The End of The Cursed

‘Fate connects the lives of those intended to intertwine inexorably. Scatter the pieces like a puzzle in the wind, and they may spend centuries crawling back to one another.’ – A Philosopher’s Lament

Gilda got out of bed. It was worthless to try to continue sleeping when there was so much noise. Freyr had already left her bed and gone into the other room. She could hear him discussing a possible peace with the Duke in the adjoining room. Freyr, being an actual bear at the moment was growling, and the Duke was being exceedingly loud. Apparently he thought that the King’s plan would not work. The shouting made it feel like her head was cracking. She had a massive headache already.

The missive from the Keep had arrived 2 nights before. Apparently the King of Gyllene was offering the King of Twyle a marriage to Freya in order to end the war. The estate had unfortunately received another message, from the border, informing them that King Rearden did not wish to wait. Freya was still so far away – indeed no one even knew how far. In fact, they only had the word of a Seer that she was coming at all. If something was not done soon, there would be no peace.

Gilda pressed her fingers to her temples. She’d had a vision during the night. Fairlight had given her further tasks to perform…aside, of course, from her imminent death. She’d had a headache the last time as well…they seemed to be a side effect of having one’s mind invaded. Headache or no, she apparently had work to do. Gilda sat up and drank the glass of water by the side of the bed.

She had to leave, now, and attend a meeting with King Rearden. The only way to speed things up to meet his timeline, was to have someone marry him by proxy. Freya had no ladies maids to send ahead of herself. There was no one close enough, and with enough connection to the royal family available. Only Gilda. She was going to have to marry Rearden as Freya’s proxy in her stead. The marriage would be binding – to Freya, and to Rearden – obviously not to Gilda herself, being already wed. A proper ceremony would be performed once Freya arrived in truth. Unfortunately Freyr was not going to want her to do any of this. The last time they had been told what to do by his father’s Seer, it had not gone well. Freyr would only have third hand information as to whether or not this was really what his father wanted him to do.

Gilda dressed in the finest of the dresses that her inquisitive ladies maid had brought her. It had clearly once belonged to the duchess. It was most certainly made for someone of slightly smaller statue. Her ankles showed, but the rest of it fit rather well. It was gold and shone with every movement she made. If she rode out to the meeting place she would be seen from a mile away like a beacon, and hopefully this would keep anyone from shooting at her. The King of Twyle would be expecting a Princess. In this dress she might actually look the part.

Freyr entered the room, and gave her an apprising glance. He gave her a slight smirk. Gilda knew that she was wearing an evening dress intended for large parties…and that it was just past breakfast. Freyr gestured to a plush powder blue chair by a little polished table. A breakfast tray was set on it with toast and a boiled egg.

“They brought you breakfast just before sunrise, but you were sleeping. I told them to leave the tray.” He gave her a look that went from her head to her toe. “Can you tell me why you are wearing a ball gown at 9 in the morning?” He asked. He had a patronizing smile. The sort of smile that said he thought she had picked it out because it was the shiniest, and didn’t know that it was not appropriate daywear. Gilda was irritated at his assumption, but she nodded anyway. She didn’t sit in the chair. Instead, she went over to an ostentatious golden table and sat in front of it instead. The table had golden columns with baby angels holding candles on either side of an enormous mirror. Gilda began arranging her hair in front of the gaudy thing. It had only been a few days, but she had grown to love the notion of a mirror.

“I can tell you why...” She said somewhat obstinately. “Do you wish for me to?” She was slightly vexed that he still thought she was so vapid and unintelligent. The enormous bear with the self satisfied grin sat down on the bed behind her.

“I would.” He was by now, actually curious.

“Because, I have had another vision. Your father needs me to perform a task which requires that I be well dressed. Fairlight brought me the message, and there was no room for my refusal.” She answered. Freyr made a rumbling noise in his chest.

“What does the witch want from you this time? If not my death once more, does she now want yours?” He asked. He was not serious, but Gilda was slow to answer.

“No. No.” Gilda said hastily, realizing that she was pausing too long. “She just wants me to meet with the King of Twyle. Your father would like to perform a proxy marriage with a female of some importance. The marriage would bind the kingdoms, and the two heirs quite legally-even if it will take your sister quite a bit longer to get here. It’s really very common practice in situations of war. Quite normal indeed when it might take time for the couple to actually meet.” Gilda kept her voice as earnest as she could make it. Attempting to convince Freyr that all this was completely typical and perfectly safe, would not be easy. To her surprise he simply sighed and put his head in his paws.

