceiling. He had succeeded. No maids entering means no questions. And that meant no need for explanations. The relief should have satisfied him. Instead, the bathroom felt painfully empty.

Amor looked toward the doorway. He imagined Valdor standing there. Not entering without permission. Never that. But waiting with those deep, dark eyes he could get entranced by. His large and broad body blocking the doorway without effort. His solem, stoic face that only softens when his attention is on Amor. Perhaps asking the same thing he always asked.

"May I?"

Amor closed his eyes. He remembered Valdor’s promise before leaving.

"If sleep is difficult, I will come."

Amor had smiled and lied. Valdor had known. He was almost certain of that now. The warrior was too observant not to notice the difference between Amor’s real smile and one arranged specifically to end concern. Perhaps that was why Valdor had looked at Elsie, Mary, and Junia before leaving. Amor had been too distracted to understand the silent exchange at the time. His eyes opened.

"What did you three agree to?"

Suspicion briefly overtook despair. Then another thought came.

’If Valdor suspected I would not call, perhaps he was waiting anyway.’

The idea sent warmth through Amor that had nothing to do with bathwater. He did not know what frightened him more:

That Valdor might eventually learn everything, or that some part of Amor increasingly wanted him to. The fact that his real name was Lovell. The apocalypse he had almost survived. His parents being the ones he heard whenever a command was issued towards him. The transmigration of his soul. The original Amor’s death. The novel. All of it.

Amor stared at the water rippling around his pale body.

Could Valdor still look at him the same way afterward?

Would he consider him an intruder wearing someone else’s skin?

Would he still want him?

That fear remained unbearable.

’Not yet. Please...’

Amor slid lower into the water.

"Just a little longer."

He whispered. A little longer before truth. A little longer inside this stolen, beautiful life. A little longer being someone’s beloved son. Someone’s cherished master. Someone’s chosen courtship partner. He would pay for it in nightmares if he must.

Outside the bathing room, unnoticed by Amor, the first thin thread of dawn began touching the horizon. And somewhere far below, in the guest wing, a Blackstone warrior who had promised himself he would not intrude without permission opened his eyes.

---

Valdor woke before sunrise with the immediate clarity of someone whose body had never learned the luxury of confusion.

His eyes opened, his breathing stayed even, and within the first few seconds he already knew where he was, where Vervath slept across the room, how much light remained beyond the shutters, and that no one had come for him during the night. He had heard nothing.

No bell had rung. No hurried footsteps had crossed the corridor, no maid had knocked, and no message had arrived from Amor’s room. By every reasonable measure, that should have meant Amor had slept peacefully. Yet something inside him felt wrong.

Valdor did not believe it. He could not explain why.

Perhaps it was only the memory of Amor’s too-bright smile before bed, or perhaps his instincts had simply learned the shape of unease well enough to recognize it even at a distance. Still, there had been no summons, and Valdor had promised himself he would respect the boundary rather than invent permission where none existed. So he rose.

His morning routine began as it always did, with quiet efficiency and little thought wasted on comfort. He stretched, wrapped his wrists, gathered his training pole, and left the guest wing while the estate still sat beneath the pale gray before dawn. By the time the first true light reached the courtyard, Valdor was already beneath Amor’s bedroom window.

He trained harder than usual without admitting why. The weighted pole cut through the morning air in controlled arcs, every strike stopping precisely where intended, every turn balanced enough to leave no wasted movement. Sweat gathered along his shoulders and chest while his breathing deepened, yet his attention kept returning to the upper windows even when he told himself not to look. He knew when Amor appeared.

Valdor felt his gaze before seeing him. Normally, that awareness pleased him more than he could admit. Amor watched with a concentration that made Valdor unexpectedly conscious of every flex of muscle, every stretch through his shoulders, every shift of weight through his hips. Today, however, the gaze felt different.

Amor was looking at him. But he was not truly seeing him. Valdor slowed after one sequence.

From below, Amor’s pale figure remained visible behind the glass, lavender hair loose around his shoulders as he sat near the window. His pink eyes followed Valdor’s movements, yet something in them remained distant, unfocused enough that Valdor could tell his mind had wandered elsewhere. The realization produced an unfamiliar and surprisingly sharp discomfort.

’I want Amor’s attention back.’

The thought unsettled him. Valdor resumed training with greater force.

Perhaps he needed to move faster.

Perhaps the forms had become predictable.

Perhaps Amor no longer found his body interesting.

That possibility landed badly.

Valdor’s next strike hit harder than intended. He stopped the pole before it struck the stone. His brows lowered.

’No.’

Amor had already said he liked Valdor’s body, his hands, even his accent. Those things had not changed overnight. Unless Amor had simply been embarrassed into saying them.

That thought felt worse.

Valdor looked toward the window again. Amor was still there. Still watching. Still somewhere else.

The answer he wanted became the most likely.

’Amor had not slept well.’

Valdor’s posture changed. Only slightly. His shoulders tightened, and the controlled ease of training disappeared beneath something more alert. Anyone unfamiliar with him would have seen the same stoic warrior as before. Vervath or anyone who knew him closely would have recognized the worry immediately in the narrowing of his eyes and the way he began glancing toward the house between movements. Valdor ended training early.

He returned to the guest room and washed in the tub. The water was warmer than he preferred, but he cleaned quickly, dried, and dressed in fresh furs with movements sharper than usual. Even while fastening the moonstone clasp, his thoughts remained upstairs.

No one had called him. That fact no longer reassured him. It only meant Amor had not asked.

Valdor braided back the loose sections of his hair, carefully preserving the repaired lavender ribbon near the front, then headed for the kitchen. He requested breakfast for two without discussion and waited while the cooks packed warm bread, eggs, fruit, porridge, and honey biscuits onto a tray.

He would take it himself. He wanted to see Amor before servants could hide away whatever he noticed.

More importantly, he wanted to ask one question plainly.

"How did you sleep?"

And this time, Valdor hoped Amor would answer him honestly.