The End of The Cursed

To have an ability is to have power. Loving anyone or anything enough to allow yourself to be used for your power is weakness. Those with great power must not love. – Witches to the Wise

“I abandoned you into a living death.” Clothilde had never felt more anguish or shame than in knowing for certain that her child had suffered, and suffered greatly. Fairlight poured two glasses of port from the crystal decanter on the glossy wooden dressing table.

“You thought I was already dead. I do not consider my suffering to be your fault.” Fairlight handed her mother one of the glasses. “You certainly made enough others hurt in exchange for mine.” Fairlight was surprised at the bitterness in her own voice. Clothilde sipped the port gratefully. Her mouth felt like it was made of dust.

“I did, truly I did. I never knew that my sight could be tricked. I didn’t know that he hated witches enough to banish his own daughter or put you in danger. I can never be sorry enough for the pain you suffered.” Clothilde extended a hand toward her daughter’s, but then thought better of it. “Will you tell me anything about your life?” Fairlight shook her head.

“Life had very little to do with it I’m afraid. Everywhere I have gone I was eventually found out, and they attempted to kill me. It got so bad that I almost wished they would succeed. So little of me is still alive. All that keeps me standing is magic and force of will.” She put her hand on her mother’s. Clothilde’s eyes felt watery. Ah! It was tears.

“You’ve suffered more than I have.” She said with dawning realization. “Did you have any happiness at all?” She couldn’t bear the answer, but she had to know. Fairlight shrugged.

“I remember little of my early childhood, the echoes only show me moments in which I was near death or in great pain. I assume that I led a happy life until the age of 3 or 4.” Clothilde felt a dark worm of pain undulate in her stomach. She gripped the lacquered edge of the dressing table. Her fingers curled into the Nordic carvings as her knuckles whitened.

“So short a life. So much pain, and yet…You spared him.” Clothilde tried to warm her daughter’s hand between her own, but that was futile. “Why would you spare him?” Fairlight didn’t answer. She got up off of the canopy bed and stood behind her mother’s chair, touching her head to the top of hers.

“I wish that I had been able to enter your mind. I could have known you so much sooner. But witches cannot enter the mind of other witches. I have tried long enough to know.” Fairlight said sadly.

“We can only enter the minds of the humans.” Clothilde finished. Fairlight looked surprised. Weren’t witches also human?

“There is so much that I do not know about what I am. I tried to enter your mind many times, but I never could. I had visions of you, but I could not reach you. Everything I know about witchcraft I learned on my own, mostly accidentally. I spent most of my life trying not to be a witch.” Clothilde sighed, poor girl must have had a terrible time coming into her power alone…and amongst people who tortured her for it.

“I should have been there to teach you…but even that might have been a disservice. Power in and of itself is not evil, only what we do with it that is. It is a misconception of humans that witchcraft is evil. They think anything is evil that they don’t have. Greed and desire are what drives humanity, and they know they will never have what we do. Witches are not bad unless they choose to be.” Clothilde sighed. “Still, I’m afraid that I could only have ever taught you to use magic poorly, as I have. Revenge has swallowed my life.” Fairlight shook her head emphatically.

“But if you had known I was not dead, you would not have had reason for revenge! It is Grigor’s fault…not yours.” Clothilde set her glass down on the dressing table. The oil lamp next to the glass of ruby port made it look as if the table was aflame.

“He used my love for you to make me kill thousands of men, and when he told me you were dead I could not contain the hatred any longer. But it is not wholly his fault. I could have chosen, not to do what I did…just as you chose to be merciful.” Fairlight stiffened.

“Do not sanctify me yet mother. Unless you can end this curse on your own, I am a hand’s breadth away from doing a great work of evil of myself.” Clothilde looked confused. Her daughter looked so serious and so sad. Her face looked more like it had been etched from white marble like a statue, rather than a fleshly face. It was somehow even more stone-like then the gray stone walls of the Keep.

