The End of The Cursed

‘King Jern of Vale married and executed or imprisoned many wives for failure to produce a son, but he still ended his reign with 17 daughters and no heir.’ – History of Vale

The King of Twyle sat alone in his chambers. It was becoming a habit. Arriving at the Keep had been much more than he had bargained for. He should never have come. Rearden sighed and put his face in his hands. The woman he had come for was dead. His elbows dug into his knees. He should ask for a desk. What good was a leather chair without a desk? No. He musn’t think like this. Freya. Freya was the woman he came for and she was alive and on her way. Gilda, who was dead…had only been his savior. His heart twisted involuntarily. It would not be faulted for its confusion.

He poured wine from a dusty…probably old and important bottle the servant had brought him. Neglected as he was, they were trying to treat him with his due. Rearden swallowed his first sip regretfully. Wine here was sweet as syrup. Something about letting the grapes freeze on the vine. If his country of tradesmen had nothing to offer them but proper viticulture, this Kingdom would be getting the better end of the deal. Rearden set his cup down on the floor. Really, the lack of desk in this room was appalling. He had no desire to finish the glass anyway. He stood up and walked toward the window. The world of endless snow was marred by the impression of a body on the south lawn where the garden would be in the spring. The impression was ringed by a crooked halo of blood droplets. Someone should shovel some snow over it. Leaving it there until Spring was distasteful.

Rearden turned from the window. He should leave now. The grieving Prince was King. Freyr had never offered him Freya’s hand in marriage and was unlikely to renew the offer. He had no illusions about how the younger man felt about him. He no longer had any purpose for being here, and he’d already sworn fealty to the Crown in exchange for being healed. Freyr knew that he would no longer consider going to war with Gyllene even though the Princess he had sworn fealty to was now dead. Rearden rubbed his forehead. All he could do now was hope that they still upheld their end of the treaty without the marriage. He wouldn’t want to marry her even if Freyr did offer. It was wrong to marry a girl who was thrown to you like a bone because you threatened to invade a country. It would make him no better than a rabid dog if he picked up the treat they had thrown him out of fear. Two people had died…and he was not going to continue to misuse the royal family that was left. He had a strange thought occur to him.

There was something he could do for the woman who had healed him. She was so concerned about the fate of her little country, and now that he was no longer crippled, he might be able to help. He stepped in front of the long oval mirror next to the bed. He was tall, broad shouldered now that they were straight, and his face and sleek blue/black hair were very attractive. All his efforts to overcome his deformity had left him highly educated, and with more than the average amount of charm. He just needed to find a way to meet the female heir to the Vale throne. The King of Vale’s very storied efforts to produce a male heir had all been failures. The man had 5 imprisoned or executed wives and 17 daughters. As a daughter could not ascend to the throne unless she was married to a sovereign in his own right, Rearden simply needed to impress the eldest.

Freya stood at the base of the mountain passage. This was impossible. Two things were impossible. For one, it was now daylight and she was still human. How was this happening? She was a woman with hands, arms, feet and legs…no claws, no fur…nothing. What had happened to her? She looked back and the craggy, snowy, barely distinguishable pass again. Second impossibility. Unless they had two bears in their party, how were they going to manage to traverse the terrain? The ponies were fine, but the bears would have made all the difference in packing down the snow or assisting in hauling the wagon. Freya gripped Elias’ arm.

“What are we going to do?” Freya asked out loud. Frederick was busily examining himself in the sunlight. He, like Freya, had retrieved his clothes and come back to stand by the others. There had been no transformation. He looked as pleased as he did surprised.

“About what? This is incredible!” He looked jubilant. Freya sighed. Her brother had not realized that they had a problem.

“Frederick-it will be difficult for us to get up that pass without our…our cursed forms. Xanthippe’s condition needs a smooth road and we can’t give her one.” Frederick looked up, alarmed. Even Xanthippe who seemed to be in her own little world at the moment glanced over at them, and then the passage. Her eyes widened, but she kept her mouth shut tightly, lips pinched. Theodore took her hand reassuringly, and she leaned against him gratefully. Freya raised an eyebrow but turned away. This was something she hadn’t noticed. She didn’t like it. It was sweet. And touching. But it was going to bring about some very poor behavior in Frederick.

