The End of The Cursed

‘The end of the Immortal Gyllene Queen was precipitated by the discovery of her healing powers. While she lived, and could weep, none of her children or loved ones were safe.’ – Historical Record of Magical Happenings of Gyllene

Clothilde wished she were younger. She had been riding a bear for two weeks and camping in the mountains in the wintertime. It was hell on bones as old as hers, even if they looked middle-aged. She tried to sit up, but it felt like doing so would break her spine. Grigor chuckled. He rolled over onto his side to look into her pained face, keeping his arms solidly around her.

“Sleeping on the ground for a few weeks is too much for you? Try doing so for fifty years.” He said in a snarl that was almost a bark, his finger tracing her cheek. Clothilde sighed. She did not like sleeping alongside him, but with the winter wind bringing bone numbing chill with it, she had no choice. She forced herself up into a sitting position just to spite him, and nearly cracked her head on the wooden poles holding their tent aloft. The thin oiled canvas of the white tent was nearly translucent as the sun began to creep over the horizon.

“Better get yourself outside before you transition in here and shred my tent!” Clothilde gave Grigor a bit of a shove to the back of his shoulder blades. He rolled away from her only literal warmth resignedly and began undressing in the relatively temperate climate of the tent. He had no intention of stepping out into the biting wind until he was a second away from the change. Clothilde covered her eyes in irritation. Sleeping alongside him was bad enough without his attempts to irritate or rouse her.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t curious to see how well your little curse kept everything in shape.” Grigor looked over his shoulder to see if she was watching him undress. She was not. He shivered as the iron harness nipped at his bare skin in the drafty tent. He could feel the slight tingling that began in his hands and feet when he was about to transition. Emotions began inside his chest that were contrary to the ones inside his head. He needed to get out of the tent. With a deep sigh he stepped barefoot into the snow. He gasped in shock as his feet hit the frigid stone and snowy wind whipped across his naked body. Seconds later he was leaning, gasping against the side of the narrow mountain path, but with warm fur against the rock.

Clothilde stepped out of the tent in her coat, mittens, and hat, pleased as the cat that ate the canary. She smiled at him as she bent to pick up the chain of the bear who simply waited for her to take it. Grigor no longer had any control over the situation. She chained him down momentarily while she folded up their tent and secured their belongings into a series of packs mounted on his harness.

“Come along then my gentle beast. We’re only a few days away.” She said as she climbed aboard his back. They had crossed the sea, and now were just finishing the final assent to the Keep. Soon, she would meet her daughter.

Elias Grant was a man of principle. He had always liked to think of himself as a man who would put a woman’s honor before his mere fleshly desires. He prided himself on doing what was right. He believed that a man should obey his God, His King, and His Country… But what did such a man do when faced with the loss of the only woman he had every truly loved? When such love was an impossible miracle that should never have existed? How you could cast such a miraculous gift aside? If the country was not your own, did that make disobeying the edicts of its King more acceptable? There were more questions in his head than there were answers.

He couldn’t give her up. He hadn’t. Now he had to rectify the situation. But what was fixing it, in truth? Giving her permission to marry another man? Tell her that it was the right thing to do and that she should just lie to the King of Twyle about her chastity? Or would the right thing be to marry her himself? He had gotten the necessary paperwork from Pastor Donnelly before they had even left Edenhoven. He had intended to ask her that first day if she wanted to be married to him on the journey, but everything kept getting in the way. Every time they passed a town with a church or a vicarage he had thought about it. But the closer they got to her father and her castle, the more he felt too inferior to even ask. She was a Princess for heaven’s sakes. What was he?

If her honor were the only thing at stake, even marrying her in the country fashion would be acceptable at this point, at least until they could get to a proper vicar. All they had to do now was to speak their vows in front of witnesses, and consummate the union. They could easily convince Xanthippe and Theodore to stand in as witnesses. It was only Frederick who would have to be sent away on a lengthy errand.

As far as the consummation…well that had already…well, hmmm. Did that have to be repeated? So that it was specifically after the vows? He didn’t know how they could slip away again. Frederick had been terribly suspicious about the one time. Elias put his face in his hands. Being mixed up in a curse had somehow altered the very fabric of who he was and what he believed. What was he to do?