“What great work of evil? You need not do any such thing to end the curse. Simply do what you set out to! Kill the man you believe to be responsible for all this suffering.” Fairlight lay down across her bed, her hands over her eyes.

“I cannot. My brother will not kill you, even though he should. You have caused such unimaginable suffering for him and his family. He does this, for me. Therefore, I will not kill my father, even though I should. It is this unspoken agreement that sees you here, with me now, and not tied to a pyre outside my window.” Fairlight said gesturing to the tall window in the center of her wall. Clothilde went to it, and peered through it into the morning sunlight. The view was of the central yard, not the gardens, but the yard. The ground was hard packed snow, but patches of it were bare where steam escaped through grates from under the ground. A scaffolding was set up in the center.

“Your room is above the dungeons? Why would he make you look at the gallows every day?” Clothilde was horrified. Why would the King do this to his sister?

“I asked for this room. I deserve one of those cells with a window looking up only unto death… No one will ever force me into one, all I see is this half-life for myself. I wanted to look out onto the misery as a sort of penance I suppose…since no one is going to punish me for what I have done, and what I am about to do.” Fairlight spoke softly and without even a trace of self pity or sadness. She added another piece of wood to the large marble fireplace in order to soften the draft from the window. Clothilde turned back to her.

“What terrible evil do you think that you are about to commit?” She looked at her daughter’s quiet face, stony and pale as ash.

“I cannot tell you. It need not worry you, it doesn’t concern you.” Fairlight lied in the gentlest and most re-assuring of tones. “It will not occur until after you are gone.” Clothilde swept back across the room to her daughter’s side. She had no intention of leaving her ever again.

“Gone? Do you mean…?” The unspoken question was an obvious one.

“No mother. You will leave here, alone, next time it dawns. No harm will come to you as long as you leave. Grigor, on the other hand, will be staying…albeit in the dungeon.”

“But why? I have never wanted anything in my life more than to stay with you. You simply cannot make me leave.” Tears were falling in tracks down the dirt on the witch’s face. Her clothes were still damp with thawed snow and dirt from the road. She made a somewhat pitiable sight.

“I cannot guarantee your safety here, at least not until the curse is lifted. Everyone is so eager that it should be, and you are an easier target than most. Every single person who knows of the curse has been taught to hate you, and that by your death it could all be ended. It won’t be King Freyr who harms you, but it will be someone. Only once the curse is ended, may you return. I will be glad to receive you, mother.” Fairlight said with another pretty lie. She knew how this ended. Her, and her mother’s true and lasting reunion would never take place.

Clothilde swallowed. This was more, and less than she expected. Her daughter did not hate her, she had not struck her or shouted at her…but she was not going to let her stay. She really, had truly wanted the chance to stay.

“The curse may not end until my death, or it might end with Grigor’s…and that might well be mine too. Our life forces are inextricably tangled now. He is bound to me for death or for life…more completely and physically than if he had just married me when I fell pregnant with you.” Fairlight rang a small silver bell on the glossy table by a large mirror covered with a sheet.

“I have every reason to believe that you will live for quite some time…if you leave. If you stay now, you will not live to see another day, and our reunion will be brief.” Fairlight’s voice had become cool and distant. “For now, I have rang for my servant to draw you a bath and give you some fresh clothes and some traveling money. I will make you a list of villages in Gyllene which might be safe for you, provided that you not let your identity be known. If you send me a letter telling me where you are, I will send for you when I can.” Fairlight paused by the door, even though the girl was already waiting to lead Clothilde to a bathing chamber. “Aren’t you going to follow me?” Clothilde was still completely stationary.

“I find I cannot move. How could I leave you after just finding you again?” Clothilde rose anyway and followed her daughter to the door.

“My dear mother, if you do not leave me now, you will never see me again. Come along. It will not be long, and until then, you may rest assured that I bear you no ill will for my suffering.” Fairlight was being honest. She did not blame her mother for the terrible things that had happened to her, and she had no anger towards her. The irony was, after their separation, she knew that it would be Clothilde who would not forgive her.