“Elias and Theodore will lead the horses to tramp down the snow. Xanthippe will walk where she can, and ride on my back where she can’t. We could even carry her between us. It’s not particularly important.” He ran his fingers over his human chest with great satisfaction. “THIS is important. Look at us!” He was as pleased as a cat with a canary in its belly.

“A piggy back ride will not save Xan’s child. We need to think about this carefully. She can’t ride a horse! This is a problem.” Freya answered steadily.

“No. No it isn’t.” Xanthippe said firmly. Frederick spun around. He looked furious. No matter what she meant, it wasn’t acceptable to him.

“What are you saying?” He demanded. Xanthippe jutted her bottom lip out, turned behind her and pointed to the little thatch roofed inn that they had just left.

“I’m saying I will stay there until Spring. You can give me money to stay at the Inn until the baby arrives. By then it will be safe to have someone come and retrieve it.” Xanthippe’s eyes were on the snow beneath her feet.

“A woman alone at an inn? In your condition?” Freya shook her head. Xan’s waistline was becoming much more obvious. A beautiful woman in an indefensible situation alone, would be in dire straits.

“I won’t be alone.” Xanthippe said firmly. “Theodore will stay with me.” No one seemed more surprised by this sentence than Theodore. But his mask of utter shock quickly transformed to one of resolve.

“Yes. I plan to stay with Xanthippe until the child is born…longer if she will let me.” He said quietly. Xanthippe gave him a small smile. She had never known chivalry or gentleness in a man. Her first experience had been a violent one, and the others had been with men who were paying her. Theodore was something different. Surprisingly, she liked it. She almost wished that he didn’t have such qualms about sleeping with a pregnant woman. She was curious to find out what gentleness was like.

“No. I forbid it. That is a royal child and it belongs to me. You will stay with ME at all times.” Frederick snarled, his lips curling with anger. He reached towards her before Freya slapped his hand away.

“Frederick, she’s right. The child is safer at the Inn than on the road. We’re a stone’s throw from the keep in Spring, but very far in this winter weather. We’ll send an envoy when we reach the Keep with a guard and anything else she will need.” Freya turned to Xanthippe. “All we want, is for you to be safe. Are you certain that this is what you want?” Xanthippe nodded tightly. Freya looked down at her very human self again. “It could be normal now. The child I mean. You might change your mind. You might not want to give it to us.” Xanthippe looked horrified.

“No. No. There is more to being cursed than being a monster. I’ve simply decided that I am done suffering. My being cursed, and my association with monsters, bear or men…is over. I will not change my mind.” Xan’s lips were a tight white line. “Theodore, will you walk me to the Inn?” She grasped for his arm. He gave it to her nervously. Frederick attempted to leap twenty feet towards him from where he was standing, and fell onto the rocky ground instead. The sound of his knees hitting the ground was audible even through his furred leather trousers. He should have sprang through the air effortlessly and hit Theodore square in the chest. Freya looked at her brother in surprise.

“Are you alright?” She asked extending her hand to try to help him up. He slapped it away.

“Leave it. I’m fully capable of getting up.” Frederick made an attempt to leap to his feet, but found he had to climb to them instead. His knees made a popping noise as he stood. Freya looked down at her limbs. Had they lost all effects of the curse? Frederick looked at the mountainous rock face. He ran towards it and attempted to climb the wall of stone. It was slow and clearly difficult. Freya inhaled sharply. They’d gained their humanity, but they had lost much of the abilities that they become accustomed to. They had no cursed senses. She could only see, hear, and smell what was in the close vicinity. Was it marginally better than a human’s? How would she know? She had never been human before. She felt blinded. Frederick made a pathetic roaring noise as he leapt down from the mountainside. Thankfully he had not made it very far up the wall of rock. Had he jumped down from much farther, now that they were human… Freya gripped his arm.

“Breathe. We are better off.” A strange giddy sense of jubilation filled her. “We’ve always wanted to be normal.” Frederick ripped her hand off of his arm. She cried out and held her sprained wrist in surprise.

“Normal? A day ago I could have torn this boy’s head off his body for trying to take my woman and my child. Now I…” Frederick looked at Theodore thoughtfully. Freya could tell he was trying to gauge his new level of strength against Theodore’s thin frame. He was clearly trying to figure out how badly he could realistically injure the boy.

