One Last Dream
Sulfur and sea spray prickle Euphemia’s nose.
A violet haze surrounds her.
She knows she’s in the dreamscape before her eyes even open.
Under normal circumstances, she would be excited to return.
But with sinking dread, Euphemia realizes if she’s here that means she has fallen asleep.
The brew is still bubbling in Dagfinn’s study.
But no one is watching it. No one is there tracking the hours.
No one is there ready to deliver it to Dagfinn the moment it’s ready.
Determination rushes through her.
Nothing is more important than waking and returning to that study.
Euphemia is about to start considering her options on how to make that happen, when someone clears their throat behind her.
She doesn’t need to turn around to know who the familiar voice belongs to.
Still, she does. Because even knowing she should be desperate to wake, some selfish part of her is relieved to see him again.
She turns around with a flutter in her belly—
Only, Dagfinn’s face is so downtrodden it sucks the elation right out of her.
“It didn’t work then?” he asks, barely containing the defeat in his tone.
It takes Euphemia a moment to realize what he has assumed her presence means.
“Oh! No—I mean, not no in that it didn’t work.
What I mean is—” Holding up her hands, Euphemia stops herself, collects her thoughts, and tries again.
“I think it will work. I’m in the middle of brewing it as we speak.
Or, I was until I apparently fell asleep during the final process and ruined everything. ”
Relief washes through him as she explains. “You’ve ruined nothing.”
“But it’s just simmering for who knows how many hours, while I’m sleeping soundly in your chaise.”
Not wanting to see the disappointment she’s sure she’ll find in his light blue eyes, she diverts her gaze across the open land instead.
Through the deep purple hues, she realizes this isn’t just another recognizable place in Helheim.
This place, she recognizes. Not from the dreams, but from Thorfell.
This is the cliffside surrounding the manor.
Dagfinn smirks at her dismay. “Try not to fret. The elixir will be fine. It won’t overcook if it was only simmering. Not before you awaken, that is.”
She flashes him a grateful smile, until a memory sours it.
“There is more to contend with than an overcooked brew,” Euphemia confesses. “I’m afraid I had to tell your mother what we were doing.”
Surprise seems to punch him where he stands. Dagfinn sighs deeply. “I don’t imagine that went well.”
“Which part?” Euphemia snorts. “The part where I told her I was seeing you in my dreams? Or when I told her you were teaching me how to brew the draught that would save you?”
“Definitely the last one,” he says, as a shudder runs through him, like he’s remembering a time when he had that argument with her as well.
Euphemia draws nearer. “Why doesn’t she like what you do in there? From what you’ve described of your work and from what I’ve seen, you’re just trying to help.”
He angles a brow at her, voice playful. “Yeah? And how does someone figure that out when they can’t read any of my notes or books?”
The comment makes her chest flame with embarrassment.
It’s not her fault she can’t read. It simply wasn’t a skill either of her parents had taught her, and so Euphemia never learned. Never had the time to.
But it’s not as if Dagfinn is trying to provoke her either. It was spoken in jest, and likely had some genuine intrigue behind it.
Regardless of his intent, Dagfiin notes her change in demeanor instantly.
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to say—there’s nothing wrong with not being able to…” With a sigh, he eventually gives up on trying to finish that apology.
In her eyes, he’s already said enough. “It’s alright.
And I’ll have you know, I can tell what you have in your study without being able to read all your books and labels.
I recognized a lot of medicinal herbs on your shelves.
Someone doesn’t keep a stock of sage, comfrey, and chamomile because they’re attempting dark magick, I wouldn’t think. ”
He eases into the laughter, bright and robust. It is a sound she could get used to.
“I can teach you, you know.”
Euphemia blinks. “Teach me what?”
“To read.” His expression softens. “When you bring me back.”
Something warm unfurls in Euphemia’s chest.
A future. He is speaking as though there will be one. As though waking up is not a question, but a certainty.
But the thought also sends something frightening through her chest.
This future, only she has agreed to it. He still does not know about their marriage.
He does not know that he is bound to her by law whether he likes it or not.
And these things, they are the niceties people say but seldom get around to.
Teaching someone to read is no small endeavor.
It would take weeks of practice. Months.