The sky was amber in hue when the boat reached the other side of the strip of ocean dividing the two halves of Gyllene. The Keep was accessible by land through the mountains of course, but no one would be so foolish to travel that way at this time of year. The time of year was dangerous to travel across the ocean. Winter storms were a precarious thing to sail through even without a cursed man! Darkness coming early, meant a short window before the change rendered him insensible. For reasons Gilda could not fathom, all of Freyr’s instincts toward the people around them seemed violent and unpredictable. His desire to protect her, to the extent that he would leave King Rearden to die, still distressed her. It was not like him. She did not want to turn this ‘new Freyr’ loose on the deck of the ship when he had no control over his strange predispositions.

The bear pawed at the still raised gangplank. It made a lowing noise of impatience and anxiety.

“Please, Sir, we have docked. My dear pet must get to shore immediately. Bears have needs that you would prefer I do not allow it to satisfy on this vessel.” Gilda said urgently to the Captain. He was watching his crew make what seemed like unnecessarily intricate knots adhering the ship to the gnarled wooden dock. One man sliced his hand on one of the many mussel shells that crusted the mooring posts. Another delay. Gilda hissed in irritation.

“Surely my Lady does not wish us to float off into the night while her familiar gets away?” The Captain asked with a relaxed attitude, but he eyed the gigantic bear anyway. It was clear that he was trying to ascertain what needs she might be referring to.

“If you do not let him off the boat this instant, floating away will be the least of your problems. If you value your flesh’s adherence to your skeleton you will lower the gangplank!” Gilda’s hair was standing on end. Rearden put his hand on her arm to calm her, but that was the absolute worst thing he could have done. The bear’s eyes were on them in that instant. He rose up on his hind legs, the old ship swayed slightly at the change of balance. Rearden dropped his hand. He glanced at Gilda in a panic, shoving her behind him and advancing on the bear, with his knife drawn. The bear considered for the merest of moments. Rearden sliced the rope holding the gangplank up, allowing it to fall with a crash against the dock. The pool of water on the warped surface of the dock threw salt water and fish scales into the air as the entire platform shook from the force of the hefty plank dropping 15 feet unexpectedly.

“Go. Now.” King Rearden said. The bear had already prepared itself for a fight when it saw the knife. Freyr would have almost no control over it at this moment. His paw was already on its way toward slicing Rearden’s face from his neck. Rearden inhaled in fear as the paw became fingers with claws. Freyr’s shock and horror at the beginning transition stopped his anger cold for an instant. He withdrew his outstretched arm and tucked the hand underneath himself. The bear turned and ran down the gangplank into the growing night. Gilda had no way of escorting her beastman at this point. She just had to hope that none of the screaming vendors, travelers, and sailors on the dock would try to harm the horrifying creature that was running past them down the central avenue of the docks. It looked like it was melting, shrinking and altering as it ran for the cover of the woods about a half mile in the distance.

Everyone in its path was diving out of the way, some of them even into the frigid water half frozen over under the docks. There was no cover for him to transition in. Everything in front of the docks was completely clear, and the road was wider than the widest Gilda had seen. Gilda bit her lip in sheer agony as the bear creature made it to the end of the dock without incident and continued running toward the woods, avoiding the busy roadway. Pedestrians and horse carts alike pulled up short to let the mutant thing race past them in a horribly broken gait. The Captain rubbed his sun-weary eyes.

“Did you do that to his paw? To save his Majesty of Twyle?” He asked with fear in his voice.

“That doesn’t matter.” Gilda didn’t care to explain. She kept her voice cold and even as she dropped the purse of money into his hand. He curled his fingers around it instinctively.

“I’m afraid we must be going. We will have to catch up with the witch’s familiar before anyone tries to shoot the poor beast.” Rearden stepped up to the gangplank. The guards, driver, and horses were anxious to disembark as well. The driver had been violently ill the whole voyage and was eyeing the grimy dock scene as if it were paradise itself. Captain Newcomb nodded reluctantly as he stepped to the side of the gangplank. He had so many unanswered questions. The bear growing an arm, the strange singed looking pheasant following the girl, the extent of the girl’s powers...yet it seemed that he would have no answers.

