The End of The Cursed

‘A Daughter’s purpose in society is to marry advantageously, in alliance with another family of esteem. Although, given that one pays a handsome dowry for such an alliance – and should therefore expect a treaty by virtue of the sizeable gift itself, one wonder’s why one bother’s with daughters at all!’ – Excerpt from A Daughter’s Place – A Nobleman’s Guide to Using his Misfortune Well

Freya entered the throne room with complete trepidation. Her limbs moved in slow motion as the guards let her in. They all seemed off their game. Confused, half asleep, and rubbing their legs. Still, she was too frightened to wonder about this. With no proof of transformation, she had to rely on her father’s memory of what she looked like. Or his Seer’s visions, but she had not heard from Fairlight after the first time. It had been enough years that she wasn’t sure her father would remember her face, as he hadn’t been the most devoted of fathers when she had lived at the palace.

A tall man with dark hair who looked quite a bit like Freyr except for the oddly bright blue eyes and gray streaked beard was sitting in the throne at the end of the long hall. The floor was so shiny that it appeared to be mirrored, and sent stretched and skewed reflections of herself and her companions across its surface as she walked forward. Her father looked older than she had imagined…but perhaps the end of the curse had hit him harder. She looked no older, but she had lost her sense of smell, her sight, and her ache for bloodshed. The end of the curse had been like drinking a glass of red wine. She felt at ease, every fiber tingling and relaxed. No hatred, no anger, no thumping of white hot blood through her heart that she was barely able to contain. It had been like sands slipping through her fingers for so long, and now she was free of all the horrible rage. It was bliss. She knelt before the throne.

“Father,” Her voice was quiet. Frederick stood beside her but did not bow. He was still angry and bitter. More so now, that Freya seemed intent on announcing them to their Father, which he found emasculating. At the moment, Freya was the sole focus of his hatred. But he might redirect it at her father depending on how their greeting went. Elias stood back, apart from them, allowing space for what he thought would be a familial reunion. The King stood and walked towards her.

“What proof can you offer me of your identity?” He asked. Freya slid the narrow chain of gold from her neck and into the light. The tiny golden bird glinted in the light.

“Only my memories, and this gift from my mother. You know, I assume, that the best proof I could offer you, is mysteriously gone.” She kept her eyes on the floor, as she extended a claw fragment of Frederick’s that had been lodged in the wagon’s wooden walls from one of his many outbursts. She was grasped by the back of her dress and pulled to her feet unceremoniously.

“I believe you.” He took the necklace in his hand and tugging the chain off of her neck, breaking the clasp. “I assume the man beside you is your younger brother, and the mouse who hangs back like a coward, is the man that I must dispose of in order to make you a widow?” The King demanded as he held her up to his face by the back of her red woolen winter dress. “You will marry the King of Twyle.” He shook her hard. “You know this. Do not pretend that the merchant’s fate is anyone’s doing but your own,” Freya gasped as he released her suddenly and she fell to her knees cracking them painfully on the hard marble floor. Frederick laughed out loud. He seemed highly amused by the notion of watching his brother in law be killed. Elias didn’t even blink. He simply closed the distance between them and took her hand. Instead of wanting to wring his neck for such stupidity, she took it and held it firmly.

A handsome man with sleek black hair sitting in an ornate chair behind and to the left of her father’s throne stood up. Freya had no idea who he was. She didn’t recognize him, and he obviously wasn’t the crippled King of Twyle. Why did this man have a throne? Was her father really going to execute his son in law here, in front of everyone, before even offering his children food, affection, or so much as fresh clothing after their many months long journey? The man she didn’t recognize put his hand on the arm of the King.

“Majesty. I’m afraid that in all the commotion of the past week, I neglected to mention something rather important.” His voice was a rich baritone, almost a purring sound. The King turned to face him.

“What is that?” He demanded.