Surely, he doesn’t truly mean it. And Euphemia cannot let herself get carried away.
She reaches for the first safer thought that comes to mind, something that happened before she went into his study and started brewing.
“I almost forgot to tell you something unbelievable happened.”
He laughs, seeming intrigued. “What?”
“Asvald confided in me tonight.”
His brows jump. “Asvald? As in one of the most tight-lipped, stoic men I know?”
“That’s the one.” Euphemia holds her head higher. “He said you saved his sister. Between that and my own glimpse of your study, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not doing the work of the Devil or practicing dark magick as Kelda fears.”
Gratitude seeps into his features. Then he winces. “What did my mother say exactly?”
“Say?” Euphemia’s laughter comes out incredulous. “It’s not what she said; it’s what she did.”
“Gods…” Dagfinn cradles his forehead, preparing for the worst like he can’t bear to watch. “What has she done now?”
Euphemia pauses for dramatic effect. Then she leans in, emphasizing every word. “She had Asvald lock me in my bedchamber. Then she forbade me from going back to your study at all.”
Euphemia readies herself for the laughter that will follow. After all, it is rather extreme, and there is something mildly tickling about it, now that she’s not actually locked in there.
But Dagfinn does not join her in laughter.
In fact, the carefree grin falls clean off his face. His expression darkens with something she cannot quite place, but it breaks her heart to see it on him.
“Does she not want me to awaken?”
Euphemia’s heart plummets.
“Of course she does. She’s just…she’s been through so much, Dagfinn.
She’s worried about the consequences. I think she…
” Euphemia hesitates to say it, not wanting to make him carry her guilt.
But without knowing it, she’s not sure how else to make him understand.
She inhales deeply. “I think she blames herself that you’re like this.
Stuck here. Tonight she said she wishes she had stopped you sooner, that she had tried keeping you away from your studies. ”
His frown deepens. “Doesn’t she remember?
She tried. Very hard. Every night, she warned me not to meddle with my dark magicks.
And every night I told her there was nothing magical about it.
It was just simple herbalism. Medicine. Alchemy.
She still wouldn’t listen. Neither would I though.
Every time she tried to stop me from locking myself in that room, I told her nothing would keep me from trying to save him. ”
Hearing him talk, she sees so much of his mother in him. The relentless devotion. The unwavering belief that they could do something to make things right again, until both of them had lost hope.
Dagfinn was able to find his again. Kelda will too once Euphemia brings him back home.
“I guess you’ll just have to remind her of your stubborn rebellion when you wake up.
For now—” Euphemia glances toward the manor as if she can see herself inside “—we need to figure out how we’re going to get me to wake up so I can finish your brew.
Or at least get back to my body before Kelda rises and finds my bedchamber empty. Who knows what she’ll do to me next.”
Dagfinn snorts, though there is no smile on his lips. Only the fear of a son who has seen the lengths a mother will go to in order to ensure her word is law in the home.
But rather than helping Euphemia think of a plan, Dagfinn cocks his head at her, amusement in his eyes. “I like that you keep calling it a brew.”
She flushes. “What else am I meant to call it?”
“I call them elixirs. Tinctures. Draughts. It all depends on what I’m making.” A smirk tilts the corner of his delectable lips. “But I am growing fond of brews the more I hear you say it.”
Euphemia’s face heats.
Dagfinn watches her with something akin to wonder. “And you handled the alembic without problem?”
Euphemia tucks her hair behind her ear. “I believe so. Once I got the fire started like you told me, everything else just felt like brewing.”
His grin hitches higher. “Then thank the great sisters of fate for sending you here to find me.”
The flames in her cheeks burn her until she is bright red.
Surely, he’s not impressed by her. All she did was mix herbs together in water.
It’s nothing at all like the masterful studies he does.
All the books he’s read. All the experiments he’s tried and learned from.
The way he sent himself into a permanent slumber while his body still functioned—albeit, a terrifying conundrum for everyone else, but honestly quite amazing that he was able to do anything like it.
Especially since she’s seen his journals.
All the torn-out pages and scribbled entries.
For every one thing he gets right, there are dozens of errors that come before.
“How do you do it?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“How do you keep trying even after you fail?”