Freya, silent as a moth, crept out of the woods to sit beside him, on his log by the fire. The other three had all gone to sleep. Frederick was in the wagon with Xanthippe-so Theodore had insisted on sleeping in there as well, for propriety’s sake. The boy had recently seemed to have altered his intense devotion from ‘his angel’ to the fallen woman. A turn of events that surprised NO ONE more than it did Elias.

This left Freya and Elias out here on the mats by the fire. No doubt Frederick thought it was exceptionally funny, but then he was unaware that the extent of their relationship had progressed. He thought that every second they were together was torture for them…

“What’s this?” She asked drawing the paper his held out of his fingers. She hadn’t realized he had brought any documents in his little leather satchel. She turned it over. It was a stiff piece of fresh vellum with a marriage contract for Freya Vanhelstad and Elias Grant. She smiled and put her arms around his neck. Her nose touching his.

“So you planned to marry me from the beginning?” She asked in the tiniest of whispers. The kind of whisper designed not to touch the ear of a bear brother sleeping a few feet away inside a poorly constructed wooden wagon. He nodded, his face flushing. Freya kissed his cheek.

“It’s a wonderful idea. We just need to wait until a certain person is not within ear shot. He would be terribly against it.” Freya kissed the other cheek. He held her around the waist.

“So you don’t regret your decision?” He marveled. Transformative bear or no, she was the perfect woman. “You still wish to be mine?” His surprise was written on his face in bold print. Freya would have laughed, but she was attempting to be quiet.

“Of course I wish to be yours! I am yours-provided, that you consider yourself mine?” She asked as she gripped his leg. Elias was startled by her bold speech and aggressive gesture. Marriage didn’t generally work that way-a woman belonged to her husband, and yet he could see that in their situation it would never be the case. He was so far beneath her in status that he could only ever hope to attain less-unequal standing, certainly not superior. Her hand was continuing to touch his leg. What mere mortal man could ever hope to come close to equality, let alone superiority with a woman such as Freya?

“Yes.” He gasped belatedly. “Yes, my love, I am yours. I have never wanted to be anything else.” Freya smiled at him. She looked up at the stars blinking above them like pieces of ice in the cold night sky.

“Then we will speak with Theodore and Xanthippe tomorrow. If everything is legal and over with by the time we reach my father, then there is nothing he can do to separate us.” Freya kissed him gently to overrule any argument.

Gilda was on horseback for now, as was Rearden. A boy from the estate’s stables was driving the other three horses that pulled their cart. A gigantic bear loped alongside them, and they were flanked by two of the black liveried guards on each side. The mountains loomed in front of them, but their first and most daunting obstacle was the sea. It had taken them several days to get that far. Thankfully Pelynor had arranged for them to stay at the houses of various nobles enroute to the sea. That had been rather awkward of course, as Freyr’s odd hours and unnatural requirements made things difficult. These nobles were not aware of the secret of the Demon Kings, and so they could not be privy to his transformations. Pelynor had sent detailed missives to them, and so they had all been accommodating, but suspicion and doubt had oozed from their every gesture. A Prince who arrived after sunset and left alone before dawn, leaving his wife, guest, and servants behind to catch up with him was a strange thing indeed.

It would have been easier if Pelynor could have come with them, but he could not. Pelynor had to stay behind at the Estate in order to make sure that his father didn’t do anything inadvisable-such as kill Freya when she arrived. The Duke, his sons, and his young bride were less than trustworthy. Gilda put her hand to her head reflexively, as the memory of the strange little Duchess came to mind. She’d woken up the morning of their departure to find the woman attempting to cut her hair. Gilda had chased the woman away with a knife from her breakfast tray, which had been brought in while she slept. She reflected that she’d almost used knives less often when she was skinning animals for their pelts on a daily basis. Now she was more often than not, using them on people. So far she’d had to use one on Grigor, Phillip, and now the Duchess. Somehow, she’d imagined that the life of a Princess would be less dangerous than this. Ah well. It was going to be short lived.

Freyr had put Pelynor in charge of the Estate and had displaced his father the Duke. Several of the dark guards remained to make sure that this stayed the status quo. Neither the Duke, nor his bride, nor the other sons were pleased about this alteration, but there was nothing they could do to alter it. No one would attempt to go against the mandates given by the dark guards. Their black uniforms and rust colored sleeves indicated the reason why. These men could kill with impunity, and without direct instructions from the King. The sleeves of their shirts were dyed rust in color so that they would not show blood when it inevitably covered them in pursuit of their duty. Gilda had felt an odd mixture of revulsion and relief when Freyr had explained this. Freya would be perfectly safe upon her arrival, but only because of the fear instilled by the dark guards.