“I’m afraid that I am no longer interested in the hand of the Princess.” He nodded respectfully toward Freya who curtsied in return with some confusion. “I have been corresponding with the King of Vale and he is interested in making an introduction to his eldest daughter.” King Freyr Krystian was growing progressively more flushed until he was nearest to purple in shade as Rearden continued speaking. “I will of course still abide by our treaty. I have sworn fealty to your crown Princess and have no intention of breaking my word. As long as you provide the resources you promised, I will provide the metal workers, artisans, and vintners that I offered. You will benefit of course from this alliance as well. If I do marry the Princess of Vale, I will be King of both realms in short order…and your Kingdom will be secure.” Rearden finished speaking and removed his hand from the King’s arm. The King seethed as though his organs were boiling, steam escaping his mouth like the lid of a pot.

“While I appreciate that you would no longer wish to align yourself with my sullied offspring-it will not save the life of the traitor. Nor, without an alliance of marriage and blood would I give you so many resources.” Freyr came out of the hallway and into the throne room during his father’s speech. He caught his father’s hand before the man could strike Freya back to her knees.

“Surely, Father, you can see that you would be even better served if he were to make such a marriage. You would have the alliance of two countries rather than one.” Freyr interjected. The King shook his head. He gripped Elias Grant by the arm and separated him from his daughter. His grip would have crushed the man’s arm only a few days ago, but now his fingers were arthritic…like those of a 52 year old man rather than the 38 year old he appeared to be.

“If I could trust that he would not resume his plans to obliterate my rule once he had a powerful ally-one who has long intended to try stretching his reach in my direction, things would be different. As they are, measures must be taken.” He pulled Elias toward one of the guards stationed in the throne room. “The only way this ends, the only way either of these two men leave this Keep is if one is conveying his new bride back to Twyle, and the other is in a coffin bound for the sea.” He looked at the very startled Rearden who obviously had not realized he was a prisoner. “We can get the ceremony over within an hour or two once she is a widow.” Freya was panicking.

“Father please!” She started towards him, but he pulled his dagger from the scabbard at his waist, and held it to Elias’ throat. Freyr looked stricken, as if unable to decide whether to rush at his father or stay back. Freya bit her lip. She could not guess which action was more likely to kill the man she loved.

“If you cannot trust him without some sort of permanent alliance, then let us think of one. Don’t…” Freya’s voice was pleading as she clasped her hands towards her father. How could she prevent him from doing this? He snarled and dug the blade tighter against Elias’ throat. Elias had yet to make a single sound. His eyes were frightened, but his mouth was pressed into a thin line. Freyr began slowly walking behind her father, with silent deliberate steps. Freya threw herself to the ground in front of him with a wail, drawing his eyes and attention.

“You cannot execute him father! How could my happiness mean nothing to you?” Freya wept openly from her prostrate position. Rearden’s face was white, he felt more impotent than he had when he was crippled. The King was utterly insensible, a trickle of blood was running down the blade he held to Elias’ throat. “STOP STOP STOP!” Freya screamed as her father threatened to turn his head toward the sound of a soft foot fall behind him. He turned back to look at her for a split second, just long enough for Freyr to grip his wrists and wrench them back, allowing Elias to escape. Elias ran to Freya, pulling her back up to her feet. Freyr held his father as he struggled, snarling in his grasp.

“Release me!” He shouted. “Guards!” He said, his head turned toward his personal armament. “Arrest the Prince and bring him directly to the dungeon.” The guards looked uncertain, this was a strange situation. “I am your King!” He howled at them as he twisted in Freyr’s grasp.

“But you are not mine.” A soft voice said, as a woman with long titian hair entered the room. Freya looked at her. She was sure that she had never seen this woman before, but she had a strangely familiar look about her. She turned to peek at the Guards…none of whom were moving. They were held fast by what looked to be tree roots coming directly through the floor. The woman did not seem surprised by this, she smiled. She was responsible?

“Who are you?” The King demanded, perplexed and angrier still. The woman raised an eyebrow.