“Don’t they usually insist on the proxy being an unmarried maid as well?” He asked. His voice was disappointed. Gilda nodded suspiciously. She had expected more fight from him.

“In general yes. A proxy should be a lady, a Duchess, someone important enough to stand in for a Princess. Ideally it would be a titled ladies’ maid. However, we do not have one of those at the moment.” She was preparing herself for the forthcoming roaring. “The Duke of this estate has 5 sons…there is no daughter to send. There is no other woman of noble birth in the area. I am Princess Consort of Gyllene, and though already wed…still the best option.” Gilda answered.

“How does this ‘proxy’ ceremony work?” He asked slowly. While this was a dangerous and terrible idea, he was out of better ones. He didn’t remember the full extent of these sorts of arrangements. What had Gilda agreed to?

“I stand in as Freya in a wedding ceremony.” Gilda stopped. Freyr must know how this worked…and how the second half worked. Why was he not already shouting and raging and refusing to allow it? “Then the proxy must spend the night in the bed of the groom, separated by a sharpened broad sword. The night in the bed is enough to consider the marriage consummated, while the sword ensures that there be no actual consummation.” Gilda finished quietly. Freyr was silent. Gilda bit her lip. He did understand that the broadsword between the parties meant that there would be no physical contact of any kind?

“Do you know how to use a sword to defend yourself while sleeping Gilda?” He asked, his voice tense and cold. Gilda nodded.

“I do in fact. Well. Nearly so. I’ve taken the lives of thousands of forest animals with a knife. I would bring one of those to bed as well as the sword. I can take care of myself.” She put her hand on his furry shoulder to soften the tone of her words. “Fairlight told me that the King of Twyle is a cripple. He could not overpower me even if he wanted to, and it is certainly not in his best interest to try. I will be completely safe.” Gilda assured him. Freyr could not entirely disagree with this. His problem was that he could not go with her. He would be seen, as a bear, and that could not be allowed. Still, there was no circumstance in which he would let Gilda attempt something so dangerous without him there.

“Gilda, I do not attempt to refuse to allow this, because I think that I own you. I know that because we are wed, you are my legal property. An ordinary husband and Prince should be able to tell his bride what she can and cannot do, with every expectation of obedience. But I am not a fool. I cannot force you to cooperate with even a quarter of what I ask of you. The fact that you are independent is one of your best qualities, and I would not alter it. I do not want to crush your spirit, and I would not want you to be other than what you are. There is no love in owning something and bending it to your will.” He almost touched her, but seeing his claws reaching for her, pulled his arm back. “Just consider for a moment, that you are my life. If you are harmed, it harms me. If you are hurt or killed, I will die just as surely. Can I not try to prevent harm from coming to my own body?” He wanted to thread his fingers with hers, but he had none. “I consider my own self to be inextricably linked with yours. You understand that we are halves of a curse, crafted only to be together? Without you, I will be only half a person.” Freyr watched Gilda’s face grow more and more sorrowful.

“Please Freyr. I love you. I really and truly love you. I would never willing let harm come to myself or to you. But, let me do this for you. This is your land, and if I do not do this, thousands of your innocent people will die. I want to do this for you.” Gilda bridged the gap between them and put her hand on his back. “How many peasant families are between the border and this Estate? You are the kind of man who sacrifices himself to save others, but you can sacrifice yourself only after they get to you. How many men, women, and children will be sacrificed on the way?” Gilda asked. Even Freyr would have to admit that this was the correct thing to do. Freya was apparently willing, and she had the worst part to play. At least Freya did not have a lover to disappoint. Her happiness had ended over ten years ago. Freyr sighed.

“I agree that something must be done to preserve peace at all costs. I just do not want that cost to be you. I will not try to prevent you, other than by telling you how fervently I wish for you not to do this.” He said quietly. The door creaked open without a knock. The young man from the forest was standing there, this time without the pistol. He was not in all black today, but beautifully dressed in a green tunic and breeches befitting a young Duke. He shut the door quickly behind himself. He bowed. Freyr made a sound like a warning growl, the kind a dog makes before it bites.