A guard stepped in front of Gilda to lead the party down the gangplank and along the slippery docks, they were slimy with fresh seawater, and slick with ice underneath it. It was painfully slow going, especially with everyone’s eyes on them. The ponies were just as uncooperative as before, and the gawkers were making them even more skittish. The dark water splashing around the stilted legs of the walkway unnerved the poor creatures. Larger waves caused small splashes up and over the decking, soaking the shoes of anyone crossing it – humans and horses alike. Gilda was becoming certain that there was no end to the dock. It just went on and on like some sort of horrible fish-scented purgatory. Finally they reached the end of the planks. The ground was bare of grass, but it wasn’t swaying and the horses seemed grateful for this. The young driver nearly collapsed in relief. The dusting of powdery snow on hard packed earth was frigid and stuck to their wet shoes, but it was solid, and that was a enough.

Gilda looked around them, if they were not going to be stoned for harboring a misshapen bear creature, then they should do what they came for. There was supposed to be a man with carts and carriages. They had sold their last conveyance at the previous docks, and now they needed a sturdier mountain carriage for making it along the narrow pass to the Keep.

Thankfully, one of the guards apparently knew where to go. He was impatiently gesturing for her to follow him. Gilda ducked her head and traipsed behind the others. To the far edge of the docks, there was what appeared to be an Inn – although letting rooms didn’t seem to be their main source of income. The name of the place was the “Eager Filly” and the patrons were mostly drinking and carousing with women in absurd amounts of face paint. The party in the Inn was in such full swing that it was spilling out into the yard, despite the frosty air. Thankfully the guard was not leading them there. BEHIND the loud unsightly building was a man with a pen of horses and a row of carriages. Gilda never would have seen it. Unlike the guard, she had been doing her best not to look in the direction of the Inn.

“Sir. We will be purchasing that carriage.” The leader of their two guardsmen said in a demanding tone of voice. He was pointing toward a squat, sturdy thing that looked designed for warmth and difficult terrain, rather than appearance. The horseman turned around in irritation only to realize that he had been addressed by a dark guard. He coughed and gave a half bow as if uncertain what to do.

“Perhaps, Sir, something a bit finer? The lady and the gentleman will be unused to such a…utilitarian conveyance.” The merchant gave a sidelong glance at the finely dressed marks…er…customers. The guard gripped the rough hewn fence railing and leaned in toward the man behind it.

“We will be traveling to the Keep. That vessel, commodious or not, is the only one that will make it there in one piece.” His voice was even more imperious than before. The merchant nodded reluctantly and deigned to sell them what was clearly his least expensive carriage. As if melting out of shadow, Freyr appeared beside Gilda. He turned to Rearden as the guard was finishing hitching the ponies to the new carriage. It was obvious that they were grateful for something as familiar as a yoke after their trying day.

“Allow me to apologize for my behavior earlier. I was not in control, the time of transition from one thing to the next is a difficult one. I am glad that I was unable to harm you, and hope that you will accept my expression of regret in that regard.” Freyr gave a slight bow toward Rearden. Rearden, nodded in return. Although he had found the prospect of being mauled disturbing, the threat had been brief, and apparently not entirely Freyr’s fault.

“We have at least a week’s journey ahead of us my friend. It would perhaps be better if we try not to maim one another before we even begin it.” Rearden’s tone was light. He was amused, not horrified. Gilda breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently the King of Twyle was able to have a sense of humor about nearly having his face removed.

