Dream Ward #2
Asvald steadies her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She breathes deeply, then begins.
“Oh, valiant watchers of the night. Oh, mighty defenders of darkness and light—” Kelda bellows like a storm.
Wind twists around the room, starting small before expanding.
Encircling them and the dream ward. Kelda continues.
“Oh, wise guardians of those who slumber, we beseech you to scour your reaches—north, south, east, and west. Find the lost soul named Dagfinn Varinsson.”
The gale in the room grows harsher.
Dagfinn’s name whips around the room with it.
A whisper.
A growl.
A scream.
Loose strands of hair whip Kelda in the face, Euphemia too.
The stones in the walls begin to quake and Euphemia slams onto her knees, clutching Dagfinn’s hand.
Asvald keeps a firm hand around Kelda’s shoulders, whose eyes have gone pure white.
But her lips keep moving, the words of the incantation spewing freely.
Inhumanly. An ominous echo in her throat as if she is not the only one speaking.
“Guide him through the shadows. Guide him back into our light.” Kelda screams now, the gale so powerful, it’s the only way she can be heard through it. “Guide him home. Guide him back to this body. Guide him here. Now!”
Suddenly, the wind ceases.
Kelda staggers, her irises returning.
“Kelda! Are you alright?” Asvald grabs her, concern etching his brow.
“I’m fine.” She waves him off, breathless.
Kelda stares at the dream ward in her hand as if she doesn’t recognize it. But blinking, awareness returns to her.
She lifts Dagfinn’s pillow and nestles the dream ward beneath it.
Then Kelda kneels on the other side of the bed.
And they wait.
And wait.
And wait.
As the minutes tick by, Kelda shifts between standing, kneeling, and sitting, her body in constant motion.
The more time that passes, the more Euphemia’s heart sinks.
She truly thought this would work. They all did. And she wonders if this is what it’s felt like every time they’ve attempted to save him. Hope building, brick by brick, just to crumble at their feet.
Only Euphemia knows that there is another chance.
It seems cruel at this point not to tell Kelda.
But as Euphemia starts to consider it, Dagfinn’s fingers spasm in the palm of her hand.
Euphemia jumps, a paper-thin gasp escaping her as she stares at his hand.
“What is it?” Kelda asks.
“I thought I felt him move, but—”
There it is again. Another twitch of his fingers. Then his hand.
His other one starts jolting to life as well.
And Dagfinn bursts upright in bed.
The breath he takes is cavernous, his jaw yawning wide as a croak stretches from the depths of his belly sounding more like a dying breath than anything.
“Dagfinn!” exclaims Kelda, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing.
He sits there, slack-jawed and arms lip. His head is tilted to the rafters. Eyes drooping. And the first word Euphemia thinks is wrong.
She stuffs the confusion aside and leans forward to get a better look. “Dagfinn?”
His head twists toward her with sickening staccato.
His eyes are all wrong. Black pits that she fears she will fall into. There’s nothing beyond them. No recognition. No playful shine. No sense of the hope that he only just recently reclaimed.
She’s being unfair though.
Dagfinn has been asleep for months.
Been in Helheim, surrounded by death and darkness for months.
Of course they can expect things to be a little…different while he recovers.
A good wife would accept that.
Gently, Kelda lowers Dagfinn back onto the pillows, jarring his gaze from Euphemia. Shamefully, she is grateful.
This isn’t how she expected their reunion to be. Euphemia thought they’d see each other and a secret knowing would pass between them. Or perhaps confusion, even, as if he had never met her and therefore was surprised to see her in his home.
Anything would be better than the cold nothingness she felt in his gaze.
“He hasn’t spoken.” Kelda pats her skirts, anxiously, and looks up to Asvald. “Why isn’t he speaking?”
Asvald struggles for the words. “Give him time. He’s been gone awhile. He might need to learn a few things.”
Kelda nods enthusiastically and turns to watch her son again.
Fragile hope bleeds through her expression.
Like this is the last thread holding her together.
On the bed, Dagfinn simply stares up at the ceiling. His breathing is sticky and rattling and wrong.
But he’s awake now.
That’s what should matter.
Not her foolish heart wishing for more.
Not her mind worrying over the estate and their home.
Not her chest aching that she wasn’t the one to save him.
Euphemia wishes she could go back to sleep and start the day anew. But that would only hurt more, for her Dagfinn is here now. Not there. No longer a waiting companion whenever she rests.
