Cursed to Dream #2
Perhaps that’s what all those bundles of twigs hanging on the walls were, and the strange markings carved outside the door. Things Euphemia didn’t understand in the moment, but now she thinks on them with dread.
“Is that what that stuff was in his room?” she asks. “The branches. The runes? Are you a—” She cuts herself off when she notices Kelda’s hardening expression. The subtle tilt of her head and the bewilderment in her eyes.
“Ask your question,” demands the widow, with no amount of warmth in her voice.
Euphemia hesitates.
But Kelda’s is a fang pressed to her throat, the sharp point closing in until Euphemia can bear it no longer.
Euphemia swallows a lump of fear. “Are you a witch?”
Silently, she prays to God she isn’t. For the only thing worse than marrying a cursed man would be marrying into a family sinful enough to practice magic.
But Asvald snorts, the edge of his mouth ticking up.
Kelda scoffs though. “Witch. That is what people call women who defy men.” A humorless, bitter laugh escapes her. But soon her grimace softens, voice quieting with grief. “I wish I were a witch. Maybe then I would know the spell to save him.”
Pity sinks in Euphemia’s core again.
She hadn’t meant to offend, she just needed to be sure.
This woman has suffered enough though, so she tries a gentler approach. “And you’re still unsure what happened to him? What made him…cursed?”
Kelda’s eyes gloss over as she settles into the painful memory.
“One day he simply did not join me for breakfast—not unusual for him by any means. My Dagfinn often slept like an owl, fluttering about at night, only able to rest with the sun.” A fond smile twitches the corner of her lips.
It’s gone before it can leave a mark. “Unaware of his condition, I went into town that day. It wasn’t until nightfall that I returned, ready to join him for supper.
But Dagfinn did not join me that evening.
Nor has he joined me for any meal since. ”
Euphemia sits with the weight of it all.
Kelda’s tremendous loss feels like another person in the room.
Months she’s worried over her son. Euphemia doesn’t know what would be worse: having someone torn from her life suddenly and finitely, or spending month after agonizing month wondering if today would be the day they finally died.
“Is he…alright, otherwise?”
Offense creeps into Kelda’s expression. “He is cared for every day, if that is what you are asking.”
“No, I didn’t mean to suggest—” Biting her lip, Euphemia stops herself from fumbling more than she already has. She pauses and gathers her words carefully. “I only meant to ask how is he still breathing? He’s been asleep for months, you said. How does he drink? How does he eat?”
“Ah,” Kelda says, the earlier offense waning, but suspicion still present. “It is strange, but he responds to food and water as if nothing were wrong. I bring a glass to his lips, and he drinks. I offer him soup and he swallows.”
“Very strange indeed.”
Euphemia hears the awe in her own voice a moment too late.
“Does my son’s predicament impress you?”
Euphemia’s heart jerks. “No!”
“Then what is this?” Kelda gestures up and down the length of her. “You ask about him as if he is something to be studied.”
“I’m sorry.” Shame burns her chest, and Euphemia’s head hangs. “I meant no offense. It’s just a miracle that he has survived all this time. That’s all.”
Kelda’s glare is unrelenting.
Euphemia looks to Asvald for aid, but what aid could he provide? She’s the one blundering this moment of vulnerability. It’s clear Kelda never wanted to tell her any of this and the moment she does, her blasted fascinations get the better of her.
It’s not the appropriate time for wonder.
This is a cursed man they’re discussing. Her husband.
Someone who could be fighting for his life every day, a question that surely plagues his mother constantly.
Euphemia tries fixing her expression with the respect and adoration she thinks is expected of her.
After all, this woman has gone to great lengths for her son.
She’s traveled across a battle-torn country, found a woman he’d been calling for, and welcomed her into their home, all with the hope that her efforts might not be in vain.
If her own mother had been in the same position, she wouldn’t have done nearly half as much. She’d tell Euphemia to pray and be done with it.
“You have endured a great hardship, Lady Kelda,” Euphemia says, steeling her voice with the reverence this woman deserves. “First losing your husband, and now this. It takes a strong heart to endure such pain.”
Although her words are meant to commend, they fall upon Kelda like striking blows.
The widow’s face reddens, features contorting.
Her jaw unhinges, ready to eviscerate Euphemia once and for all.
But Asvald stands at the ready, his head tilting as if to say I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
For a moment, Kelda looks like she might defy him, a wolf already on the scent of blood.
But if she is a wolf, he must be her alpha, for she stands down with a final sneer, before storming down the hall without them.
Euphemia’s mind is a storm of guilt and shame.
She hadn’t mean to hurt her…
Her intentions had been the opposite.
Yet again, she’d made a mistake. Chosen the wrong words. The wrong choices.
Yet again, Euphemia finds herself on a path that feels condemned.
Perhaps this was inevitable.
This is the fate she’s meant for.
A cursed bride to a cursed lord, forever a burden on the people in her life.
Asvald steps forward. Together, they watch Kelda disappear around the corner.
Only once the echoes of her footsteps can no longer be heard down the chamber, does he turn to Euphemia. “Forgive her. She has been through much.”
“I understand,” she says meekly.
But she doesn’t. Not fully.
Euphemia has also been through a lot, and she doesn’t combust at every slight infraction.
Then again, she thinks of Thurstan, and maybe she does.
Regardless, arguing with Asvald would be pointless. He seems to be just as much of a bystander to Kelda’s rage as she is.
“Welcome to Thorfell Manor,” he says without inflection.
She almost thanks him on reflex, but she catches the dryness in his tone just in time.
Asvald gestures for Euphemia to follow him down the corridor.
As they wander the labyrinthian layout, Euphemia realizes for the first time how understaffed this place seems. Not a single servant roams the halls. Not even a flicker of candleflame can be glimpsed from under any of the doors they pass.
Perhaps it’s merely late in the evening and she’ll see more of them tomorrow.
After a short walk, they reach a door. It’s not until after he bids her a good night that Euphemia makes the connection that he’s lead her to her bedchamber.
She steps inside and it is perhaps the most elaborate part of the manor she’s seen yet.
Lavish rugs stretch across the floor, and navy velvet curtains frame the windows, lending the chamber a warmth she’s found nowhere else in the drafty manor.
Tapestries cover the walls, depicting ships battling churning seas, and warriors clashing with spears and shields.
Every surface bears something—a carved chair, a brass candlestick, a painted chest, shelves lined with weathered books.
It’s so unlike the barren halls beyond that Euphemia can only assume this room was spared whatever emptied the rest of the manor.
As Euphemia kicks off her sodden shoes and clothes, she stares at the tapestries. They’re likely references to specific battles, but she doesn’t recognize them at first glance. Perhaps her father fought in some of them.
She’s tired of battles and wars. Tomorrow she will take the tapestries down.
Tonight, she needs to rest.
Grabbing a nightgown from the armoire, Euphemia throws it over her head, and plops onto the bed. As she lays there, trying to unwind, she thinks about how this isn’t the wedding night she imagined. No husband beside her. No joining of bodies.
She should be grateful.
Horror stories abound about what a young woman can expect from her husband on that first night, worse still if he is anything less than kind.
But to Euphemia, this feels like another one of her personal failures.
She can’t even get marriage right.
What would her mother say?
She shoves the thought out of her mind.
Eventually, Euphemia starts to drift. And for the first time since leaving her home, from the threshold between consciousness and slumber, a distant whinny reaches her. A call draws her down where the nightmare—and something else—awaits.