Grigor sat in a grimy dungeon in the basement of his own Castle, chained to the wall with iron manacles. The manacles were almost large enough to slip off over his human feet, but he knew that they would be uncomfortably tight once he transitioned. The cell would certainly keep everyone in the castle safe from him when he became a bear, but it was intolerable all the same. He would have preferred his daughter’s blade to his throat than the slow hell of endlessly rotting in a dank hole in the ground. The dungeon stank with the smell of death. The only reason that it wasn’t worse was because the cold kept it like a giant ice chest. The odor of the other men’s bodies without sweat, was minimal…just the smell of the despair pervaded. It had the feel of a jail that men did not in general, get out of.

Grigor shook slightly even though he had been given a blanket. He wasn’t shivering from the icy cold of the stone bench he was lying on-nor was it out of fear of the dying men chained in the cell next to him. It was more like the weight of the knowledge he had gained a few hours earlier was crushing him. It filled him with a deep and powerful despair which shook him, physically.

He had known that his son must have had a difficult life. King Freyr had no mother, no father, bore a curse, and had seen too much death. His wife had left him and taken his children with her, yes, his son should be pitied. But Grigor was not responsible for any of his suffering. THAT was the fault of his own personal demon, Clothilde.

It was Fairlight’s suffering that gave him pause. She was supposed to have been safe. She was supposed to have grown up to be a normal young woman. Everything that had happened to her, could not be laid at the feet of her witch mother. Some of it unfortunately fell to his. He sighed and closed his eyes. The change would be coming any minute. Better to sleep through it and not endure any of the agony of being a caged animal. What time was it anyway? He couldn’t tell. If he were not a man at the moment he would assume that it should already be morning!

Perhaps it was all Clothilde’s fault. If she hadn’t been a witch, he wouldn’t have had to take her child away from her. He was King! He’d had no choice. A child of royal blood, bastard or not, could not be raised by a known witch – nor could he publicly claim one as his kin. He’d had no choice but to take her and send her somewhere far away, where no one would know that she had come from him. A village that prided itself on rooting out the evils of witchcraft had seemed the ideal place for her. If any village could prevent her from becoming like her mother, that would have been it. Yes. It was the error of the blood. Had she not been a witch, she would not have suffered…and she would not have been a witch had Clothilde not been her mother. He was blameless in the end after all. A King has a right to protect his name, and a father has the right to do whatever is necessary to ensure the well-being of his daughter. His actions had been just-although the outcome was unfortunate. The truth of why he had truly done it, wheedled and needled at his mind, but he refused to let the memory in. It was better to let it be Clothilde’s doing, and to allow himself to be wicked and without conscience. If he admitted the truth, even to himself, the waves of hot guilt would surely suffocate him.

Grigor stretched out in the dim candlelight of the poorly lit dungeon. Why had he not transitioned yet? He had been down here for hours. He sat up on the hard bench and looked down the hallway. There was no natural light in his cell, but there were grates in the ceiling of some of the low security cells down at the end. A few young thieves and female prisoners were sitting dejectedly in those. Light was streaming in through the barred hole in the ceiling. It was too pale and too bright to be candlelight. It was the clear light of a winter sun. But how? How could he possibly be human at this hour? That would be the greatest of ironies. To finally be cured, but to spend his remaining days locked in a dungeon?! No sunlight on his skin, no women, no wine, no soft bed or clean clothes…

Why? Why was he human now? Had they executed Clothilde? There was no chance that she had forgiven him. If anything, finding out the extent of her daughter’s suffering should make her hate him more…even if he wasn’t responsible for it. No. That could not possibly be why he was human. Was the curse truly ended? Were his brethren upstairs in the light celebrating? Or-was it another small change? He was so very far from the light. Not even the tiniest glimmer of it was touching his skin. Perhaps that was the trick.

That was almost more dangerous. All the temptation of interacting with the world as a normal human, when just opening a curtain could cause you to slaughter everyone in the room with you. A transition that could occur at any time of day, causing all the emotional flux of the change of instincts-it was unthinkable. If the curse was not ended, and it was merely a change, it was not one for the better. His son and grandchildren could be in extreme danger. Without the sunless tomb of the dungeon, they might not have even noticed the difference in the curse. How could he find out the truth of the matter? How could he warn them? Easily enough. He just had to get out of this dungeon.

