Chapter 5 #2
The sickening sympathy in his eyes shifted, relaxing into a grin. “Don’t worry, my balls are frozen enough as is. And I’d rather they stay attached to my body.”
She grunted, once again diffused by his easy temperament. It was rather difficult to argue with someone who didn’t fan the flames of her rage.
How annoying.
Fists still clenched, she followed them to the house.
Cerise shook the snow from her hair and stalked behind them, the prince seeming to take up almost as much space as he did as a bear.
She looked around their cabin, wondering what he thought of it.
Likely insufficient rather than cozy, absent of finery, polished stone, and servants.
“Not as luxurious as you’re accustomed to, I’m sure.”
“True,” the prince said and Cerise’s jaw clenched. His gaze fluttered over the aged wood, gentle firelight flickering over precisely organized jars of preserved foods, the piles of furs and pelts. “Yet it has a warmth I’ve yet to experience elsewhere. I quite like it.”
Cerise grunted in response, the part of her that wanted to argue with him quieting as the sting in her chest eased, along with the stiffness in her jaw.
Eirwen fluttered to Cerise’s bedroom, the prince squeezing in behind her sister, taking up most of the closet-sized space. Eirwen rummaged through the wardrobe and withdrew various items, holding them up to the prince’s body, gauging the fit.
Cerise’s lips tightened. “He’s not wearing my clothes.”
“Well, he can’t fit in mine,” Eirwen said. “And we can’t let him stay naked, now, can we?”
“Why not?”
Eirwen didn’t bother to answer, instead throwing a pile of clothes into the prince’s arms and ushering Cerise out of the room.
Eirwen prepped additional breakfast, the antsiness of idleness thrumming in Cerise’s fingertips.
She’d checked their furniture last week, she didn’t need to appraise them for repairs for another month, according to her schedule.
Cerise stoked the fire then crouched beside it with a smooth, uncursed piece of softwood and small knife, whittling it away.
She lost herself in shaping the wood, a creature slowly taking shape in her hands, as she thought of all the tasks she needed to accomplish that day, considering which could be saved for tomorrow due to the delays the prince caused once again.
Some time later, the prince joined her at the hearth, rubbing his hands together. He looked different. One, he was clothed. Layered linens hugged the planes of his body, the thick muscles in his legs and arms. Cured furs draped over his shoulders and woolen socks puffed around his giant feet.
“What are you making?”
Cerise glanced down at the wood in her hands, taking on the vague contour of a bear. She scowled, realizing she whittled the prince’s bear form without consciously deciding to do so. Hrisadael damn him for seeping into her mind.
“Nothing,” she responded, tossing the figure into the fire with a satisfying, burning hiss.
He hummed in thought and ran a hand over his beard.
That was the other thing different about him—he was less unruly. His golden hair was brushed and billowed in soft, loose waves to his shoulders. The frizz of his beard was trimmed, not only framing but emphasizing the squareness of his jaw. She could even see his lips now, firm and berry pink.
Her sister must’ve allowed him to use one of their knives.
She let one of their few knives, which Cerise spent countless hours maintaining, get duller against this man’s face.
The man who likely had a retinue of barbers and stylists waiting for him back in Tyrnoraen Keep.
The man who least needed their favors or resources.
Eirwen crept between them, handing them both cups of water, then placed eggs and mixed vegetables in an iron pan to cook over the fire.
Cerise grumbled with disapproval. The chickens rarely produced eggs.
Yet Eirwen wasted their ever-dwindling supply on this prince who surely ate delicacies every day that they couldn’t even dream of.
Cerise’s hands tightened around the cup, the wood cracking beneath her grasp.
It’s just a knife. I can sharpen it again.
It’s just eggs. The chickens will lay more. Eventually.
Yet, that’s the thinking that led Cerise and Eirwen to join Zyrdriel’s Order in the Undead Wars.
It’s just my body. The broken bones will mend.
To dedicate themselves to a Celestial who abandoned them when Azkanix’s curse fell.
It’s just my heart. The aches of betrayal will fade.
To plead with the royal family for aid, no matter how degrading the begging became.
It’s just my mind. The nightmares will dissipate.
They’ll all heal over time.
Lies told to justify self-sacrifice.
Where do they draw the line?
When the prince claims this land as his and evicts them?
When he returns to Tyrnoraen, marks their cabin on the royal map, and they’ll be forced to provide hospitality for every idiotic, errant traveler who hopes to find the edges of the curse?
When he offers that in exchange for his silence to protect their quiet life, he’ll take one of them as a mistress?
No, there’d never be an end to the taking.
The cup exploded in Cerise’s hands, slivers of wood splintering her skin, water sizzling as it evaporated in the fire, droplets of it landing on herself, Eirwen, and clinging to the prince’s beard.
“Cerise!” Eirwen exclaimed, snatching her hands to search for splinters.
“I’m fine,” she grumbled, the abrupt sound of the shattering cup breaking the sinking ship of her thoughts.
Glancing at the pieces of wood around her, she gave a frustrated groan.
While Eirwen plucked splinters from one hand, Cerise picked up the wood chips and chucked them into the fire, forcing down the bitter bile of annoyance.
At least this one thing she could replace.
She’d simply carve some uncursed wood into another cup.
The prince swiped a hand over his face, wiping away the sprayed water.
Cerise breathed in and out, counting the seconds between each lungful of air, trying to steady herself.
She glanced out the window, watching the large flakes of falling snow, their slow descent calming her.
Eirwen portioned the food onto a plate for the prince, and Cerise broke the silence when she finally felt as if her hands weren’t shaking.
“Get on with it, then,” Cerise said. “Tell me what you know of the necromancer.”