The Desperation of Men
Heads slowly turn toward Euphemia and everything inside her withers.
All sense of triumph. Of joy. Hope.
“I know some of you have talked to Thurstan,” Percival continues.
“He’s told you about the creature who swept through their town, leaving nothing but cinders in its wake.
A beast of the Devil.” Percival pauses, letting the gasps puncture the silence.
“It came in the dead of night. They saw it through their windows, a monster of fire and death.” His eyes narrow upon her with deadly intent.
“Strange how it vanished the same night she did.”
Euphemia’s blood turns cold.
No.
Not this…
She knows exactly where this is going.
A murmur moves through the crowd, paranoia bleeding across the road. Through the voices, Euphemia hears what she already knows, what Cybele tried warning her about. The nightmare followed her to Thorfell.
The constable’s hold on Percival seems to lessen with each creeping doubt.
Percival uses that opportunity to stand a little taller, though the reflection of torchlight in his dark eyes still gives him a deranged look.
“Oh, so you’ve already heard then,” he says, smiling wickedly. “The nightmare has been spotted at Thorfell too.”
The crowd that had just moments ago been congratulating and cheering for her and her husband, turns upon them with fear, disgust, and hate. The looks in their faces bring tears to Euphemia’s eyes, for it confirms a truth she’s been trying to outrun for months now.
She is the monster.
Always has been.
Always will be.
Because if she were anything virtuous, she never would have come to Thorfell. Never would have condemned the people here to face her nightmare. Never would have tangled Dagfinn and Kelda in her curse.
Dagfinn steps before Euphemia, blocking her from the people with bloodthirsty eyes.
They will pull him limb from limb.
They will beat his mother until she is nothing but bruised flesh and broken bones.
They will throw them into the churning sea and then celebrate having rid themselves of such wickedness.
And the worst part: Dagfinn and Kelda will defend her to the end. They will claw through the people they swore to protect. They will fight until their nails bleed and their teeth are stained red. And they will lose everything.
“Forgive me,” Euphemia mutters—only, this time not to her God. This time she speaks only to the people. To Kelda. To Dagfinn.
Dagfinn is the only one who hears.
He turns his head to look back at her, but Euphemia is already running. The people have dispersed enough that she sees a path through. It does not matter where it leads. As long as she puts distance between her and the family who have just fought for everything they have.
“Get her!” Percival shouts behind her.
Over the answering bellows for blood, she hears Dagfinn telling the people, no. Telling them to stop. Telling them she’s done nothing wrong.
She squeezes her eyes shut and hopes he’ll soon forget her name at all.
Hopes she can disappear somewhere no one can ever find her again.
Somewhere she cannot hurt anyone.
A place where the nightmare can come and claim her at last.
Euphemia runs down the uneven roads, her heart beating pathetically despite feeling shattered.
Behind her, she hears the madness. The anger. The hunger. Euphemia imagines their teeth tearing her apart. All she has to do is get through town. The people will give up once they’ve scared her away from their beloved town. Won’t they?
But she’s never been on this side of the town before.
She’s not familiar with these narrow streets.
Her hand starts to sting just as she barrels around a corner.
Euphemia comes to an abrupt, staggering stop.
At the end of the alleyway, mocking her attempts to run, is not only a dead end, but also the very creature they blame her for.
The nightmare.
For a moment, she is the girl in the meadow again.
Father screaming.
Hand burning.
Always running. Running. Running.
The mob rushes around the corner a moment later. Mostly men. There is a glimmer of bloodlust in their eyes that gives Euphemia reason to believe they’ve done this before—how many women have they condemned and chased until all they had left was death?
They think they have her.
That she is lost.
But at the sight of the beast, the mob skids to a halt as well.
Their wide eyes glance up at the monster of fire and ruin, the violet flames rippling brighter, as if in warning. Still, the men cling to their rope and torches. They glare at her with renewed triumph, grinning as they realize they can deal with both the girl and the beast in one fell swoop.
She sees the massacre reflected in their eyes.
They’ll make certain it isn’t swift.
Not for her.
Not for the nightmare who has always only existed.
She remembers it then.
The day the creature first appeared to her. It had been a thing of beauty. Solitude. Peace. When the nightmare had approached her, its flames had been nearly absent, more like wisps of violet smoke than anything that could burn.
It wasn’t until her father had screamed that the fire burst around it. His fear, perceived as a threat and dealt with in the dreadful way that it was.
Euphemia watches the mob of men inching closer. Their hunkered stances. Fists clenched around weapons. A deranged sort of lust gleams in their eyes.
They want to do this.
They want her afraid.
Want her to feel small and weak.
It will make it all the easier to overpower her.
This is madness, she realizes.
True darkness.
Not the whims of a young girl sneaking off into a field with a paramour. Not the curiosity that had her drawing nearer to the nightmare that had chosen to show itself to her. Chosen to give her company at a time when she had felt alone.
Euphemia might not be what society expects of a lady, but she would never make someone feel like they were wrong.
Ruined.
Worthy of being slain.
Over the heads of the mob—which she is realizing is only a handful of people compared to the droves that were at the assembly—she sees him.
Dagfinn’s face appears at the back of the crowd.
Fear bright in his eyes.
He stares after her as though this might be the last time.