“Please, do not worry. I am not here to harm or expose you. My father told me your secret long ago.”

“He did not tell you that you could come in here!” Freyr shouted, lips curled, standing up to, what as a bear, was an over 12 foot height. His head rested on the ceiling of the room. Every one of his dark brown hairs was standing on end. The young man swallowed.

“No. No he did not. But I had to.” He took off his jaunty feathered cap and twisted in his hands. “My name is Pelynor.” He said by way of introduction.

“Like the Pellinore of Arthurian legend?” Gilda asked. He shook his head.

“No. Pelynor after the old King of Twyle. It was a generous gesture on the part of my father in order to curry favor with his neighbor. He has planned to be more than he is for a while.” The young man knelt before the horrifying bear creature. “The names of myself and my brothers betray my father’s ambition.” Pelynor watched Freyr to see if he was relaxing at all. He was still stretched to his full height. Pelynor sighed. “I am not like my father. I do not seek to supplant my King. I did go out into the woods at my father’s behest – but only to find out if you were really returning. We have had many disappointments over the years, and my father’s plans were beginning to sound reasonable. But you are genuine! My only desire is to serve you, and to that end, I think you may need my help.” He finished, dipping his head respectfully. Freyr made a huffing noise.

“After threatening to shoot me, and to molest my wife, what makes you think I will trust you?” He asked. The young man shook his head ruefully.

“I did do those things, but I was not in earnest. I wanted to force you to show yourself to be a Demon King, or an imposter. It was a successful attempt in the end. I will swear fealty to you now, even though it will cost me the approval and affection of my father and brothers.” Pelynor said in a very eloquent and gentlemanly way. Gilda was embarrassed by the plainness of her own speech in comparison with his.

“How do you propose to help us?” Gilda asked with curiosity.

“I will accompany you to the proxy wedding as your official protector as decreed by the Prince – who will himself join us for the evening festivities. As you are a known witch, I do not see why you could not ride astride your Familiar instead of a horse.” Pelynor suggested. Gilda did not understand-they all thought the pheasant was her familiar-she certainly could not ride the bird!

“Would the King of Twyle not be confused as to why the Prince arrived so late? Surely he would expect me to accompany my own wife? He might also question why the witch’s bear disappeared at night and reappeared by morning?” Freyr asked, clarifying the situation for Gilda.

“She is a witch. She requires her familiar for the journey only…and you Sire, were dealing with the pressing matter of staying my execution – and so were delayed.” Pelynor said calmly. Gilda was both confused and alarmed.

“Your execution? Has someone truly ordered this?” She asked. Pelynor shrugged.

“The King of Gyllene has done so. He heard about my father sending out his sons armed and in search of his heirs. His new Seer is a talented woman. We received notice this morning to put our affairs in order.” He spoke casually and without visible concern. “Our executioners will arrive this very morning.” He said with a slight tilt of his head. “If you were to countermand their orders Majesty…I have no doubt that they would be forced to spare us.” Pelynor finished hopefully. He glanced at the tray of food next to him. No. He would not allow his nervousness to become visible in any manner. Eating the breakfast of the Princess consort would qualify in that respect.

Freyr scratched his forehead with his claws. He did genuinely wish to spare this family. He did not like the fact that his father had ordered their death on his behalf, without even knowing if that was something that he would have wished. It was the logistics, that as always, were a problem.

“Do you know who is coming to oversee the execution? Is it someone to whom I could meet with, during the day? As I am, I mean.” Freyr asked. Pelynor nodded with relief. Apparently his apparent calm had been just that.

“Yes! It is the Captain of the nearest garrison. He used to be a guard at your father’s Keep. You probably knew him, his name is VonAnsel.” The young man said, overwhelmed with gratitude that his Prince was even considering sparing him.

“Can I speak with him and still escort Gilda in time?” Freyr asked. He knew he was being cold, but this family had committed treason, and Gilda was his first priority.

“I certainly hope so, Majesty.” Pelynor answered.

“There is another consideration with your plan.” Freyr worked the problem over in his mind. He glanced toward Gilda who was seated at the golden mirror with her hands twisted in her lamp. “As a man or as a Bear I am still only half human. If the King of Twyle attempts to damage my wife in any way... There is every chance that I will kill him. Such a bloody execution of their ruler would definitely spark the impending war.” Freyr said honestly. Pelynor considered this.