Gilda looked over the countryside that they were traversing, in order to clear her thoughts. This country – the summer lands, was impossibly beautiful. Even in the dead of winter, the weather was mild and flowers were blooming. The grass waved in the slight breeze and sent the fragrance of the little yellow blossoms into the air. The whole field they traveled across was a carpet of the tiny fragrant flowers. Strangely, this was her country now. She belonged in this beautiful place. How was such a thing even possible? In all of her dreams of golden wreaths, golden lands, and being a noble she had never allowed her imagination to run this wild. The heady scent of the blossoms native to this strange country matched the scent of her hair exactly. She must have reminded Freyr of a nostalgic memory of home. Gran was apparently nothing if not utterly thorough.

In the distance she could see the shimmer of the ocean. They only needed to cross a tiny strip of it and they would be at the base of the mountain pass toward the Keep. She’d never expected to get to see the ocean, or a land of this much beauty. Freyr looked up at her wistful expression. No doubt puzzled by it.

“Does something concern you?” He asked. Gilda shook her head, noticing the discomfort and amazement of the young guard who was not used to the curse yet.

“No. I was just marveling at how lovely your country looks, especially this part. When the curse is ended, we could...” Freyr cut her off.

“If. Try not to hope for that. This is not where you will live. The Keep cannot compare to this, so do not dwell on it. Please.” Freyr’s voice was gentle, but his words were firm. He obviously saw no sense in Gilda becoming attached to a land she would never live in. The guard beside them rubbed his eyes for the hundredth or so time that day. As if rubbing his eyes would rid him of the talking bear! Honestly, if he hadn’t gotten used to it over the last few days he wasn’t going to.

Gilda was somewhat afraid that he was drinking from his flask too much to be as useful as he should be. The bear made him nervous, and so he drank too much to really keep them safe. Still, Lord Phillip was gone. There was no current danger facing them. She should be able to relax at last, but it had been far too long for her to remember how.

“I know I shouldn’t hope to live here, in the summer lands, but I can at least admire them can’t I?”

“Admire all you like.” Freyr gave a shake of his massive head. Rearden rode up alongside her.

“You belong here. Such a golden place deserves a Princess like yourself. I can hardly tell you apart from the flowers.” Rearden smiled at Gilda. His demeanor toward her since she had repaired him was deferential and almost reverent. It made her uncomfortable. Freyr made a snapping sound in his throat.

“I meant no disrespect majesty, just a complement for your lovely wife.” Rearden bowed his head to the bear beside him. Freyr exhaled in a long rumble. He did not have time for petty jealousy. They had reached the sea and a boat Captain was supposed to be waiting for them. He had to pretend to be a mindless bear again, controlled by the golden witch.

Gilda dismounted her horse and strode toward the docks in the confident and unmaidenly gait she had been unable to get rid of in all of her practicing. She still walked like a trapper. For all her rehearsing of feminine mincing steps, she had never mastered them. The docks were crowded and they would not blend in well. Barrels of fish were stacked in every direction with greasy, wool-wrapped peasants shouting prices from behind them. The peasants grew silent as a glowing young woman accompanied by an enormous bear, the King’s own dark guards, a team of hairy mountain ponies, and a handsome man with a royal circlet set up his head stepped onto the wooden docks. You could even hear the gasps of the fish that had just been pulled from the ships and poured into their shallow troughs.

Interconnecting avenues of glossy wet planks like a wooden spider’s web snaked along the shore where all the boats were moored. Wider areas of planking were crammed with merchants of all types. The treasures of neighboring countries, every creature that swam and could be caught, all manners of food and drink were for sale, but none of the vendors attempted to catch their attention. They all swallowed their tongues and forgot to hawk their wares in surprise at the strange procession. Gilda continued to walk forward confidently as if she wasn’t afraid that a terrified fishmonger would do something rash. Four dark guards was too small a contingent in such a confined space. Anyone could get to them. They were pressed in on at all sides.