“I would have thought you would be able to guess. After all, my daughter wasted her life force on your sorry corpse!” Freya inhaled sharply. This was Clothilde? When she had seen her in the past, she had been so old. Now she looked…perhaps 40? Younger even, her skin had no lines and she almost vibrated with some sort of power. Her eyes were sharp and crystal blue, and her skin was as a cloud-white as Fairlight’s had been.

“You’re Clothilde? You cannot be, I saw you even two weeks ago and…” He shook his head in surprise, but then belief slowly began suffusing his face. “You can bring her back!” He tore himself free of Freyr’s grasp in a panic and ran to her. “Please. Please, use your power to return her to me.” Clothilde bound him to the floor, and kept him there immobile, kneeling in front of her.

“I cannot. What was left of her, is now in you. You are all that remains of my daughter.” She twisted her lips in displeasure. “Which is why I cannot leave you a mad man.” He tilted his face up towards her, he could move no other parts of his body. “Come here Gilda.” Clothilde demanded. “Your hiding spot is not as good as all that. Come here now.” Gilda slunk out of the shadows looking like a chastised child. Freya attempted to smile wanly at her, but was unsuccessful, she gripped Elias’ arm anchoring herself to him.

“What do you want of me?” Gilda asked, she seemed angry and unwilling.

“Cry on him. Let the tears fall on his head and shoulders and chest. Mind, and Heart must be repaired.” Clothilde attempted to take Gilda’s hand. Gilda refused to give it.

“No. You heal him. I know you can heal. You healed my feet that night when I left Edenhoven.” Clothilde sighed and pulled Gilda slowly forward until she was pressed against the immobile King.

“No. I cannot. That took almost no healing ability all. They were almost fully healed. I put nearly all of my healing ability into you when I made you what you are. I no longer have the gift for healing. You must do this.” Gilda shook her head.

“What do I have to cry about? I have no pity for him.” Gilda’s voice was so cold and hard that it surprised Freya. Gilda had changed so much since last summer. Clothilde looked taken aback as well, her face twisted in disapproval. She slapped Gilda hard across the face, waving the other hand at Freyr, preemptively freezing him where he stood, his legs held the same way as the guards and King. He attempted to launch himself toward Gilda, but was unable to move an inch.

“Pity him! His madness is the fault of suffering. Suffering that I caused by cursing him. Cursed him, such that his father killed his mother, and that he grew up an infant King alone in a cold dark Keep. I cursed him, so his wives died, and his children died before their first breath alongside their mothers. The children that lived were forced to leave him because of my curse. He has been alone and abandoned for his entire life. He lost everything from the moment he was born.” Clothilde gripped Gilda’s wrists with talon like hands and held her in place. “Cry for yourself. Weep for a child who was raised by a woman who tried to sell her like a common whore to a cursed man who would ravish and abandon her. Cry for Freya, a woman who will never have her own child because of what the curse did to her womb.” Freya gasped. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t thought. Gilda gave her a look of surprise. Clothilde wasn’t finished. “Cry for your children-none of you will have a normal life because of what I have done to you. You will look like an 18 year old maid until you are 80 years old. No matter where you go you will draw suspicion, and fear. Unlike the curse of the Demon Kings…yours cannot be broken. No child will be safe in your company, what kind of proper mother could you be?”

Tears clouded Gilda’s eyes, obscuring her vision. Clothilde grabbed her by the neck and held her eyes over the King, letting the tears fall on his motionless form. She let the tendrils of floor retract and release him. He didn’t move, his eyes were closed, but his breath was slowing to an even in and out. Freya was disappointed to hear him breathing. Healing a man’s mind seemed like it wouldn’t work…she was astonished to realize that she’d hoped the cure would kill him. Clothilde put a hand on his shoulder.

“You can get up now. You’ll be a bit dizzy, but you’ll be alright.” He climbed to his feet slowly. “How do you feel?” Clothilde asked. He shook his head.

“Like I’ve been asleep a long time, and have only just now woken up.” Freyr found himself freed as well. He took Gilda and wrapped her under his arm.

“So you won’t be killing Mr. Grant?” He asked his father. The King raised an eyebrow with a sharp shake of his head.