Freyr was on edge again. Every day awoke new instincts and intensities inside him that had not been there before. They had been traveling now for a full two weeks and still had at least another couple to go. The mountain passes were thick with carpets of snow that obscured the rocky ground so much that it was impossible to know what you were about to step into. Daylight travel was the only possible kind, and winter days were short. The idea that it would be a short trek had proved quite inaccurate. Still, the monotonous white scenery and icy journey were the least of his problems. He was losing his mind.

Daylight glinted off Gilda’s hair, turning her into a seraphic creature for a moment. The young carriage driver could not help but cast her an admiring and furtive glance. Freyr knew it wasn’t the boy’s fault. He was young and Freyr could admit that in the past two weeks Gilda had only become more beautiful. Her skin developed a deeper luminosity, her bosom strained to be held in by her dress at night when she took off her coat in the warmth of their tent, and everything about her was lustrous. It was inexplicable. More inexplicable was his reaction to it. Every traveler that looked at her was in mortal danger. Even his companions had begun to notice his instability. Every time Rearden touched her, every time the driver so much as looked in her direction, the murderous gleam in his eyes was noticeable. More than that, if she so much as slipped on ice, he would insist on carrying her the rest of the day on his back. This was a woman who could heal herself! Why was he being this way?

Gilda’s beauty had never affected him in the same way it did others. He had fallen in love with the foolish young woman- her humanity-her enjoyment of her life, the beauty had always been secondary. Watching her had been painful when he had no hope of meeting her. She was so impossibly real and ridiculous and unrealistically optimistic, that for a depressed person like himself she had been intoxicating. She was like sunlight or air…so much more than her body. All of a sudden he was fiercely aware of every fiber of her physical being and was suffused with a deep compulsion to protect it. It was like she was an egg, and he feared that anyone who might want to touch her, could also break her. It had become simpler to have her ride astride his back when they traveled by day. It was impossible for him to guarantee Rearden’s safety if she traveled in the carriage with him. At night, he refused to let even a guardsman share their tent, and he himself scarcely slept. He couldn’t deny that he was coming unhinged.

Gilda slid off of his back and onto the ground, startling him from his thoughts. The lead dark guard had apparently called them to a halt. It was almost sunset and by now everyone was aware of Freyr’s need to transition privately. More so now than ever, he needed to be far from other people when he could not control himself. The guard had just been waiting for a spot of nearly level ground in order to make a decent camp. This area was sheltered from the wind by a strange half-moon shaped outcropping of rock, and the snow cover was correspondingly thin as well. Thin snow cover was good when making a camp, if you could see the ground you could tell where the smoothest sections were. Setting a tent on thick snow on a mountain pass often meant that one woke up several hours later on the wet floor of a tent pitched on jagged rocks that had been hidden until body heat melted the snow. Gilda touched him on the shoulder.

“You should go. I will be fine.” She said quietly as if sensing his intense reluctance to leave her. He nodded mutely. Playing the voiceless bear act during the day seemed to ease the nervousness of their companions. He didn’t like it, but given how on edge everyone was around him lately, it was for the best. Keeping silent all day made it too easy for him to get lost in his own thoughts, all of which were dark. He headed up and over the rocky ledge to find another sheltered, but further away spot. Being utterly naked in an unsheltered environment was untenable.

They were far enough away from the docks and the towns now that he almost didn’t have to smell the air for the presence of other travelers. Almost no one was trying to get to or from the Keep in this weather. The pass was nearly deserted. Freyr paused to look at the ground. No. That was impossible. Completely impossible. Apparently someone else HAD been trying to get to the Keep. There were a series of very large bear prints, larger than a real bear’s, heading in a more direct route up the side of the mountain. Directly up the side of the mountain the way only a clawed animal could. Carriages needed roads. A bear did not. Roads needed a shallow incline with lots of gradual switchbacks. Bears could take a quicker, shorter path. Whoever this was, they must have reached the Keep by now. As it was, a demon bear traveling alone, and with only one set of tracks, meant one thing. His grandfather had beaten them home. Freyr growled…only partially because the transition had begun and it was physically uncomfortable. His flesh was turning inside out. The knowledge that he was taking his wife to a place where his grandfather was, in a time when he could not trust his own inclinations, was undeniably frightening.