“We’re human now Frederick, we can’t behave like animals.” Freya reproached him as she cradled her wrist. She hoped it was only sprained. It wasn’t going to heal at sunset. He just laughed, he hadn’t even noticed that he had hurt her.

“You can’t.” He punched Theodore in the chest, hard with his fist. The action knocked Theodore over onto the thin layer of snow beneath their feet. Frederick smiled before turning and running up the path leading to the Keep. His gait was a bit crooked from his injured knees, but he clearly had wanted the last word. Elias rushed over to help Theodore back up. Freya watched her brother’s progress as he fled up the pass. That wretched creature. For him, this was actually bad news. She gave her head a quick shake.

“Well then. I guess we should get you and Theodore safely checked into the Inn before he comes back.” Freya gave a deep sigh. Becoming human was going to be about a lot more than no longer transforming.

The dungeon master was not happy. He had a new prisoner that he didn’t particularly approve of. It wasn’t as if he had minded housing the former King before today. But things were very different now. A man that changed into a beast and then back into man again was nothing he couldn’t handle. He had grown up serving the Demon Kings. He knew what was possible when magic was involved. Magic, was something he had gotten used to.

The man they had brought him yesterday was nothing like that. The former King was a changed man. He looked like a man, but he had fangs and claws…and no humanity at all. He slavered and growled and acted like he was devoid of any senses. Grigor was like the mad man that they carted round in a cage for village fairs. That poor hunchbacked man with matted hair and beard had spent all day being poked with sticks in a wooden cage…But that was how you were supposed to treat mad men. Locking them in a prison cell was somehow even crueler. The glinting feral eyes of the man in his cell were tortured. They weren’t at all glassy or vacant like the eyes of the mad man in the cage. This man was present inside the body, just unable to speak or act his will upon it. The man in his cell was a prisoner in more than just the obvious way.

So this was how the great Demon King was going to end his days. The man who had killed thousands in order to begin his rule over the Golden Kingdom was reduced to this. Locked in a cell underneath his own fortress…like a rabid dog someone cared too much about to put down. In this case it seemed more as if he was kept as he was for punishment. If the King’s grandson cared more about his grandfather, he would do the right thing and put the shell out of its misery. If the jailor himself were braver, he would have put a knife to the poor man’s throat himself.

The King awakened with a gasp. He had died. He was fairly certain of that. Yet here he was. He sat up on the cold stone slab and looked around him. Yes. He was in the morgue under the Keep. It was dark and cave-like in the room, because it had been hewn from stone. He was under the mountain in the morgue, where the flickering sconces gave sparse illumination to what should have been his dead body. He felt his skin with his fingers. What time was it? He was fully human, and last thing he remembered he had been a bear.

The King wrapped the sheet that had been over him around his naked body around himself as he swung his legs over the side of table. He was about to slip off of it when he saw what lay on the ground preventing him from doing so. Fairlight lay prostrate on the ground, her whitish hair swirled around her ghost-like face. He jumped off the other end of the table wincing as he hit the ground. His joints hurt and his limbs were stiff. Didn’t matter. He knelt down beside her.

“Fairlight! Fairlight?” He touched his hand to her forehead. It was like ice beneath his fingers. That meant nothing. He put his fingers just under her chin along her neck. “Fairlight? Please.” There was no fluttering sensation beneath his fingertips. He grasped about on the poorly lit table beside him until he found a small blade. He held the thin instrument just under her nose. No condensation. No breath marred the shining blade. He threw it across the room with a guttural sobbing sound.

“No!” He pulled her limp body into his lap and her face up to his, brushing her long hair off her face. “No, No sister. You cannot leave me like this!” He crushed her lifeless form against his chest. She gave no resistance. His sister was dead. The only person who had ever loved him was dead. His wives had only ever cared about his crown and tolerated his curse-his children had left him, and surely hated him now…but Fairlight had actually loved him. He hadn’t meant to shed tears, but they were falling unbidden onto her face and the carpet of hair that covered his lap. A soft knocking sound startled him. He looked up to see the aged mortician standing in the doorway. Anger flooded his body. Dying and being brought back to life had not cured his illness. Rage, misdirected and utterly out of proportion flowed through his veins. He let his sister’s body slip off of his lap onto the floor as he climbed to his feet.