“Unfortunately that is still a necessity. That is rational…not madness.” Rearden cleared this throat.

“I have a solution to that.” He coughed into his hand. “You said you needed an alliance of marriage or blood. Your daughter is unavailable, and I am uninterested, but I can unite Twyle with Gyllene inexorably.”

“How is that? Your sisters are wed, and I have no other daughters.” The King of Gyllene looked skeptical.

“My mother, the Queen mother of Twyle, could marry you, the King of Gyllene. It would give you a firm alliance with my country, and possibly even one with Vale.” Rearden finished optimistically.

“You must be joking. Your mother will be well past child-bearing age. What possible reason could I give for wedding her?” The King of Gyllene shook his head dismissively.

“You have heirs now. You do not need to marry a young maid. You need to marry someone who connects you to my country. I will never go to war with a country my mother resides in.” The guards found that they had use of their legs again, but they did not try to intervene. They seemed more confused than anything. “May I write dear old mum the good news? She was quite distressed when I sent the army back home…news of her impending nuptials should cheer her.” Rearden’s expression was challenging. Freya was startled. She had not expected to like her betrothed, not that it mattered now, but he was clever man, and apparently a daring one.

Her father chuckled. His mind was clearer now. The anger that had boiled in his mind until it nearly removed all sense was gone now. His daughter could have the wretched merchant, his son had set the precedent by marrying a penniless orphan. It wasn’t as if his daughter was doing any worse.

“Very well. Send her your command. We will invite the King of Vale to the celebration, along with his eldest daughters. Between yourself and Frederick we should be able to secure the crown Princess.” He was still laughing to himself.

“Me, father?” Frederick asked. He had honestly assumed that everyone in the room had forgotten about him.

“You don’t think that I will let all my children marry commoners, do you?” The King gave a sidelong glance a Freya. She collapsed against Elias in relief, and he embraced her gratefully. “We can plan weddings soon enough. Right now I’m afraid I have to deal with a fugitive who has been wanted here in Gyllene for fifty three years.” Freya turned to look at Clothilde. How did her father think he could apprehend this woman? Until a moment ago she had been holding him, his sons, and all his guards prisoner. Clothilde nodded. She had been standing beside Gilda, who was so encompassed by Freyr’s massive arms and shoulders that she was completely obscured. Clothilde stepped forward.

“I will accept whatever punishment you put before me. The loss of my daughter, and the hatred of the child I love…is already more than I wish to endure.” She knelt before the King. “I only ask one thing, before I am executed.” He stretched out his hand and put it on her shoulder. Gilda cried out with a shrieking noise. Freyr held her tightly despite her attempts struggle free of his grasp. He turned her face toward his chest so that she would not be able to see what his father was about to do. A woman as powerful as Clothilde could not be left alive. He and Freya both knew this. Their father was about to execute Gilda’s Gran and there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do, was prevent her from witnessing it. There was no stopping this just punishment, the many years he had suffered almost made him ache for it, despite knowing that the very thought, made him once again, a monster.

“Very well. What is your final request?” The King asked. Clothilde reached into her pocket and pulled out the stone. She extended it in the direction of Gilda. Gilda was crying and trying ineffectually to extricate herself from Freyr’s grasp, hitting him with her fists.

“Let her go Freyr. I will force her to leave the room before it is time – she won’t be able to avoid it. BUT THIS - She needs to see this.” Freyr slackened his grasp and let Gilda slip free. She fell to her knees when the resistance abruptly stopped. Clothilde rose slowly so as not to unnerve the King. She took Gilda’s hands and brought her to her feet.

“I know several truths about you that I never told you. Fairlight found out more, before she died, and she did not wish to leave you without that knowledge. She sealed it, in a vision inside this stone.” Clothilde opened Gilda’s stiff fingers and dropped the stone inside. It flared to life with bright light that shone outward from its center. Gilda stared at it. She was too upset to be curious. Her Gran was about to be executed, how could she possibly care about anything else?

