One Last Dream #2
He gives a self-mocking laugh and the two of them start to stroll.
“I guess because I am such a fool that I don’t see it as failing.
Each mistake—every spoiled draught, every fire started—they all teach me something.
They get me one step closer to what it is I’m searching for.
If anything, I am more afraid of not trying at all than failing. Aren’t you?”
“Mistakes were never really allowed where I grew up.” Euphemia’s gaze settles to the violet grass beneath her feet. “You have to understand, mistakes meant losing coin, and losing coin meant someone was going hungry that night. Usually me.”
He frowns. “Why you?”
She becomes more wistful now. “Oh, you know. I was just the dark cloud hanging over the family, as my sister called me. I was always making mistakes. Always making things harder on them.”
Dagfinn stops walking.
He turns toward her, taking her face into his hands and holding her gaze.
“You are the farthest thing from a dark cloud, Euphemia. You are the brightest star in the sky. You guided me out of the dark depths of Helheim. And somehow, even in the realm of death and ruin, you somehow find a way to make me smile. To make yourself smile. I cannot fathom anyone being in your presence and not feeling you shine.”
Dagfinn’s thumb strokes her cheek once.
Then he releases her.
The place where his hands had been feels unbearable cold without him.
They continue walking around the perimeter of the manor, circling near the stables first, then toward the abandoned cottage in the distance, until they come around to the oceanside again. Seeing the cliffs, Euphemia is reminded of her treacherous night.
“By the way,” she says, interrupting the silence. “That roseroot you sent me to retrieve nearly became the death of me.”
Something hardens his features. “Should I be worried?”
“No. I’m fine. Clearly. I even saved a few of the seeds so we can plant them somewhere less treacherous and easier to harvest the next time we need them.” She reaches for the satchel to show him, but realizes it’s not on her person.
When she glances at him again, something like fear is penetrating his gaze.
His hand barely grazes hers.
Then Dagfinn is weaving his fingers between her own.
The feeling is new, his hands uncharted territory. And yet, they are familiar enough that they already know how to fit snugly into the grooves around her knuckles, the tender places to caress, the rhythm of feather-soft touches that makes her heart soar.
“Did you say we?” That wolfish grin of his returns. “Reconsidering my proposal, are you?”
And just like that, the elation crumbles.
Guilt surges through her.
Euphemia drops his hand as if it were on fire.
She storms ahead, though even with her back to him, she can feel his confused eyes bearing into her. But this is not a conversation she’s ready to have yet. It’s not one she thought would come up until he returned home.
“We really should figure out how to get me back home so I can finish the brew—I mean the draught. Finish the draught.” She laughs through her bumbling words, but inside she is a whirlwind of hope and devastation. Of trepidation and daring.
Should she tell him now?
He’s mentioned a betrothal more than once now, perhaps he is genuine.
No. Of course he isn’t. Both times he’s said it with that playful look about him, the same way she’s seen men at the Saint’s Hearth flirt with Cybele or their mother. It never leads anywhere meaningful. Just a few words meant to flatter a lady.
Dagfinn catches up to her.
Euphemia avoids meeting his eyes, but she feels his gaze narrowing on her all the same.
“You said home just now.”
“I-I did?” Euphemia forces a surprised frown. “I don’t think I did.”
“You did. You said we should get you back home. What did you mean by that?”
Her laughter is higher pitched than she intends.
He doesn’t give her a chance to answer.
“You said we earlier too. When you were talking about planting seeds.”
Euphemia falls silent.
If she keeps talking, she’ll surely ruin everything. But if she doesn’t say anything at all, he’ll find her just as guilty.
Panic tightens her belly.
She’s not ready to tell him yet.
Not ready for the truth.
Not ready for the dream to shatter.
Because what happens when this man whom she’s come to trust and admire, this man bound to her by law and honor finally learns that his autonomy was taken. That Kelda chose a wife for him before he could choose his own.
For all his flirtatious glances and touches, Dagfinn had not chosen her as his wife.
Only Euphemia had entered this arrangement willingly.
And over the past few weeks, despite the somber veil that has fallen over the manor, despite the harsh weather, despite the hardships and tension between her new family and the rest of Thorfell, Euphemia has come to love this small alcove of a life she’s nestled into.
Her silence seems to speak for itself, for clarity has never shone more brightly behind Dagfinn’s eyes.
