The great bed felt vast and impossibly open. Nguvu lay on his back, the sheer size of his body creating a dense pocket of heat on his side of the mattress. Amamihe lay far away, on her side, facing the window.
The night was silent, save for the rhythmic rumble of Hasani, the War Elephant, patrolling outside the perimeter.
An hour passed. Neither of them slept.
"Amamihe," Nguvu's voice finally broke the silence, a low, hesitant rumble.
"Yes, Nguvu."
"Did you truly believe the pillow wall helped the Ase environment?"
Amamihe let out a soft, rueful laugh. "No. Imani merely hated it. But it was easier to blame the Ase stagnation than to admit we were both terrified of our attraction."
A heavy silence followed. Nguvu felt his throat tighten.
"The work today," he began, struggling to find the right words. "In the forest. It was… a necessary release. You see my power, Amamihe. You see the sheer scale of it."
"I see the precision of it," she corrected softly. "I saw a Warlord capable of surgical, focused obliteration."
Nguvu shook his head, though she couldn't see him. "You saw the result. You did not feel the effort. My Makoma is to be a warrior, to protect, yes. But my body is too much, always. I am the definition of too much."
He turned his massive head to face the empty space between them. "I am a Monster. Even for something simple like lifting a cup, the expenditure is proportionally immense. I must be gentle."
He inhaled deeply, the most vulnerable sound he had ever made. "I constantly fear that my Ase will accidentally destroy something I care about. That every time I use my power, I leave behind a residue of destructive force that you, the Cultivator, must painstakingly cleanse."
He paused, the admission hanging heavy in the darkness. "The Elders say my purpose is to create strong children. But my deepest, most secret fear is that my children, if they inherited this strength, would have to go through this."
He was confessing not a doubt in his Role, but a profound, isolating fear of his own existence.
Amamihe slowly turned over to face him across the great expanse of the bed. Her Indigo Aura, always the color of empathy and healing, flowed gently toward him, testing the water.
"Nguvu," she whispered. "The capacity for destruction is not the measure of your Moea (soul). It is the measure of your discipline."
She lifted her arm and pointed at the space directly above his head. Nguvu followed her gaze. A single, delicate thread of vine, one of the countless plants she had commanded into the room, was slowly, deliberately, weaving itself across the ceiling toward his side.
"I am a Cultivator," she continued. "My Role is creation. But I have to kill things constantly. I have to prune, weed, and starve out the weak so the strong may thrive. I am not pure creation; I am controlled triage. And when I accidentally kill something, I weep for the loss of Ase."
"You, Warlord," she said, her voice strengthening, "you destroyed a creature consumed by Iku. You created a space of absolute sterility, which is essential for pure growth. Your strength is not a flaw. It is a necessary tool."
She spoke not as a wife, but as a professional peer. "And I know you are capable of gentleness. You had the strength to crush me today, but you used that same power to stop your momentum inches from my face. That requires more control than obliteration."
The vine reached his side of the bed. It lowered itself, dropping a single, sweet-smelling white flower onto the pillow next to Nguvu's ear.
"You are not a destroyer, Nguvu," Amamihe concluded, her voice thick with conviction. "You are the Pillar that holds the roof up so that I may grow the garden beneath it."
Nguvu felt a slow, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest. The fear did not vanish, but the solitude did.
He reached out his colossal hand, moving slowly, cautiously, across the open sheet. He reached for the little white flower Amamihe had placed on his pillow. His fingers, built for crushing stone and wielding arms, gently closed around the fragile stem.
"Thank you, Cultivator," he murmured. "That is... the truest thing anyone has ever said to me."
He settled back down, the flower cupped gently in his hand. They had not touched, but they had shared the deepest connection yet.