“It won’t begin until you are ready.” Gran touched Gilda’s cheek. Gilda shook her head. Once the King saw the vision, he would have no further reason to keep her Gran alive.

“No.” Gilda put her arms around the woman she scarcely recognized. At the end of everything she was surprised to find that she still loved her, very much. As she held her Gran – who now looked more like her mother, in her arms, the room filled with so much light that it looked like the same milky white room she had first seen Fairlight in. The air itself was translucent, and everything became almost formless. No one could see the actual room they were standing in, as the vision overcame them all.

“You confounded me for quite a long time sister.” Fairlight’s voice whispered, unseen from the corner of the room, or all corners of the room? “I didn’t know who you were. I couldn’t understand why every vision involving you seemed to change. You altered the very fabric of things just by existing.” Gilda felt a hand slip into hers despite not being able to see anything except the strange milky whiteness.

“When the pieces of a puzzle are scattered, they will move time and space in an effort to come together again. You have always been part of the story, even before you were born, you were already connected to the curse, to Gyllene and to the Demon Kings.” Fairlight’s voice had a smile in it, like someone with a secret. “Your father was the missing Eillenese King.” Gilda felt sick. If her father, who had been old, was truly the vanished King, then she was….Freyr’s great aunt? She shuddered, but Fairlight’s voice continued. “The King and his daughter disappeared the night of the slaughter of the Eillenese army. He left behind his daughter’s lady in waiting to take over her identity and keep anyone from seeking him or his bloodline. He didn’t think that King Grigor would marry his daughter, he assumed that the King would slaughter all members of the royal family that had invaded him – the lady in waiting was supposed to die, and be forgotten with history – instead she became Queen. So, Grigor did not marry the Eillenese princess, he married an imposter. The lines of Eillene and Gyl were never united, but fractured and scattered, wounds created but never healed.” Gilda exhaled, nearly fainting from holding her breath so long. She and Freyr were not related, but still, none of this could be true! Fairlight’s voice was rhythmic and quiet, continuing like a piece of music.

“Your father, the King of Eillene traveled many years before settling in Edenhoven. He had brought with him enough wealth to buy a title and a new identity for his daughter which would secure her a position in society. She would never again be a Princess, but he managed to make her a Baroness and married her to the Lord of a small estate. A rural and rather unimportant Lord would be grateful for the offer of a Baroness, and wouldn’t ask too many questions about her lineage or her first generation purchased title. Once he settled his daughter, he took up a trade he knew nothing about and disappeared completely. He had heard of the fate his army suffered and knew that the only way to keep his daughter safe was for him to fade away.” Gilda felt as though she were drowning in information. This was a third version of the story of Demon Kings and it was one that included her…worse yet it included the Squire. She had caused the death of Phillip, who as it turned out, was a close relative.

“Years of hiding took their toll on him and he grew lonely. He took a young baker’s daughter as a bride, giving her father the last of his gold to secure such an unequal match of youth and beauty. Unfortunately the banished King of Gyllene, in searching for the witch who cursed him, was drawn to the scent of a familiar enemy. Grigor found and killed a man who he hated so instinctively that he could not control himself – despite the man having aged so much as to be unrecognizable. The watching witch unwittingly took in the daughter of the man whose kingdom she had crushed singlehandedly, and whose lineage she had all but destroyed. Retribution and Redemption became woven together in the unending tapestry of fate.” The room was hushed, the only sound was of a dead woman’s voice, telling them of a time far longer gone than she was.

“The heir of Gyl could not ignore the heir of Eillene, even though he did not know that she was the bandage to the gaping wound in his ancestry. Freyr could no more avoid you, my sister, than a man dying of thirst could avoid a glass of water. The Gravelys were drawn to you as well-Squire Timothy because you reminded him of his late wife, your much older sister. His children because they knew unconsciously that you would usurp what was theirs, and you have. Lord Phillip was the true heir to Eillene, but you are Crown Princess of Gyllene and the Gravelys will die out within this generation. They saw you intuitively for what you were, and were compelled to destroy you.” Gilda felt like the weight of three generations were crushing her. She had no free will. Her father had set out to claim what had not belonged to him, and fifty years later she had completed his goal…she carried within her the heir to the joint Kingdom. She had manipulated and infiltrated while as innocent as a child. But the litany of her history and her future was not over. The voice continued as unrelenting as winter rain.