“How did this come to be?” He demanded, pointing at her. The man looked terrified. His chin was trembling under his thick white beard.

“I don’t know Sire. When I left the room she was alive and you were…” He put his hand to his chest as though his heart had spasmed. He gasped. “You were…not, Sire.” The King grabbed the worthless servant and crushed him against the gray stone wall, enjoying the crunching sound. He dropped him onto the floor alongside the other dead body and left the room.

He had to find someone who knew what had happened. The person he cared most about in the world was dead, and without a mark on her to show how it had occurred. He had been dead, and then… He wound his fingers into his long dark hair and cried out in a long sound of intense pain. She had done it to herself. If he hadn’t already bashed in the mortician’s skull he would have done it again. How could that man have allowed his sister to do something so wretched? Had no one else known of her plans? Who was responsible for this?

A serving woman screamed at the sight of him when he reached the top of the staircase that rejoined the King’s Hallway. She dropped the jar of water she was holding and ran panicked in the other direction. The jar smashed as it hit the ground and splashed water over him. He looked down as red rivulets joined the clear droplets on the pale ash colored stone floor. Ah. He was covered in blood from the old man he had just destroyed. The sound of the woman screaming continued as she fled down the corridor. His reflection in the wet floor was formidable. He was completely naked, covered in blood and other matter… Hmmm. He cocked his head to the side looking at himself. It would have been better if he had met with the King of Twyle like this. He wouldn’t have had to promise the sniveling upstart his wayward daughter.

The King left his reflection to head down the hall. He really ought to find some clothing, after which he would find who was responsible for the sacrifice of his sister-and he then would kill them.

Gilda lay in the curve of Freyr’s arm, tucked so tightly against his side that she could scarcely move. She tried to slip out from underneath his arm, but he was completely immobile and utterly asleep. This was inconvenient. She had to find the stone that he had dropped. Something needling in the back of her mind was compelling her to find it. It was all she could think about. Her mind was filled with the image of the smooth white stone. She hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it behind her eyelids. At this point she wanted to find it just to throw it out a window or destroy it so that it would stop tormenting her!

Still. She didn’t want to wake Freyr. It had taken hours before he had lost enough of his anger to fall asleep. It took Rearden practically kissing her feet with joy to see her alive, before Freyr had started to change his tone. Another man being beside himself with relief over his own wife’s miraculous recovery had made his reaction seem particularly cruel. He had been forced to relent and appear happy about her return to life as well. Gilda tried shutting her eyes again. She wished that Freyr had responded with less anger. She had craved his forgiveness and affection more than anyth…DAMN IT! There was something she wanted more than his forgiveness. That stupid little white stone. She wanted it so badly that she could practically feel the smoothness of it in the palm of her hand. Freyr’s grasp on her slackened slightly as he turned to the side. He was still gripping her like a drowning man grips a piece of timber…but it was enough that she could slither out from under his arm.

Gilda scuttled along the floor, looking hopelessly for it. It was probably gone. The servants had replaced the broken furniture in a flurry of activity that boggled her mind. Had she not seen the room in complete disarray only a few hours earlier, she never would have known it had been ruined in every possible way. They had left to find Fairlight, but had found Rearden instead. His emotional reaction had been time consuming. After several hours of explanations and his failure to be calmed, it became clear that Fairlight would have to wait. They needed sleep more than they needed anything she could tell them. When they had returned to Freyr’s room it was immaculate. How his servants had managed to carry out all the broken bed pieces, tables, chairs and sweep up the feathers she did not know. But it was clean. There was no chance that the stone had been…but it was! It was lying in the center of the floor underneath the new bed as if it had been glued there. Gilda stretched out her fingers and curled them around the contours of the stone.

The door crashed open, practically coming off its hinges as it slammed into the wall. The force of the door reverberating against the stone wall shook the black curtains and a glint of daylight hit the floor and the bed. It was day? This Keep was turning her mind inside out. She hadn’t had any idea. Oh God! It was day!

Gilda glanced at Freyr who had leapt to his feet on the bed, and toward the doorway which held the very human King. What? How were they both human? The curtain rod holding the black velvet curtains had fallen sideways and sunlight was streaming in and illuminating both of their forms…which showed no signs of transformation. Gilda stayed crouched behind the bed. How many life or death situations could a person survive?