The ponies did not like walking on the docks. They were making it almost impossible to lead them forward to the broader expanse of boards where the boats were waiting. The guards were needing to assist rather than be wary, and it was making Gilda nervous. Rearden himself even dismounted in order to help drag the nervous ponies. Thankfully, the horses that were not pulling anything, seemed a bit more biddable.

Finally they reached the end of the dock where their boat was waiting. Pelynor had made arrangements with a Captain he had met before. The man had been given express instructions to wait for their strange little party, and to convey them with the utmost haste. Their only hope was to make it across the thin strip of ocean before night fell. If Freyr transformed on the boat, they would all be in grave danger. The sooner they could get into the water, and by the same token, out of it, the better.

A short stocky man with weather beaten skin was waving them toward his boat. It was larger than Gilda’s old hovel had been, and had both sails and oars. That boded well, it would travel swiftly with or without wind. Rearden stepped out in front of Gilda to make contact with the Captain. At this time of day, he was the highest ranking, and most impressive personage in their party. Sailors were superstitious, and might not take kindly to a party led by a female, let alone a witch. Some sailors wouldn’t even let women on their boats for fear of bad luck.

“Hello! May I presume that you are Captain Newcomb? The man with whom we have been told to make acquaintance?” Rearden asked. The man bowed to him. He was pleased to have illustrious people on his boat…although he did not like the fact that they were bringing a live bear with them. He preferred his wild animals stuffed…and very dead.

“At Your Service! Pleased to meet you, your Majesty.” The man bowed again. His eyes glanced toward Gilda appreciatively. The look was longer and more all-encompassing than was appropriate. The bear made a rumbling noise. As if it objected to the sailor’s glance at the young woman. The Captain looked taken aback. “I was told the bear was tame? The girl, its trainer, keeps it under control?” Gilda smiled nervously and put her hand on Freyr’s back.

“Yes. Completely tame. Please do not be concerned. It growls when it is concerned for my safety. It would never do anything to harm anyone without my express permission. Unless I am physically threatened, everyone is perfectly safe.” Gilda’s bright smile somehow underscored her words more clearly than a threatening tone. The Captain swallowed.

“This is not what I was lead to believe. I’ll have to ask a higher price for your transport.” Rearden raised his eyebrows.

“You mean to tell me that you plan on harming the girl? There would be no need to be concerned for your safety unless you do… Seems a bit odd to charge more for transport when you are informing us that you intend to do us injury.” Rearden looked challengingly at the Captain, with his arm securely threaded through Gilda’s. The Captain coughed. He didn’t want to lose the opportunity to ferry these people. It was going to be incredibly lucrative.

“Apparently we have had a misunderstanding.” He coughed again. “I only mean that a ship is a dangerous place. Anything could happen accidentally, and I would hate for the girl to lose control of her animal. A Captain has to think of his crew.” He gestured for them to board the ship with a wide sweep of his arms. “Please, please, let me take you on board. All care will be taken with you and your other passengers.” He still sounded nervous. Rearden smiled.

“Yes, let’s get underway as soon as possible. We are eager to reach the northern shores.” Gilda nodded. The Captain stepped to the side and motioned for them to come aboard.

“Yes, Yes, right this way!” He lead them over the gangplank onto his ship. He had used the wider gangplank intended for bringing livestock on board the vessel, but it still creaked and buckled under the weight of the bear as it lumbered over it. The Captain glanced nervously at the bear again, it was far too large, even for what it was. “Let’s be underway.” He nodded to his crew to pull up the gangplank and shove off.

Gilda wound her fingers tightly into Freyr’s fur. The boat was leaving the dock. She was on a boat for the first time in her life, on an ocean voyage, headed toward an actual castle. In the castle was a throne for her, because, unbelievably, she was a Princess now. A throne with a golden wreath above it waited for her on the other side of this little piece of angry sea. It was the fulfillment of her every dream and fantasy. Unfortunately, while a throne was waiting for her, so was a coffin.

The King threw his clay chalice against the stone wall on the opposite side of the main hall. He had made every effort to reign in his passions all night while sycophants, beggars, and petitioners filled his halls. He could not keep them in any longer. A servant rushed forward to mop up the wine that was spilling like a long red blood stain down the white tapestry hanging on that section of throne room wall. It was no use. The wine was a fortified port. The stain would never come out. The flight of white doves arcing up it, meant to echo the bird from the center of wreath, now looked bloodied and grotesque. It would be better to pull the damn thing down.