“Clothilde was compelled to use you, not to further her revenge, but to end it, even though she was not aware of what she was truly doing. She was just an instrument of fate, repairing the wound that she had cut when she killed the army at Grigor’s request. Binding you to Freyr was the only way to make amends. A woman who loved you as much as my mother loved you, would not simply use you as a courtesan to further her dusty revenge.” The phantom hand holding Gilda’s tightened. “I too was used. My visions lied to me in order to bring you here, in order to end the curse, in order to rectify an ancient wrong. The fabric of lives that had been torn wanted to be repaired. Your child is both the beginning and the ending, as it seals the rift, and begins the true start of Gyl-Eillene. A dual heir could not have come about any other way. You need feel no guilt about what happened to me, or to anyone else. This has always been your life, and you were always important. You are not responsible for any of the suffering or ills that have surrounded you.” The stone went dark and Fairlight’s voiced ceased. Gilda felt like she had been stabbed in the chest. Saying she wasn’t responsible for anything was the same thing as saying that nothing she had ever done had mattered. Her life had been predestined without her consent.

A guttural sound escaped the lips of the King as Fairlight’s voice faded and the milky whiteness was replaced with starkness the of the gray stone throne room again. Gilda whipped her neck around to see where Gran was. She was gone. She had escaped somehow during the vision. Gilda pressed her fingers to her skull in confusion, anger, hurt and pain. The King surveyed the room and coughed, half exhale, half frustration.

“She’s gone. No! Don’t bother.” He held up his hand as the guards drew their swords in preparation to search for her. “There is no point. You will not find her.” He turned to Gilda. “Slippery creature, your Grandmother. Pity that we cannot tell the people of Gyllene who you are, they’d prefer a royal marriage, but without proof, who would believe such a story?” Freyr took Gilda’s arm again, it was obvious that Gilda was about to fly into a rage. She had not forgotten that the King had been about to kill her Gran. He turned to Rearden. “Well? Are you going to send your mother a message or not?”

Six Months Later

Gilda woke up to the sound of an infant crying. She slid out of bed and retrieved the child from the cradle, holding it to her chest until it quieted. Her daughter was only three days old, and woke frequently. At the moment, she was still the only royal child. Frederick’s illegitimate son had disappeared along with Theodore and Xanthippe. The Inn keeper had been thoroughly questioned and had not been able to tell them where the trio had gone. He had assumed they had been a married couple, and that the child their own. When Frederick had asked if he thought that the mother would do the child harm, the Innkeeper had been shocked. According to him the mother had seemed to think the sun rose and set with the child and he was incredibly surprised when the young family had disappeared in the night.

Frederick of course knew why. Xanthippe had, to her surprise, loved the child, and had taken it away so that it would never know its true father. It was admittedly the best for thing the infant, but not for Frederick. A little responsibility might have been what saved him. He still had soldiers searching the countryside for them, but did not hold out much hope. Whores, more than any other type of woman, knew how to disappear.

The King had married the Queen of Twyle in a ceremony that had also blessed the less formal marriages of Freyr and Freya. Gilda had gotten to wear a dress, but given that she had been heavily pregnant at the time, not the one she would have liked. Still, there had been a magnificent party in the garden, which had been all she would have hoped for as a young girl. But it did not satisfy her now. Gran was not there…and she had long since changed from the girl she had been who cared only about achieving lavish surroundings.

Rearden was courting the eldest of the daughters of Vale, while Frederick was engaged to the middle daughter, who was undeniably the prettiest. Freya had still not recovered from the knowledge that she would never have a child of her own. Now that the curse was ended, it seemed so unfair that she should be sterile. It made no logical sense, but as Clothilde had predicted, in the seven months that she had been married, Freya had not fallen pregnant. Elias tried everything he could to raise the spirits of his beloved, but it was no good. Elias, in an evening of too much brandy had confessed to Freyr that he rather assumed he himself was the problem – he’d never managed to get his first wife pregnant either. Gilda could only hope that sharing her daughter would help Freya.