“Would not your witch be able to defend herself? You need not worry so much about what a crippled human man will do to your witch!” He spoke with some degree of confusion. Freyr was caught. He could not admit that Gilda was in fact rather powerless. He was further surprised that Pelynor did not see the obvious danger. Every man who saw her wanted her, and surely one who was forced to share her bed… They were startled from further deliberations by a commotion out on the lawn. Pelynor leapt up from his seat in a panic. He bowed hesitantly as if asking permission, and then rushed to the window.

Three dozen black liveried riders were headed to the Manor. They were already winding their way up the long path of topiaries that led to the front door of the manor. The gate guards had let them in. Pelynor gripped the marble sill of the window with white knuckled hands. He managed to keep his breathing regular and even.

He hoped his father would not be rash. The Duke had a dozen or so of his own guards and a few archers. There was every possibility that his father would order his men to defend the Manor against the King’s guards. There would be no stay of execution if his father killed any of them. Pelynor bit his lip to steady his voice before speaking.

“I will go to the gate, and I will bring Captain VonAnsel up here to you, if you allow it.” Pelynor asked hopefully. Freyr nodded.

“With all haste.” He ordered.

Lord Phillip had a strange salty taste in his mouth. It was acrid and metallic. He attempted to wash his mouth with water, but it did nothing to alter the flavor. It was blood, his own. He cringed inwardly as he felt something loosen in his mouth and was forced to spit into his hand. One of his teeth lay in his palm. He let it fall to the ground off the side of the horse and wiped his hand, not on his new trousers, but on the rented saddle. Disgusting. Still, not surprising. He had been over-using laudanum in various quantities and distillations for weeks now. Liquid opium’s effects on the gums were well known. Unfortunately its effect on muscle tone, liver and bowel function were acknowledged as well.

While his arm had healed nicely, and he had a fresh set of winter clothing, he was not a healthy man. His draw to the laudanum was increasing. He took a swallow every few hours now and washed the taste down with a swig of brandy. That had been the most recent Doctor’s suggestion. The man had mixed his opium with his own ‘healing tonic’ of cayenne and hashish. It tasted vile, but it worked well. The mouthful of brandy was to make it easier for the poor patient to take his ill-flavored medicine. It was already too easy for him to take it.

Lord Phillip felt no pain, but his missing teeth and distended stomach were becoming alarming to him. He could not remember the last time he had used a privy for anything but his waters, and his mid-section was as tight as the skin of a drum. He could just hide it under the lovely vest and coat he was wearing, but every jostle of the horse allowed him to feel it. He hadn’t undressed for two days, but he was loathe to see what he looked like under the clothes.

He had once been such a fine handsome man, full of vigor and the picture of health. His room may have occasionally been haunted with the cries of a few serving girls, but outwardly all had seen him as a beautiful, and upstanding young man. Now he was a ruin of his former self. He felt rather like an abandoned manor house whose Lord had gone bankrupt or died. Decaying velvet furniture covered in dusty white sheets would be scattered in every corner of the dank rooms like the ghosts of wealth and circumstance. Filigree in need of polishing would cover the walls and furniture like clouded eyes gone rheumy with ill health. He was in a similar state of neglect and disrepair…so much so that he knew he would never be handsome again. Phillip’s shell of a body was kept alight, like a small fire, by one thought and one thought alone. Destroy the bloody little witch who had ruined his life.

Lord Phillip drove his horse along the wide roadway leading toward a pristine white manor house. It looked more like a castle, but it was apparently the house of a Duke. It was far too nice for a mere Duke.

The last Inn he had stopped in, had been abuzz with the talk of the returning heirs of Gyllene. The Princes and Princess were supposedly coming back to their homeland. Their route was not precisely known, but people had assumed that they would be stopping in the castle of Gyl enroute to the Keep. From what Phillip’s cloudy mind could piece together, the returning heir was the man he had shot in the woods. The witch had claimed that he was the grandson of the ‘King’ who had originally attacked him. The King was still missing. No one he had spoken to had any idea where the man was. The prevailing opinion was that he was long dead, although Phillip knew that theory to be incorrect.