“You mean to tell me that my daughter has thrown her chastity to a mere tradesman like a common whore? My daughter, who was given in an engagement to a King, sees fit to flout my judgement?” The King of Gyllene was actually slavering. Flecks of spittle had formed around his mouth. He swayed slightly. Fairlight rushed to bring him a chair and slid it beneath him as he collapsed. To anyone watching it would look like he had made the decision to sit, after she had brought him a chair.

“She has married him actually. On the road the only option was a troth plight, but they had a document from a vicar, there was consummation and…”

“DON’T talk to me about the consummation of Freya’s little sham marriage. Without my consent she is not legally wed!” The King glanced around the room to see how many servants had heard his shout. Fairlight had whispered her response, but his exclamations had been heard. Three. Three servants in the room. Too many to drum up false charges against. He couldn’t just execute them without cause. Perhaps he could have their tongues…no. That was what his father would have done. This Kingdom had seen enough cruelty since that time. The death of his last two wives had been enough for him. He threw a pile of gold coins from his pocket into the center of the room.

“Either pick that up and leave the room remembering nothing of what you have just heard, or leave it and your tongues behind as well.” The two younger men rushed forward, took the money and left, as if fearing he might take their tongues anyway. Fairlight’s attendant, an older woman with pursed lips was the only one deliberating. Apparently she thought the loss of the Princess’ virtue was an important secret. Whether she wanted more money or had a moral objection, he could not tell. “Well?” He demanded, his tone both threatening and impatient. This woman knew that in a matter of hours he would be much more formidable than he was now. She inclined her head ever so slightly and bent for the remaining coins. She turned and left, silently and as slowly as he would have believed possible.

“You may have trouble with that one. She is very conservative, she may not keep this information to herself…if we make it relevant.” Fairlight brought the King a fresh glass of port herself, this time in a metal chalice.

“Relevant?”

“If we force Freya to end her marriage quietly and marry King Rearden instead. Given that the only witnesses to her union were a prostitute and a young man presumed dead…it is possible to undo it. The consummation was not witnessed by any priests, or nobles or family members, and so with the right bribe, it could be verified as having never happened. If you want to nullify this, it would be rather easy. But, I would advise against it.” Fairlight warned him in her cool gentle voice.

“What good is a damn Seer if you can’t give me the future you foresee?!” He shouted, regaining his anger as quickly as it had dissipated. “You said you saw her in a wedding dress!” Fairlight nodded.

“A future that could still be. If that is what you want. Her tears could be of shame and pain if you dissolve her union to Elias Grant and force her to marry King Rearden. Or they could be tears of happiness if you are giving her a proper ceremony here at the Keep upon her arrival. The vision is there, I only offer you options to make it mean what you desire it to mean.” Fairlight paused a moment as if something passed through her vision. Then her eyes cleared and she continued. “So tell me…” Fairlight began again, but then her face became blank and white as chalk. She was seeing something that wasn’t in the room with them. King Freyr grabbed her arm. It was cold as ice, as if it truly was ice water that ran through a witch’s veins.

“What is it? What do you see?” He asked, almost reluctantly. Knowing the future did not always allow you to alter it, and that angered him.

“Our uninvited guests are earlier than I expected. They did not go to the Estate to find Gilda, they came straight here.” Fairlight said outloud, even though she had meant to be silent. “Please brother, give me a moment alone to greet our guests. I want you to have servants who can pinpoint your whereabouts for what is about to happen. No sense in having you mixed up in any more ugliness.”

“What are you talking about? Who is here? What did you see?” The King had already been wound up, but now he was radiating his frustration like a lit fuse.

“Our father and my mother have both just arrived. I do not know how they made it so fast or eclipsed the others, but they did. Somehow they got around my visions.” Fairlight turned him by the shoulders toward the archway that led back to the bedrooms. “Unfortunately, in half an hour I will be standing over my father’s body with a bloody knife, and my mother will be laughing. You can’t be in here when the murder of a former King is committed. You would be removed from the throne, or at the very least, your authority undermined. Please brother – I beg you a thousand times – go!” She pushed him hard between the shoulder blades, her voice both shouting and weeping. He grasped her hands and held them still.