She is so selfish.
So wicked.
And she does not belong here in this room full of hope and celebration.
Euphemia flashes Kelda a fragile smile. “I’ll go get us some tea. Maybe that will help him speak.”
Kelda pats her hand. “Yes. Good idea. Thank you, Euphemia.”
And without another word, Euphemia staggers out of the room.
The walls sway as she walks through them, a hollow ache gutting her.
This Dagfinn did not know her. She is certain.
Which begs the question: had she been delirious the whole time? Conjuring some false version of the husband she is bound to, just to soothe her at night? It is not lost on her that she could not see the beastly man’s face until after she saw Dagfinn in the tower. Was it all just in her mind?
Staggering into the kitchen, Euphemia slams her fists upon the stone table.
Her bones cry out in agony.
Her heart battered and bruised.
How could she be so foolish? How could she have fallen prey to her own mind’s wicked machinations?
It had all been a dream. Every time she met him. None of it had been real.
Euphemia truly is losing her mind then.
Tears sting her cheeks as she sets to work brewing the tea.
In time, as the water begins to boil and the scent of herbs fill the room, there is comfort to be had here.
Being of service to others while she herself is unraveling feels all too much like home.
It reminds her of the days she spent hiding her darkest fears from the ones she called family. And here she is doing the same.
It’s habit by now.
It would feel so natural to slip back into that version of herself.
And yet…
Now that she has glimpsed what it might be like to be truly and unapologetically herself, the thought of returning to anything less is shattering. Like she’s splitting herself in two and casting the better half to the cold depths of the sea.
She practices the smile, the kettle rattling on the tray as she moves about the manor.
By the time she returns to Dagfinn’s tower, Euphemia has mustered enough of a cheerful disposition that she’s hopeful no one will notice how forced it is.
She swings the chamber door open, preparing to enter the same space she left.
But on the other side of the door, Dagfinn is standing.
Her heart leaps.
Her grip on the tray falters.
Releases.
The tray starts to fall.
The steaming kettle and pewter cups lean.
Dagfinn lurches forward.
He grabs the tray out of thin air, stabilizing it before catastrophe could’ve spewed across the floor.
He smiles at her. And for a moment, she feels the ache in her chest ease. He had just needed time to recover and re-acclimate. That is all. And now things will be exactly as she hoped they would be.
But her own smile falters.
His hand grazes hers where the rest on the tray, so cold it reminds her of Ràn’s ocean.
Euphemia gasps and jerks her hand away.
This time, there is no saving it. Not when her movement is so sudden and startles him too.
The tray topples to one side. Steaming water sprays in all directions, dousing Dagfinn’s night shirt and Euphemia’s arm, though she hardly feels any heat from it.
Dagfinn, however, hisses like a geyser. Teeth clenched. A gargling cry caught in his throat that brings forth a stench of moss and decay.
“Dagfinn!” cries Kelda, rushing to his side.
Asvald comes to help, and the two of them support him as he hobbles back to bed.
“What happened?” Kelda asks, glancing at the fallen tray.
“I-I—”
Euphemia’s mouth opens and closes. But she cannot put to words how everything about Dagfinn makes her feel like worms are writhing up and down her spine. Everything is wrong about him. His eyes should be crystal blue. His touch should a warm fire. His scent should be cedar and ashes.
Even the way he moves, like one shoulder is heavier than the other.
How can neither of them see it?
Perhaps that is the most confirmation of all.
Neither of them are unmoored by him, because he is as he always was.
Euphemia’s version of him is the wrong one.
“I’m sorry,” Euphemia mumbles. “This is just so much.”
Kelda pats her shoulders. A thought crosses her. She glances over her shoulder to Dagfinn before lowering her voice, “Perhaps you’re right. He doesn’t even know who you are. Maybe it’s best you take a rest for the night. We’ll try again in the morning.”
Euphemia nods, eager to excuse herself.
She stumbles down the stairwell, barely able to see. Barely able to breath, around ironclad grip on her heart.
Once the open passageways are before her, Euphemia runs—not even sure where she’s headed until she collides into her bedchamber.
The tears fall freely then. Shards of ice that carve heartache into her features. The weight of her despair drags her down onto the floor, her skirts pooling like a puddle around her.
And it’s there, in the darkness of her bedchamber, on the cold stone floor, that the sobs wear her down, and Euphemia falls asleep.
Only tonight, she does not know what awaits her on the other side of slumber.