Even if he was unable to find the King, the younger one was apparently easier to catch. This white Manor was supposed to be the castle in which he would find the younger Demon man. It didn’t matter whether the man in question would turn out to be the original who had destroyed his arm, or the one that he had presumed to have killed. What he did know for certain, was that a blonde witch of great beauty had supposedly accompanied the lost ruler. That tantalizing little tidbit of information was what assured him that the man he would find with her there would be one of his enemies, and thoroughly deserving of death. It was what assured him of his direction. He urged his horse along the path toward the objects of his hatred.

Phillip’s heart stopped in his chest. There she was. He was literally looking at her. Even from a great distance she was unmistakable. Her hair was lit like a beacon by the sunlight, her every motion was graceful and perfect. No human female moved like she did. The glowing girl was leaving the front of the white manor house with a slender young man with auburn hair. Who was this man? He had never seen this one before. The man was dressed splendidly, as if he was a man of some importance. It was unfair that this creature seemed to collect men wherever she went.

To compound it all, she was apparently not going to travel with this man alone! From around the back of the house, and escorted several men in black liveries came the bear. The gigantic demon bear, who Phillip knew to really be, a GOD DAMN DEAD HUMAN MAN! How was this possible? He truly was alive. The irony of having had the good luck to shoot a man full in the chest and to have it not kill him was excruciating. He watched the bear amble towards the girl with the awkward gait of something unused to being on four legs. The little blonde bitch was petting his fur and being assisted onto his back as though he were a Shetland pony. It twisted his painful stomach into knots and made him physically ill to watch such a lurid display of bestiality. His sainted mother had never allowed his sisters to pet a horse or dog, let alone something as unseemly as a bear. Affection towards an animal in a female was unseemly, his mother had been quite right.

Hmmm. The men in black liveries were staying behind. They stood arranged on the front steps of the Manor in a sort of formation, watching the girl and the bear leave. A stroke of luck. Only the girl, her demon lover, and the unidentified auburn man were headed toward the external gate of the manor. Why were their guards staying behind? The black leather vests they wore, all bore the insignia of Gyllene. They were the men of this bear/Prince, so why would he choose to travel without their protection? Didn’t matter. It was still more than a one armed Lord with two pistols could take on. What was he going to do?

He followed them at a significant distance. He could see the gleam of the girl’s hair, shimmering like a mirage in the air on a hot day. The obvious flickers of light on the horizon made it possible to follow at a distance from which he doubted they would even notice him. The girl’s hair made her easy to see from quite far behind. He wove in and out of groups of people, off the road behind trees, anywhere his horse would allow.

He was going to have to choose who it mattered most to kill, and to this time…be thorough. Did he have a prayer of getting a bullet through the man’s head? It was a smaller target than his chest and Phillip was not a great shot. He was, in fact, a terrible one. It was more than possible that he would need a cleverer and less intimate plan than his pistol. He would need to watch and wait for the opportunity to present itself. One thing he had learned from Miss Lamb was that one always presented itself. Funny. He didn’t even care anymore if that opportunity truly was for righteousness, or if it was in fact malevolent. His transformation was complete. Her sculpture had started out as a Greek statue of a handsome youth, and since had become a gargoyle. No matter. All he wanted, was to do this. In the end it didn’t matter why. Everyone involved would be dead.

Xanthippe sat on a rock in the woods. She was simultaneously more frightened, confused, and depressed than she had ever been in her life. She let her eyes wander toward Theodore, who was returning to the direction of the wagon with his armload of sticks from the woods. The poor slender young man could barely carry enough to be helpful. His respiratory condition didn’t allow him enough exertion to ever get very strong. He did his best, but his weak lungs kept him from being particularly useful. She knew he felt superfluous and awkward.

“Would you like some help?” She offered as he passed. She wanted any excuse to avoid Frederick. He seemed to think that her invitation of a month earlier was a carte blanche. She had wanted him the one time, as a distraction. Now, she felt reluctant to offer him so much of herself…especially considering that he was the cause of her pain, even if he was…superlative.

“I’m not sure you should be carrying firewood.” Theodore responded with a look of concern. Xanthippe turned pink in response to his well-intentioned words.

“Because of my condition?” Xanthippe asked, bristling slightly. She was scarcely willing to acknowledge it herself.