“So don’t pick up a knife. The next half hour can pass without violence if you are without a weapon.” He had somehow regained his calm, He bent the iron bars covering the only window in the room that opened and pressed it agape. A gust of icy wind blew in and nearly froze his fingers to the sill, which was now a swath of frost cascading down the warmer window frame and stone wall. He collected up the cheese knife from their dinner tray, a few ceremonial daggers on display, and his own hidden blade and threw them out the open window.

“Had you given me a better description of the weapon, I wouldn’t have had to waste so many.” He gave her a tight smile. “I have no intention of leaving you alone in a room with the man who buried you alive and sent you to live in a mountain town known for its frequent witch burnings. You would kill him, and justifiably so, but you will not do so with me in the room. You know I do not wish for him to be harmed and you would not hurt me so deeply.” The King returned to his sister’s side and attempted to unclench the fists that had gone white and bloodless at her sides.

The door to the main hall swung open, letting in a great gust of icy air complete with a spiral of winter snow. The guards outside appeared to be sleeping, but with Clothilde, who knew? Hopefully they were not dead, but if they slept for very long on the snowy doorstep, they would die anyway. Grigor and Clothilde entered the room quietly, their soft leather boots made no sound on the long marble floor. Clothilde waved at the door behind her, and the swirl of snowy squall went out and drew the door shut with a thin whistle behind it.

“Good evening.” Fairlight said in a tight even voice. Grigor looked at her with no recognition. “Do you know how you would like to die, Father?” Her voice was so polite and distant that it took him a second to register that her words were threatening. He took a step forward, but Clothilde caught his arm.

“You are Fairlight? My daughter?” She asked stepping forward instead. Fairlight nodded.

“Yes. But not for the moment, for the moment I am that man’s executioner and nothing more!” the King caught her by the wrists and held her back as though she were a snarling dog.

“Stop it Fairlight. You need control of yourself.” Control herself? The mad man was giving her orders? Fairlight spun around, freeing one wrist and slapping her brother across the face with the other hand.

“Execute me afterwards for treason if you will brother, but I have spent 45 years dreaming of the day that I would murder this man. Have you ever had a passion last so long?” Fairlight was held only by one wrist, but the King dropped it in surprise. She was so cool and so reserved. He’d never imagined that she would go so far as to strike him.

“Why should you desire my death? I saved you from danger, and spared you from evil and put you somewhere safe!” Grigor protested. He took a half step toward her. “What happened to you, that at the age of eight that you began plotting your own father’s murder?” Grigor asked, momentarily confused. He could not imagine why this woman would resent his actions in her regard. Clothilde was uncharacteristically silent. She wanted to hear Fairlight’s explanation more than anyone.

“You killed me!” She screamed at him, knocking him to his knees before anyone could stop her. She put her hand against his cheek, digging her ice-like fingernails into his skin. “Feel my flesh and tell me if any living creature feels like I do?!” He jerked his head back in shock. Her touch was colder than wind outside, colder than being naked in the snow every morning during their journey. Clothilde prevented him, by means of his harness, from truly moving backwards, so he remained in the frigid grasp of his daughter.

“But you didn’t die.” He mumbled in confusion. “You were only drugged, I dug you up in time! You were never in any real danger, I wouldn’t have allowed it!” How had she come to have the flesh of dead woman? When he had last held her she had been a warm flesh and blood infant. That was how she felt when he had given her to a respected older couple from the mountains. He had sent her to a safe little mountain town that was well known for stamping out witch craft and other evils whenever they reared their ugly heads. She should have been protected there, from anything and everything. Fairlight slid her fingers into her father’s long shaggy black hair so that her fingertips could be felt against the sensitive skin of his neck and base of his skull. She tilted his face back so that he was looking up at her, pulling him back up to his feet by the hair.

“Yes father. Yes, I did survive that terrible incident of being buried alive. Well, the first time. But I am a Seer, and so my visions force me to relive salient moments over and over and over. How salient, father, do you think the last gasping breath of an infant is perceived to be…by that infant?” She stroked his bearded face almost gently. “How many times can a child wake up screaming with the same nightmare, before it begins to eat away at her?” She pressed her forehead to his. “What do you think they do to little girls who have nightmares that come true, in those mountain towns? How many varied and numerous salient ways do you think those respected foster parents tried to bleed the demons out of me?” Fairlight paused a moment when it became clear that her father had only just now realized for certain that she too was a witch. She cocked her head to the side.