“Father?!” Freyr looked confused as he stood on the bed, dressed only in linen pants, staring at the man in the doorway. The King was resplendent, beautifully attired, perfectly coiffed, and completely alive. This was too much. He had killed this man as a bear what must have been 2 days ago. How was he now alive? Gilda had been one thing. Now he was almost certain that he was losing his mind. Where was Gilda? He glanced at her side of the bed. There was a glint of gold just underneath it. She was hiding. Thank heaven for small miracles. His father shut the door just as firmly, sending the other curtain rod to the floor.

“Yes. I am alive.” He ran a hand over his beard almost thoughtfully. “Did you encourage her to do it? Guilt and all that? For killing me I mean.” While he spoke slowly and deliberately, the King was making no sense. Encourage who to do what? His father looked so tired, but his eyes were shiny and wild.

“Encourage who? I don’t know what you are talking about.” Freyr stepped off the bed behind it, away from his father.

“Fairlight. She transferred her life force to me and now lies dead in my place.” The King’s words were bitter and cold. “Did you know that witches can revive the dead that way? It is a trick they can only do once.” His voice was accusatory. Gilda hit her head on the underside of the bed in surprise. She bit her lip to keep from hissing or crying out. “Who is under your bed? You did not move on from your dead wife so quickly?” The King demanded. Which presumptuous little serving girl was he hiding? Freyr shook his head.

“I did not know Fairlight was dead! Are you certain? I thought Gilda was…I thought you were but…” The King exhaled in surprise. He bent down to look under the bed.

“She’s alive?!” He reached his arm under the bed with startling speed, gripped Gilda by her hair and pulled her out from underneath it. Gilda screamed in pain and indignation. Freyr leapt out from behind the bed. He was seething.

“Let go of her!” He protested, gripping his father by the wrist. The King released her hair, but several strands remained wound in his fingers. Gilda put her hands to her head in shock and pain.

“Yes I’m bloody well alive! So stop trying to kill me again you stupid Ox!” Gilda snapped in anger, before shutting her lips tightly to prevent any further coarse words from coming out of her mouth. Her speech had a tendency to become exceedingly common when she was upset. The King looked at her with confusion.

“How?” Gilda shrugged, highly aware of the fact that she was attired only in a pale nightgown.

“Fairlight. She drugged me and made it look like I was dead. She wanted to confound my Grandmother’s visions.” The King’s eyes widened. Fairlight had used the same method that her father had used on her. His shoulders slumped. She had no reason to do the same thing with herself. She was actually dead.

“Did she tell you that she planned to revive me?” Gilda shook her head.

“Only that she had something to do. I would have…” Gilda bit her tongue. She couldn’t tell him that she would have tried to prevent Fairlight, even though it was true. Telling him that she would have allowed him to remain dead could be dangerous, he was clearly becoming unhinged.

“Father.” Freyr put his hand on his father’s arm. “Neither of us had any control over anything Fairlight did these past few days. She was the one making all the decisions…we were scarcely more than her puppets.” His father struck him hard across the face. Freyr had meant his words to illustrate their innocence, but his father only heard judgement against his sister. Freyr put his hand to his cheek, startled by the blood on his lip.

“Stop.” Freyr’s voice was firm. “There has been enough violence. I hold no grudge against your sister and I wish she had lived.” He reached for his father tentatively. “I am very sorry for what you have lost.” Gilda looked at the King. He was mad. Not angry, the King had truly lost his mind. His eyes glinted in a disturbing way that indicated the peculiar depth of his feelings for his sister. Gilda ducked her head and inched backwards across the room.

“It worked…what she did. She gave you more than your life back.” Gilda made it to the window and pulled the final portion of the dark curtain off of it so that sunlight streamed in uninterrupted. Light flooded the room, shining over the two men with absolutely no effect. The King closed his eyes, water beading almost imperceptibly in the corners. Freyr hadn’t even noticed until now either. He had been so concerned about Gilda’s safety. It was true. They were both completely human.

“I didn’t know that she could do that-transfer her life I mean. I’m not really a witch, and I don’t know anything about magic really. Clothilde only took care of me, she wasn’t even my grandmother.” Gilda said softly. “I didn’t think that she cared enough about me to end the curse over my death.” The King sighed.

