The house was modest, just as I remembered it — a single larger room, mats for sleeping, a clay jar of water in the corner, and a low hearth by the wall. Everything was simple, yet clean.
"Now, I'll lay you down," I said as I sat her onto the mat.
But she pressed her palms against the floor and looked at me with eyes shining from the wine. "No," she whispered, "don't run away. Why are you afraid of a woman's body?"
Before I could answer, she began to untie her dress. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, slid slowly down, and fell to the floor.
She stood there naked before me. Her breasts rose and fell with her quick breath, full and firm, her nipples hardened by the night air. She made no sound, only looked at me, as if testing me.
I felt my breathing quicken. There was still the emptiness the gods had left me, but my body… it reacted on its own. I could not turn my gaze away.
"So?" she asked softly. "Are you still afraid?"
I stood frozen, trying to keep my face expressionless. But then I saw it — her smile, small and teasing. She laughed quietly, because she had noticed that although my heart no longer felt, my body had betrayed me.
Neseret leaned toward me, fingers closing around my hand, and with a voice trembling from both wine and courage, she whispered:
"It's the festival, Amenemhet. People are laughing, dancing, kissing. Why should you be the only one to deny yourself? Why not take at least this night?"
Her eyes shone with fire and wine, and I felt my breath shorten.
"Neseret…" I hesitated. "I am not like the others."
She laughed softly and ran her fingers down my chest. "I know. That's why I want you. You helped me, you saved me and my son. And tonight… tonight I don't want to be only a mother. I want to be a woman. And I want you to feel it with me."
Her voice softened, almost broke: "Please. Just this night. Celebrate with me as if we were like everyone else."
I stood over her, fighting myself. I should have pulled her back down onto the mat and let her sleep. But her words, her closeness, her naked body — they shattered the last of my resistance.
At last I bent down closer. "Then… one night," I said quietly. "Just one."
Her smile widened, joyous and relieved. In her eyes was both triumph and gratitude. She reached for me and pulled me to her.
When her lips touched mine, I could no longer retreat. Everything I had held inside for months poured out. Her kiss was sweet, hot, desperate, and I felt her body tremble under my hands.
Slowly, I lowered her onto the mat. Her hair spread out beneath her, her eyes wide open, full of longing and joy. In that moment she was not a mother, nor the woman I once helped — she was only Neseret, a woman giving herself to me.
I touched her face, her neck, her collarbones. Every breath she drew was quicker, her heart pounding like a drum. She placed her hands on my back and pulled me closer.
Her breasts pressed against my chest, soft yet firm. When I cupped them in my hands, she gasped and dug her fingers into my shoulders. I heard a pleading "please" escape her throat.
My lips trailed across her skin — her shoulder, her neck, then lower. Neseret moved beneath me as if each touch set her on fire.
"Amenemhet," she whispered as she felt me so near, "be mine. At least tonight."
I took her face in my hands, looked into her eyes one last time, then kissed her with such force it felt as if we would be lost in each other.
The night was long. Her moans and my breath mingled, our bodies moving together in a rhythm guided only by the feelings we could no longer restrain. Each touch was a confession, each movement a burning connection.
When she wrapped her legs around me and pulled me closer, I knew there were no boundaries left between us. She was a woman who trusted me with her entire body, and I was a man who gave her all that I had left.
Only when the songs outside faded and the city fell asleep did we finally lie side by side, sweaty, exhausted, yet fulfilled. Neseret nestled against me, her head resting on my chest.
"I've never felt so alive," she whispered.
I only stroked her hair. My eyes were silent — I knew this was a night I would never forget.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was her breath on my chest. Neseret was asleep, her face soft and relaxed, her hair spread across the mat. The room was quiet, only faint sounds from the streets reminded me the festival had carried on through the night.
I looked at her and realized what had happened. What I had denied myself for years, what I thought was impossible, had now become real. It hadn't been planned—it was stirred by wine and her persistence—but it was still a step that changed everything.
I have to take care of her. The thought came instantly. Perhaps she now carried my child. If so, it was my responsibility. I couldn't abandon her. Not now. Not ever.
She turned in her sleep and pressed closer to me. For a moment, I felt a strange peace. Then I rose quietly, careful not to wake her, and stepped outside. The air was cool, fresh, carrying the smoke of torches and faint ash.
---
Talking About the Child
Later, when she woke, she sat on the mat, wrapped in cloth, smiling sleepily.
"I thought you had left," she said.
"No," I answered. "I would never leave without telling you this… from today, I must look after you."
She raised her brows. "Why?"
I hesitated, then spoke plainly: "It's possible you now carry my child."
Her smile faltered, then softened again, though her eyes revealed uncertainty. "Maybe yes, maybe no. The gods will decide."
I nodded. "But if you do, you won't face it alone. From now on I'll come to ask what you need, and I'll help with whatever I can."
For a moment, she just looked at me as though weighing the truth of my words, then finally whispered: "Thank you."
---
Discovering the Absence of Birth Control
A few days later, when I visited her again, I asked:
"Neseret… here in Egypt, do you have anything that prevents a woman from conceiving if she doesn't wish to?"
She looked at me in surprise. "No. If a man and woman lie together, it's in the hands of the gods. No one changes that."
Her answer struck me. In my own time with Cleopatra, there had been knowledge of such things—old remedies, passed down in scrolls and spoken by healers.
"Listen," I said. "There is a way to lessen the chance. Not always, but sometimes."
She leaned closer. "How?"
I thought for a moment about how to explain simply. "You take honey, mix it with the sap of acacia, sometimes crushed dates. It becomes a paste. A woman places it inside before she is with a man. The honey slows the seed, and the sap turns into something that weakens it. It doesn't always work, but it helps."
Neseret stared at me as if I had just told her a secret no one had ever known. "No one here has ever spoken of this. Where… where did you learn it?"
"From places I lived before," I answered shortly. "They used it there. And it worked."
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Will you show me? How to make it?"
"I will," I promised. "It won't be certain, but it's better to have a choice than only wait on the will of the gods."
---
An Inventor in Her Eyes
When I brought her the first mixture I had prepared—honey, acacia sap, dates—she watched me as though I were creating something miraculous.
"You are… different," she said quietly. "Every day you show me things no one here knows. And it always helps us. Do you know women would give anything for this?"
I looked at her and shrugged. "Maybe. But I do it so you don't have to live in fear. Not you, not other women."
She smiled faintly. "So you've made a way to give women more power than they ever had."
"Maybe," I admitted.
In her eyes, I saw it clearly—she no longer saw me only as the man who had saved her in childbirth, nor just the man with whom she had spent one night. In her gaze was respect, trust, and something deeper she still left unsaid.
---
His Inner Monologue
That night, as I walked away from her house, I moved slowly, her words still echoing in my head. Every time she looked at me, I could feel her searching for something more in me—something I couldn't give.
The gods had given me immortality, but they had taken love. I couldn't feel for her what I should have. Inside me was only the empty space that nothing could ever fill. Yet I knew I had to care for her. Because she might now carry my child. Because she was the only one who gave me even a shadow of belonging.
But love? She would never find it in me again.