Freyr walked along the top of the ridge until he was standing directly over his companions’ campsite. He took a brief assessment of his mind and body. He felt in control. He looked down at the 20 foot drop from the top of the rock formation he was standing on to the ground. Instilling fear was good. If they continued to fear him, they would respect him, AND what was his. He leapt off the edge and landed squarely on his feet in the center of the clearing where his travel mates sat around their new fire. His fingertips just rested on the thawing ground for a moment to steady himself. He straightened slowly, enjoying the looks of surprise on everyone’s faces. Gilda shook her head at him, her lips pressed together in a tight line. She was furious, and she was right. His actions reminded him more of Frederick’s than his own lately. He was devolving. The presence of the other men in their camp was only just enough for him to keep from requiring Gilda’s attention, but the lack of that almost made it worse. His violent instincts were even more difficult to keep contained. Gilda rose from the semi-circle by the fire and walked to his side, laying a hand on his arm, and pulling him away from the fire.

“What are you doing? You do not want these people to fear you. Why won’t you behave normally?” She hissed at him through clenched teeth. Freyr sighed deeply.

“Come with me.” He said, as he forcibly pulled her up onto his back like he was giving a child a piggy back ride. Without warning he gripped the bubbled volcanic footholds of the rock above them and propelled them onto the top of it. He leapt up the rock wall like a human insect. Gilda gripped his neck tightly and stifled a cry of alarm. The guards jerked their necks in the direction of the sound but no longer saw their Prince or his witch. The area they had been in was now empty except for a vertical cliff face.

Freyr kept Gilda tightly on his back as he raced across the frozen ground he had recently traversed. He set her down alongside the cliff face where the impossible foot prints were. Even a normal sized real bear could not have made the climb on a face this sheer. Gilda stared at the print open mouthed.

“These are not yours?” She asked, instantly understanding. Freyr shook his head. She knew why he was so distressed.

“They are not.” He held her arm to keep her from getting too close to the edge. He pointed off of the side. “He came up that way. Without use of the road.” Gilda looked down at the barely visible tracks on the side of the cliff.

“He will already be there. Your Grandfather I mean. When we arrive.” She looked deeply concerned. Freyr gripped her arm more tightly to reassure her.

“I will protect you from him.” He assured her. For some reason hearing this made her face even grimmer.

“I know.” She said, but her words were hard and regretful.

“What’s wrong? Are you frightened of him? We can turn back, we can go somewhere else. We don’t have to go to the Keep…I will take you anywhere.” Freyr pulled her into his arms and back from the edge. Gilda rotated herself in his grasp to face inward.

“No. No that isn’t it.” She looked up at him. “What is concerning you? You are not yourself.” He pressed her back against the overhang of the mountainside above them.

“No. I’m really not.” He kissed her firmly enough to end the conversation. He had no answers to give her. Gilda shook herself free.

“Come on. We should head back before they wonder where we are.” He shook his head and pulled her back against him. He couldn’t let her become distant from him again. He kissed her again, gripping her to him and sliding his hands inside her coat, cupping her chest with one hand and sliding the other one down her thigh. He released her belatedly and put his forehead against hers. It was too cold for what he wanted. He wasn’t going to be able to do this. Freyr sighed, his dark brown hawk eyes were intent and serious.

“I will not let him harm you. No matter why my Grandfather is there, or what he had returned for, it will not be to harm you.” Gilda exhaled quietly.

“I know. You would prevent it with your life.” She said in a sad dull voice. Freyr growled under his breath.

“It won’t come to that again.” Gilda nodded.

“No. It really won’t.”