“No. I mean yes…” Theodore began. “I just meant that such work is beneath you. A beautiful woman should not be reduced to hauling lumber about.” His thoughtful words were a clear attempt to diffuse the situation. Xanthippe laughed. The little bundle of sticks he was carrying could hardly be considered hauling lumber.

“You find me beautiful?” She asked. “I thought you only had eyes for the little witch?” Xanthippe said in a mildly provoking tone. Theodore dropped the sticks and sat down beside her on the cold fallen log.

“I do. I have thought of nothing but her for three years.” He slid his arm across his forehead to remove the perspiration that was beading up on it. “Gilda haunts my dreams, invades my thoughts and controls my every action without even being present. Every decision I have made has been in an effort to be closer to her.” He said looking around himself, as if just now realizing where he was. “It doesn’t really seem to be going that well does it?!” He laughed ruefully. “Loving her has gotten me disgraced, accused of crimes, half killed, and essentially kidnapped.” He admitted with a shake of his head. Xanthippe smiled at him.

“I’m a tavern whore who fell in love with a client who turned out to be a demon bear. Now I am carrying a half-animal child and journeying to a country in which I was almost murdered as a little girl.” She had a slight twist to her lips, if they were to stack it up, the child gave her the win. Theodore blushed at her frank statement of private matters. He coughed into his hand. He must have been with the wrong sort of people too long. He had been about to laugh at her impropriety. It was funny, and she was in arguably worse a fate than he was.

“You win. Your life is more pathetic than mine.” Absurdity dripped from his tone. “Although, I didn’t realize that you loved Frederick.” He honestly wasn’t aware that such a thing was possible. The man was a brute. “Is he going to marry you, when you get to Gyllene?” He asked, breaking bonds of decency, because she had set the precedent. Xanthippe shook her head.

“I loved him before I knew what he was. It made me stupid.” She rested a hand on her waist. Her slenderness was still uncompromised by what was beneath it. “There are consequences to such stupidity. I do not care for him anymore, but it doesn’t matter now does it? And no, he will not marry me. He is a Prince – supposedly, and I am…that which I am.” She looked at Theodore. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget about that golden wench, and get out of this mess. No amount of money is worth consorting with these people if you don’t have to. Me, they own until I deliver. But You – You are free!”

Theodore considered this. He had not felt free since he had first seen Gilda, but technically he was. He looked at the gypsy girl beside him and sighed inwardly. He couldn’t leave now. He aspired to a degree of masculinity that he could never reach physically. The only sort of hero he would ever be was the sort who devoted his purpose, if not his brawn, to the service of a woman in distress. Currently there was a young woman who needed his presence. If he left, she would be at the mercy of these bear-people and their strange besotted admirer. He would have to stay and be of use to her if he could.

He was relieved to realize that his chivalry seemed to be genuine, as it extended to someone beyond his perfect Gilda. He had wondered if his masochistic inclinations toward serving a woman in trouble were truly self-sacrificing and noble, or merely egocentric. Apparently he was more honorable then he had been aware of.

“It’s alright, the company isn’t all bad…Miss…” It occurred to him that he did not know her surname. “Miss...Xanthippe.” He said with a slight smile. She returned it wanly. She looked at the dirt and spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.

“My name is Bianca.” She said. Theodore looked at her in surprise. Why had she told him something personal? He turned his gaze away from the rather forlorn looking girl when he heard something crunching on the snow. Theodore looked up to see Frederick swaggering towards them. He was obviously coming for Xanthippe. It wasn’t as if he ever even spoke to Theodore. Frederick’s posture was confident. He was a man who did not expect to be refused. Theodore didn’t like it. The degree of expectation in his movement was infuriating. Theodore stood up.

“Did you need something?” He asked Frederick, only somewhat challengingly. Frederick looked confused. In general everyone tried to ignore it when he requested Xan’s company.

“I just came to see if Xan wanted to come back to the wagon with me? I was going to show her something.” He was awkwardly fishing for words other than the ones that described his actual request. Xanthippe looked away from them. She didn’t want to go with Frederick, but she didn’t know what to say. It was strange. She had once been used to controlling the men around her. Every flick of her fingers or toss of her hair meant something, and had them scrambling to do her will…but only so that she would do theirs. Now in her current state, with the current man being a demon bear…she was at a loss. How did one control a man if one could not use sex?