Still, he asks, “What brings you to Thorfell, Euphemia?”
All she can do is shake her head. Slowly, at first. Then faster and faster as she attempts to plead with him to stop. To leave it for now. To let her have this final dream together.
He does not relent.
Perhaps he cannot.
The part of him who is always seeking answers will not allow it.
“We have no extended family remaining,” Dagfinn reasons.
“And my mother prefers the company of her family and close friends. She would not invite just anyone into the manor. Especially not beyond a short visit. But you speak as though you live there permanently. When you talked of your family, you spoke as if you would not be going back there, which means your circumstances in Thorfell are permanent.” His voice softens, no longer a man on the hunt for answers, but one who has already found them.
One who merely seeks confirmation. “I will ask again, why are you in my home?”
Dagfinn deserves the answer.
Euphemia wants him to have it.
Yet, she cannot get the words to cooperate on her tongue.
Tears sting the back of her throat. “You have already surmised why I’m there.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“And yet, I do not want to be the one to do so!” Her voice cracks and Euphemia tears herself away from him.
It’s selfish and cruel to leave him in the depths of unknowing. But her knees wobble beneath the weight of the confession expected of her. Euphemia lurches for the nearest thing that will hold her, the stone baluster at the base of the stairs. She leans against it, bracing herself.
Hot tears sting her eyes.
Dagfinn’s boots pad on soft grass as he comes up behind her. His voice tremors as he asks, “Are you my betrothed?”
Euphemia pinches her eyes shut. She does not want him to know yet, but she also wants to see his face when he finally understands.
Straightening her spine, Euphemia turns around, and faces him. “No longer betrothed, actually.”
“Married then?”
The words barely leave him and already Euphemia’s throat is closing. “Yes.”
For a heartbeat, Dagfinn simply stares at her.
She watches the realization move across his face: shock, confusion, and then a smile. Small at first. Disbelieving, even.
“You are my wife?” His voice has gone strangely soft.
“Yes,” is all she seems to be able to say, her breath held inside her chest about to pop.
A smile slowly pulls at the edges of his mouth. Not his usual wolfish smirk. Not the teasing curve she has come to expect whenever he knows he has her flustered. This is something entirely different.
Something bright.
Something helpless.
“Gods,” he whispers. A breathless laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head as though he still cannot quite believe it. “A wife.”
There is confusion and wonder in those words and Euphemia’s heart aches as she watches him reconcile the fact that his life moved forward without him. And he was trapped here, unable to do anything about it.
Then his eyes find hers again, and the smile turns almost boyish. “You mean to tell me that all this time I’ve been falling for you, and you were already mine?”
Euphemia’s cheeks burn. Her stomach dips into something delicious.
She can only nod, afraid that anything else will tip her over.
Because how can he be looking at her like that right now? How can he learn of such an offense and still want to gaze at her as if he never wants to look away? How can he possibly fall for someone who was so selfish and desperate she was willing to do anything to evade the thing haunting her.
Another laugh escapes him, short and teasing. He plants his hands on his hips, shoulders broad. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
A breath loosens from her chest.
Relief and surprise fills her.
There is no anger in his words. Only astonishment.
When she finally gets her mouth to cooperate, her words drip as slow as honey. “I was trying to wait until you were awake and back in your normal life again.”
He laughs again, softer this time. Then almost to himself, he says again, “My wife.”
The words send a shiver down Euphemia’s spine.
All her fears are starting to evaporate.
Then, torturously, confusion finally catches up to him.
“How is that possible? I’ve been unconscious for months.”
There it is.
The start of the end, she thinks.
“I know.” Euphemia tries to explain. “Believe me, I said the same thing when Asvald started the ceremony. But he and Kelda said it was still binding, that our marriage was legal, even if you weren’t present.”
He scoffs at the idea, dragging a hand through his hair as he thinks. “But…why?”
Euphemia swallows. “As I said, your mother wants you home. She’s tried just about everything to get you back.”
“But why did she believe marrying you would achieve that?”
This is the part of the story she wishes Kelda were here to explain, because it’s not something she herself entirely understands. It feels too fantastical. Too fateful.
Euphemia winces as she says something that sounds truly mad. “Because you were calling out my name in your sleep.”
Even Dagfinn looks surprised to hear it. “I was?”