Euphemia sees him reaching for a sword that is not there. A sword that only belonged to the dream-Dagfinn. In a place where his duty was to survive the monsters night after night.
They do not need swords now, though.
Perhaps swords have been the problem all along.
For what is a sword but an extension of fear?
A way to destroy that which you do not understand and are willing to accept.
A blade meant to destroy instead of rebuild.
Swords only create more bloodshed. More pain.
More festering wounds that will become scars and haunt those who lay eyes upon them.
No, they do not need more fear.
Euphemia gives Dagfinn a small smile, one she hopes will convey that she understands now what she must do. Because it was never the nightmare that killed her father. It was his own fear. Fear of the creature. Fear of her and the path she was walking.
Euphemia turns her back to the mob of cruel men.
She faces the nightmare with new understanding in her heart.
Euphemia takes a step toward the nightmare.
It is not a curse to find beauty in darkness.
She steps again.
It is not a curse to pursue what she yearns for.
Another step.
It is not a curse to dream. And think. And desire.
She stands face to face with the nightmare, flames rolling across its body like purplish waves.
She stretches out a hand, just as she did all those months ago. She lets curiosity fill her chest. Lets it guide her. Lets the awe of beholding such a mystical beast move through her.
And as Euphemia’s scarred hand brushes the velvety softness of the nightmare’s nose, she understands something new.
Something liberating.
All this time Euphemia feared what the people would do to her if they found out who she really is. She feared their judgment. Their ostracism.
But over these past few weeks, Euphemia has faced the venomous fangs of Níehoggr and his tortured army of souls.
She has survived the Wave Maidens and the watery grave they tried dragging her down into.
But before all that. Before Thorfell. Euphemia faced rumor and scrutiny.
Judgment and malice. Grief and blame. And still, she persevered.
She survived and faced monster after monster, stronger every time.
Perhaps it is not the helhest they should fear. Euphemia climbs onto the creature’s back, the flames like a warm welcome home.
It is her.
She is the monster.
Only, she is done fearing herself because of it.
The mob of men stagger and tremble.
Behind them, Dagfinn watches in awe.
Euphemia notices for the first time that Percival is standing beside him. Dagfinn is clutching him as though he’s his own personal prisoner.
Dagfinn gives him a shake and addresses the crowd. “Aye, Euphemia helped me find my way back from certain death. Some might say that is the sign of an angel. Of someone touched by your God.”
The men glance uncomfortably at one another.
Dagfinn shoves Percival back to the constable.
Slowly, he approaches the men who part a path for him like they’ve suddenly become aware that they are standing between their cursed lord and his lady.
“I will remember you—Arthur. Rowan. Gunter. Hildebrand. Issaac.” Dagfinn glares down each and every one of them, the men shifting where they stand, heads bowed with new fear.
“Should any of you come for my wife again, it is not Euphemia you will have to fear. For I have seen the realm of death. I know where men like you go, and I will not hesitate to send you there.”
Reaching Euphemia and the helhest at the end of the alleyway, Dagfinn’s gaze fixes upon her.
“You may leave,” he calls to the men, eyes never leaving hers.
They scatter like rats, retreating into the streets of Thorfell.
Euphemia does not know if this means their hatred is over. In fact, she is positive they will continue to try to infest the minds of everyone with their constricting ideals. Their fears. Their narrow-minded beliefs.
But for today, they are gone.
For today, she is the thing they fear, and they will leave her and her family in peace.
Dagfinn looks up at her astride her flaming steed, a delicious darkness behind his eyes.
“May I touch it?” he asks.
“Only if you are not afraid.”
“I have never been afraid of you, my True North.”
Euphemia laughs. “That’s not true. What was it you called me when you first laid eyes upon me? Cruel spirit? Wretched creature?”
He smirks. “You are a wretched creature, but only because you are so irresistible.”
His hand reaches out, brushing the helhest’s snout. Dagfinn’s hand does not burn.
The creature sniffs contentedly. It’s a marvel she ever feared such a peaceful thing.
“Care for a ride?” she says.
A wicked gleam flashes behind Dagfinn’s eyes. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Without another thought, Dagfinn climbs onto the helhest’s back. Flames ripple around them, but the fire cradles them like furs on a bed. Warm. Inviting. Unafraid.
Dagfinn wraps his arms around her waist, inching closer. She can feel the hardening length of him pressed against her back, because apparently this cursed man actually loves this side of her. He relishes seeing her embracing her darkness, her flames.
No one has ever seen her, truly, and not been afraid.
No one has ever accepted her like this.
No one has ever risked everything. For her.
Euphemia once thought she would spend her whole life alone and feeling like the black sheep of the flock, always shunned to the outskirts, never allowed in.
But here Dagfinn is, welcoming her into his own flock of strangeness. A man who’s known death. A mad scientist who’s attempted to cure it. A kind lord who is somehow still feared despite the goodness in his heart.
Euphemia twists around.
She presses a hand to his face and kisses him.
“Let’s go home,” she says.
“Ride through town on an undead, flaming horse while everyone watches in confusion and fear?” A devastating grin curves one side of his mouth. He wipes away the tear on her cheek. “There is nothing I’d love more. Let’s show them who we really are.”
And so, the cursed lord of nightmares and the haunted bride do just that.