And he read Plato again, the words like an incantation, a spell, a way to magic her back to him. And sometimes, he fantasised about what that would look like. If only there was a way he could wipe away the last eight months, and take them back to the desert. To the way she’d fought so hard for their marriage, the way she’d counselled him and delighted in the people of the desert.
Even then he’d fought her. He’d pushed her away, when he’d wanted to pull her into his arms and make her his in every possible way.
His chest felt like it was going to crush and finally, he gave into the sense of brokenness that had been dogging him since then. Since he’d discovered she was pregnant and thrown the first stone that would eventually break the glass of their marriage.
He dropped his head forward, and a sob wracked from his body, the first time he’d cried since his mother had died. This was a grief unlike any other, though. There was so much guilt in it, and so much anger, so much self-recrimination and pain, because this was all his fault. His foolish, foolish fault.
“You cannot go,” he said, and lifted his lips to her forehead, pressing a kiss there, feeling her warmth that was all a courtesy of the machines she was hooked up to. “You cannot leave me. You cannot leave them. Sophia, don’t go.”
Sophia had always been a fighter, and even with her body in a coma she heard his words, they called to her, and later that same day something flickered to life, shifting in her body.
She blinked her eyes open and it was like waking from the strangest, most disconcerting dream. Everything within her body felt different. She was sore and heavy.
And she was alone.
Her eyes flew wider. Her head screamed in complaint. She pushed up, looking around. Nothing made sense. But the twins – she threw the blanket off and stared at her stomach. It wasn’t flat, but it was closer to it, and when she pressed a hand to her stomach, she knew there was no one there.
“Oh my God,” it made no sense. She looked around the room again and her eyes landed on Malik in a black armchair, his eyes shut. Her heart twisted. She skated her eyes past him, and now she saw the hospital equipment and realised she was hooked up to a thousand machines. She collapsed back against the pillows, and perhaps this motion roused Malik because he was by her side instantly.
Staring at her as though he couldn’t believe it really was her, as though she were some kind of demon or ghost, staring at her as though she were a miracle.
“Where—,” her voice came out as a very dry whisper. She swallowed; it was an agony.
He reached for a plastic cup on her bedside and held it to her lips. Her eyes met his when she drank, but she couldn’t hold his gaze. It hurt too much. Everything hurt.
“Twins,” she croaked, afterwards.
He nodded. “They’re fine. Two girls.” He reached across her again and pressed a button. His expression was so grim, she was certain he was lying to her.
“Tell me, Malik. Tell me what’s happened.” It hurt to speak.
He shook his head, pressing a hand to hers, so her pulse throbbed in her body, distributing her blood. “You had complications. HELLP syndrome, and an irregularity in your heart. You passed out, and the doctor put you into a coma while your body healed…”
Blurs came back to her. Memories of being wheeled into an operating theatre, patchy and as if through a very long period of time. She shook her head. It was like a dream. She couldn’t speak those words. Her throat was raw. “The babies,” she said instead.
If she didn’t know Malik as well as she did, she’d have said he was surfing some strong emotional currents of his own. His expression was carefully guarded, but his eyes showed feelings that were overwhelming in their intensity. “I promise you, Sharafaha, they are fine.” And perhaps because he’d realised she couldn’t speak easily, he continued, “Two beautiful girls, one so like you it takes my breath away, and the other like Addan.” He squeezed her hand, and right as the door pushed open, he said, “They were born on his birthday, you know.”
More memories. The pomegranates and rosemary. Her tiredness. Exhaustion. Grief.
She swallowed, turning towards the doctor.
“Your highness,” he nodded, his smile reassuring. “You’re awake.” He spent a few minutes checking her vitals, and then turned to Malik. “Her progress is excellent. We’ll keep her here for a few more days, to monitor for any complications, and then her highness will be discharged. However, she’ll need monitoring at the palace, too –,”
“You can suggest someone?”
“I’m happy to attend,” the doctor nodded brusquely. “And to arrange nursing staff.”
Sophia cleared her throat. It still hurt. “I want to see them.”
Malik nodded. “Of course.” He looked to the doctor. “You’ll arrange for our daughters to be brought?”
“At once.” The doctor turned to Sophia once more, smiling. “I am glad to see you awake.”
Sophia managed a weak smile of her own, and once alone with Malik again, she felt the butterflies ramming her insides. The enormity of what was about to happen settled about her shoulders.
But it was more than just seeing her twins. It was everything that came next. She was a mother. They were parents. A family.
A hollow feeling settled inside of her, because they were nothing of the sort and never would be. Children didn’t change a thing – not in terms of how Malik felt for her. Grief – the same grief that had gnawed at her throughout her pregnancy – clouded her mind.