“Fairlight knew.” He turned to leave the room. “Don’t sleep too long. We should adjust to waking during the day…as long as it is possible now.” He paused in the doorway. “Did Grigor survive?” He looked defeated. Freyr nodded.

“Of sorts I suppose. The curse did not fully leave him. He is locked in the Dungeon for everyone’s safety.” The King ground his teeth with some powerful emotion he wasn’t going to share and shut the door wordlessly behind himself. Gilda almost fell to the ground in relief as the door clicked in place, but she made it to the bed before collapsing. Freyr returned to sit beside her.

“What are we going to do?” She asked quietly.

“He has fully taken leave of his senses…” Freyr answered. Gilda nodded. They were no safer than they had been in Edenhoven. Perhaps less.

Clothilde made her way up the jagged staircase of wide slab stone steps to the forbidding gate of the Keep. The assembled guardsmen tilted their spears in her direction.

“You are not allowed to return here.” The Captain said firmly. Clothilde smiled.

“I know.” She laughed sweetly as the snow on the ground began melting and running in little pools around the feet of the gate guards. The rivulets of water crept up their legs, stiffening as they rose until each of the men was stuck in place by casts of solid ice. “I will melt them once I am inside…If you are good, and you do not attempt to stop me. I’d hate for any of you to lose an appendage.” The Captain met her gaze, but there was fear in his eyes. He had thought she was referring to frostbite, but the angle of her eyes indicated that she would harm a fully separate appendage from his feet if he tried to alter her course. There are very few men who would make such a sacrifice simply out of loyalty.

Clothilde saw the acquiescence in their eyes as she slipped past them. The snaking strands of spiked iron in the gates slithered back momentarily allowing her step directly through the gate before sliding back into their original alignment. She walked unimpeded up to the front door of the Keep and entered without knocking. A startled man servant who tried to cry out found his voice completely gone, stopped in his throat. That was an old trick, one she’d used to keep men from making declarations to Gilda for years. She smirked as she continued down the corridor, silencing and ending the progress of anyone who tried to alter her course. She found the King’s hallway and the stairs leading to the underbelly of the Keep without difficulty. The coffin that held her beloved child was down there, and she might already be too late. There was a brief window of time to snatch someone back with your own life. No one would willingly return to their own body if they were in paradise.

Clothilde entered the burial chamber in the crypt with anxiety curdling her blood and making her heart pound in her chest. A long white coffin had been pulled out of the wall. The marble lid lay on the ground off to the side. Inside the coffin were just the satin sheet and lining, with no body inside at all. Gilda’s body was gone. Had someone known what she planned to do and moved it? Why would anyone take Gilda’s body? The stench of fresh death lingered in the air. Clothilde inhaled deeply and followed the smell back down the hallway she had just traversed. There was a cold dark room at the end of the hall. It had to be where bodies were prepared. The entire room smelled of richly of death, the newly deceased and many decades of older dead. She grasped a torch from the sconce in the damp stone hallway and entered the room.

Her heart tightened and collapsed in her chest. Fairlight was dead. There was dried blood on the floor, but not on Fairlight. She was clean and perfect, lying on slab, already prepared for burial. How had this happened? She bent over the cool stone table that held the body of her daughter. Fairlight’s face was a mask of wraithlike quality. Clothilde touched the papery skin. She could not revive her. Fairlight had no life left in her to rekindle. She had given her own life force to someone else. Who? To Gilda? Why would Fairlight sacrifice herself for Gilda? And why had she delved so deeply into the past of someone who was dead? The evidence was in the sickly sweet smell of death she exuded and in her altered appearance. Clothilde fell into the sole chair in the room. She could not transfer her own life force to her daughter. A witch’s life force could revive a human-but not another witch. It was a secret that all the gifted kept. If it was known, a witch’s life would be in even more danger than it already was. Who would not trade the life of witch, grown or child, for the life of their loved one?

Clothilde rested her forehead against the table. She had failed both her daughters. She didn’t even know where Gilda was. But Gilda was the only one left that she might be able to save.

“I am so sorry my love. Whatever you did, I hope it was worth it. Forgive me for failing to protect you again.” Clothilde spoke slowly, but she rose eventually and left the room. Hopefully there was still time left for Gilda. She climbed the staircase back to the King’s hallway. Answers would begin and end with Freyr.