“When I cried out at night from the terrible things I saw…and then they came true…how do you think that couple reacted?” Fairlight’s pale eyes were burning holes into her father’s. “Do you think they assumed I only saw things before they happened? Or that when I sobbed about the terrible things I knew where going to come to pass-and then they did-do you think they believed that I caused them to happen?” She hit him again, this time a punch to the stomach like a man might give another man. No one even made any attempt to stop her. Everyone looked both horrified and afraid to speak.

“Do you think Father that the best place to send a baby who might be a witch, was to a place where they burn witches? How old do you think I was the first time they attempted to rid me of my evil? How old do you think I was when they simply gave up and tried to kill me?” Fairlight had tears sliding down her face, but her voice was clear and unchoked by it. “In all my efforts to get away from fire, how many times do you think I was mostly killed?” She cupped his face in her snow white hands, her touch cold and delicate that they might have been snowflakes on his cheeks.

“Every night I relive at least two of my deaths…this many years later, there is hardly a part of me left alive.” Her pale eyes were not pale. They were milky, like those of a corpse or a blind man. They were dead eyes. Her skin was still tight and youthful from her heritage, but her pallor and her eyes made it clear what she really was. A woman who existed in two realms. The realm of the living, and the realm of the dead. Every subconscious sleeping moment, her iron grip on life lapsed, and she was plunged into memories of times when she got so close to the veil that she nearly passed through it. Now her sleeping moments were spent drifting in the realm of the dead.

Grigor felt like he had been stabbed rather than punched. He had no curse to blame this on. He had done this to her, consigned his child to her life of endless torment, all before he had been cursed. Why had he done it? Because he feared the power of her mother? He had crossed a field of a thousand corpses all groaning for graves as the gases in their decaying stomachs made sounds like the cries of living men. He had not wanted that type of deadly power to flow through his sweet and perfect baby. He never wanted a man like himself to use that innocent girl to cause destruction like this. He had done it because despite what he was, he had loved his infant child. He had done horrible things in order to keep her safe. Safe from harm, safe from regret, safe from the upbringing a witch would give…but more than anything – safe from people like himself, who would use her for evil. Worst of all, if he had kept her, he’d known he’d have been the first to use her power. Had she been raised by a witch she would have become one, but he’d never imagined that she could have become one all on her own. He swung the large pack off of his shoulder and withdrew the simple hunting knife inside. Clothilde yanked hard on the chain to pull him away from her daughter, but he was not making any attempt to wound her. He held it out toward her by the blade, offering her the handle. He knelt down in front of her, head bent.

“I am sorry. That was not something I expected. What I did was done with the best intentions, but they are meaningless in light of what happened to you. You have every right to take my life in exchange for what I have done.” Fairlight grasped the handle and took it from him carefully, but not carefully enough. Blood ran from the cut she made on the palm of his hand while withdrawing the blade from his grasp. She looked at the bloody blade and shook her head in disgust and disappointment.

“It would appear, that I do not kill you tonight.” She kicked her foot out from under her long ebony velvet skirt. Her hard soled shoe cracked against the side of his head with a crunching noise as he fell to the floor. She stood over his prostrate body and dropped the bloody knife onto the marble floor with a clatter. Her vision was complete. He lay bleeding at her feet, she held a bloody knife, and her mother was laughing. The King had given her the choice as to whether or not what she had seen was murder. She turned to Clothilde who was open mouthed and struggling not to laugh at the broken man, lying on the ground.

“Mother, I think that he will be sufficiently restrained where he is. Please drop the animal’s chain and come with me.” She turned to the King. “Apologies my brother. You’ll want to get someone in here right away.” She gave a glance at the floor. “Marble absorbs blood rather quickly. I’d hate to think that I’d ruined your floor.” Her voice was like frost, bracing, but soft. Clothilde was silent. This had not been the reunion she had imagined. She nodded mutely and followed her daughter.

“Fairlight, the execution of this man would have been just. His crimes against myself, my mother, and numerous others would warrant it without adding your grievances. Do not fear that he will receive more accommodation than a prisoner whose punishment has been commuted. A wooden plank in my dungeon is the best that he will receive.” King Freyr spoke earnestly. “But be warned. Your guest must be gone before first light.” Fairlight nodded. She was grateful to him for understanding, and also for not immediately arresting her mother. She couldn’t understand it, but she was grateful all the same.