“She’s occupied at the moment. Besides, she does not desire your company.” Theodore said, feeling like he was signing his own death certificate. Frederick looked at her.

“Does this boy speak for you now Xan?” He asked. She looked up at him.

“No. But he does speak more gently than you do.” She answered. Frederick made a rumbling sound as he gripped her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

“Xanthippe, this is ridiculous. You promised to end this petulant and unnecessary sulking.” Frederick seemed to be growing in size as his lungs filled and his chest stood out. He gritted his teeth. “I do actually have something to show you.” The thing to show her had been an excuse to elicit her company, but it was legitimately real. He had spent the last several days making it.

“Bianca doesn’t want to see it.” Theodore said firmly. He was now standing in front of Xanthippe. Frederick’s lips curled back over his teeth. The expression was somehow more distressing on a human than a bear. Frederick made a snarling sound. The cradle he had carved was sitting in the wagon, but apparently he could not show it to Xanthippe. Xan who had betrayed him by telling this boy her real name and not him, the father of her child. Frederick’s blood was boiling with his recent change. Freya would still be in the woods another 5 minutes or so returning to her own mind. Was that enough time to kill the boy, dispose of the body and threaten Bianca into silence about it? He could always say that Theodore had run off. The boy had no reason to stay with them. He’d need to be careful about the actual killing. The smell of blood and the color of it on the snow would be noticeable. If he snapped his neck without rending the skin it would be alright. He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Grant had just returned with an armload of firewood. Damn. Apparently, he was being forced to behave himself whether he liked it or not.

He had no particular desire to kill Mr. Grant. As much as he hated the man’s involvement with his sister, he could not deny that the man had been useful to both of them. There was also no chance that Mr. Grant would keep quiet if he saw Frederick kill a boy, and killing both of them would be too time consuming and too obvious. Freya knew her little milliner would never run off and leave her. Frederick sighed. He breathed in and out slowly, trying to cool his head. There had to be another way to get what he wanted without killing anyone. His temper bothered him, as it muddled his head to more appropriate courses of action. The most salient thought in his mind was always the most violent one. It was both a little frightening and decidedly unfair. His brother and sister had no such problems, or they hid them much better than he did.

He took a knife out of his pocket and flipped it into his palm. Xan and Theodore regarded him with wide eyes. They didn’t like the addition of a knife to the scenario. He smiled at them as he flipped it into the air again. He knew he made a striking picture with his back to the dying sun. The final rays of sunlight glinted on the blade as he turned it in his hand while the rest of him was cast in shadow against the gleaming snow.

“So, you no longer wish to spend time with me, and you prefer to share your secrets with this boy?” Frederick asked. His voice was heavy with anger and disappointment. Xanthippe nodded almost imperceptibly. She tucked her knees to her chest and huddled herself on the cold gray rock. Who was he planning to use the knife on? Frederick exhaled loudly as he laid the blade of the knife against his palm and slid it across it. Blood ran in bright red rivulets down his arm from the cut forming on his hand. Xanthippe gasped.

“What are you doing?” She asked with a horrified expression, slender amber colored fingers to her lips in surprise. He handed her the knife by its handle, extending it, and his wounded hand toward her. Both of which were slick with blood.

“This is how I feel when you tell that boy your secrets instead of me. This is how I have always felt when you shared any piece of yourself with someone other than myself.” His voice was pained and tight. He let go of the knife she had refused to grasp. His palm was too slippery with blood. It dripped and flowered beautifully on the stiff crystalized snow beneath them.

“Take the knife Xanthippe. You may as well finish what you started.” He tugged open the neck of his shirt. He knew that this was rather melodramatic, as he would be healed from the little scratch by morning. Xanthippe did not know this. She ignored the knife and rose to take his hand.

“Frederick please, don’t do this. I’m sorry.” She looked at his palm with concern. “If you promise to…not to…just show me whatever it is that you wanted to show me.” She wrapped her scarf around his bleeding hand, grasping it in hers as if expecting to be led. Frederick brought her away from the edge of the woods with his arm around her waist. He glanced over his shoulder at Theodore. Theodore was glaring at him resentfully. Frederick grinned at him, licking his tongue across his teeth to make his point. Women were just too easy to manipulate.