Moonlight shone through the uncurtained bedroom window, illuminating a single silver hair amongst the darker brown of Freyr’s mane. Gilda kissed her child’s forehead. When Clothilde left, any answers about how Gilda could fix what had been done to her, had left with her. A wife who never aged could put Freyr’s rule in jeopardy…and the lives of her child and future children as well. She didn’t want to live in the closeted darkness that the Demon Kings had endured for so long.

The sunlit garden party celebrating the Spring wedding of the King had gone a long way toward diffusing much of the suspicion that surrounded his reign…but rumors remained. As did rumors of her healing abilities. Those were more dangerous than anything. A witch who must be forced to cry in order to heal the sick and injured is not safe…especially if that witch is a mother.

Freyr sat up beside Gilda and took the sated child in his arms.

“Get some sleep.” He said kissing her hair. “I will put her back to bed.” Gilda lay down, but did not sleep. She watched him carry Fabienne back to her cradle and rock her for several minutes before setting her back down with a kiss. His tenderness toward the child soothed some of her concerns about him, given that he had never wanted a child. But she could not stop her restless mind from worrying about the danger. Her doctor said the anxieties were a natural result of the child bearing process…but she knew that nothing about her situation was natural. Freyr came back to bed and drew her to his chest.

As she had expected, knowing how thoroughly Gran had woven the spell, her body had changed minimally with pregnancy, and now in three days was almost back to the way it had been before. Her ladies’ maids had remarked with no small amount of suspicion on the miracle. This too gave Gilda concern. With Vale and Twyle no longer a threat, the King no longer mad…was he? Phillip was dead, Edenhoven was so far away that no one from it could touch her now. But she was still herself…inexplicable and unchanging. Could the antipathy which followed her, really change when she had not? Freyr’s breath was soft and even in her ear.

“Go to sleep.” His voice was firm. Gilda rolled over to face him.

“How are you not concerned about anything?” She asked almost inaudibly so as not to wake the baby.

“At any given moment my love there are a thousand things that I could worry about, but you are beside me, so any worry I might have is minuscule.” He kissed her softly. Gilda laid her head against him, hearing the steady beat of his heart in her ear. He was right. Their lives would never be tied up with a neat little bow. This wasn’t the end of any story…but at least they had both already fulfilled their shared destiny. The rest of their existence stretched out before them as open and unwritten as anyone else’s. Uncertainty was frightening, but it also meant that for the first time in her life, Gilda was free.

A lone figure entered the jail beneath the keep of the castle. Her footfalls were nearly silent on the soft dirt floor. No guards impeded her progress, they were all quite inexplicably asleep. She ran her fingers along the grimy bars of the prison cells leading to the one on the end. The other prisoners reached apathetically towards her, but they knew she wasn’t there for them. There was only one man in the basement of the keep that a witch would come for. The beautiful young woman who had entered through locked doors and left all the guards asleep was definitely a witch. Her long titian hair almost reached her feet, glinting in the moonlight through the grates in the ceiling above. Her skin shone pale as milk as she reached her long arm through the bars of the cell at the end of hall and crooked her finger toward the sole occupant of the highly fortified cage.

“Come here.” She said softly to the beast thing in the dark corner. It exhaled in a gust of steam as it turned towards her uncertainly. “I think, that I might finally have punished you enough.” The creature in the cell came closer. Claws melted into hands, fangs into teeth, and the creature into a man. He reached towards her as the locks and chains holding the cell shut snaked backwards and out of the way.

“It’s over?” He asked with relief. She wrapped her arms around him as he staggered towards her, unused to his new fully human body, resting his head against hers gratefully.

“Yes, my darling, it’s finally over.” They stood in the dark of the basement Keep, arms around each other, hoping that this time they wouldn’t start a war.