Page 4 of The Curse Between Us

Edric stood with his elbows resting on the thick stone wall, gazing out at the horizon where the sun was sinking behind the low hills to the west. The fading light turned the sky into a canvas of glorious reds and oranges, the flames of dusk burning as though the land itself was offering a tribute to the king whose reign had ended today. It was a fitting, almost poetic gesture—one that felt like a final salute, not just from the earth, but from the very soul of the kingdom. Yet, despite the grandeur of the moment, a hollow ache settled in Edric’s chest as he processed the reality of it all. His father was gone.

He could scarcely believe it. After Eileen had brought him back to the king’s chambers, Edric had watched his father—Caldwell—struggle through hours of labored breaths, growing colder, paler, the light of life slowly dimming from his eyes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the breath that once passed from his lungs to his lips had stopped, the king’s body going still, the room growing quiet. It had been almost peaceful, an ending that was as serene as it was unexpected. Caldwell had always been such a vibrant, temperamental, and combative man—this slow, silent departure seemed almost out of place.

Alec, who had been by Edric’s side through much of the ordeal, had placed a steady hand on his shoulder, tightening it in a brief, reassuring gesture before giving him the proper salute—a soldier to a king. Edric had blinked, swallowed hard, and returned the salute with the appropriate gesture, though his throat had tightened, making the movement feel awkward, forced. Alec had left almost immediately after, off to begin the complicated work of arranging both a royal funeral and a coronation, as well as a rather unexpected wedding.

The weight of it all should have been overwhelming, but for the moment, at least, Edric was granted an unusual respite. Respect for his grief kept him from having immediate duties to perform—no more decisions to be made, no more immediate matters to address. So, he had sought solitude atop the castle walls to watch the sun dip below the horizon, to reflect on the day’s events, and to sort through the chaos in his mind.

But despite everything, he didn’t feel any different. He thought that perhaps the true weight of it would come during the coronation, when the golden crown would be placed upon his head and the mantle of kingship would finally settle onto his shoulders. Or maybe, he wondered, it was just denial. Maybe he was still waiting for the sound of his father’s voice to echo down the halls, calling for soldiers to prepare for battle, for the next great war. The thought seemed so foreign now, yet in his mind it lingered, refusing to leave him. He felt nothing—no sadness, no grief, no overwhelming sense of loss. Not yet, anyway. He would have to process it all first, accept it, before any of those feelings would come.

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and Edric glanced down, spotting a familiar figure climbing the stone steps toward him, lantern in hand. He didn’t call out a greeting; he simply stayed where he was, his gaze still fixed on the darkening sky, waiting for Marsh to join him.

When Marsh reached his side, he hung the lantern from a hook on the nearby wall and mimicked Edric’s stance, his elbows resting on the same thick stone. They stood there in companionable silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts, the only sound the distant rustle of wind and the faint clink of the lantern chain. The world around them gradually darkened, the sky turning from red to deep purple, and then to black, with only the dim glow of the lantern to illuminate their faces.

Finally, Edric broke the silence. “I keep wondering if things might have been different,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur. “If I had been on the field today. If I could have reached my father in time, or if I would have died in his place.”

Marsh considered his words carefully before shaking his head slowly. “Maybe,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “But different is not always better.”

Edric let out a long breath, letting his shoulders sag slightly as he slumped forward against the wall. “I’m afraid I’m not ready for this, Marsh. Not for this weight. Not for any of it.”

A heavy hand, warm and solid, settled on Edric’s back, and he allowed himself to lean into it, the familiarity of the gesture grounding him in the moment. Marsh’s presence was a constant, a steady rock in the turbulent sea of his emotions. “You are ready,” Marsh said with quiet assurance. “Your father—he had his qualities, yes. But you’re a better man than he was, Edric. And you’ll be a better king.”

The words were kind, but they did little to ease the uncertainty gnawing at Edric’s gut. He leaned further into Marsh’s touch, feeling the weight of it anchor him. “Do you truly believe that?”

“I do,” Marsh replied firmly. “Edric, you’ve been trained for this since you were a boy. You understand what’s important. You care about the people—more than just about war and revenge. Your father...” Marsh paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “He lost sight of that. Ever since your mother’s death, he became obsessed with the war, with vengeance. And look where it led him.”

Edric flinched at the harshness of Marsh’s words, though he knew deep down they were true. He had been only ten years old when his mother, Queen Meredith, had died—caught by a chill from a wind that had swept down from the mountains. His father, consumed by rage and grief, had blamed the Eskarvens for her death, even though it had been a cruel twist of fate rather than any malice from across the border. From that moment onward, Caldwell had been blinded by his hatred, the war consuming him completely. And Edric and his brother, left without proper guidance, had been forced to navigate their lives with a father absent both physically and emotionally.

“We’ve arranged a treaty,” Edric said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “With the soon-to-be king of Eskarven. He’s here, in the castle now. Alec and Herbert are drawing up the plan.”

“A treaty?” Marsh repeated slowly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “A... peace treaty?”

Edric nodded. “Yes, a peace treaty. An end to the war.”

Marsh was silent for a long while, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, considering what Edric had just said. “At what cost?” he finally asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

Edric swallowed hard. He had known that Marsh wouldn’t be fooled by any of the surface details. He could feel the weight of his friend’s gaze on him, knowing that it wasn’t just the treaty that Marsh was concerned about. The marriage, the union between him and Zephyr, would be the true cost of the peace. He stepped back from Marsh, pulling away from the comforting weight of his hand, and straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to meet Marsh’s eyes.

“A marriage,” he said quietly. “Between Prince Zephyr and myself.”

Marsh exhaled slowly, absorbing the information with an expression that Edric couldn’t quite read. “What is he like? The prince, I mean. I’ve seen him on the battlefield, but that’s not enough to know him.”

Edric frowned, surprised by Marsh’s line of questioning. “You’re not...” he hesitated, then spread his hands helplessly. “Marsh, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Marsh asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was no resentment in his eyes, only understanding. “Edric, there were never any promises between us. We might have been happy together, but if you’re worried about hurting my feelings, don’t. I understand.”

“You would have been my co-ruler,” Edric said softly, though the words felt like a weight. “If nothing else, doesn’t that loss affect you?”

“No,” Marsh shrugged, his expression almost philosophical. “I’m a soldier, Edric. Not a king. And now you’re telling me that because of your marriage to the Eskarven prince, I have the chance to be something else—whatever I want to be.” He paused for a moment, his lips tightening. “I just hope you’re not sacrificing too much of your own happiness.”

Edric didn’t know how to respond to that. He had always considered his duty as his first priority—his people, his kingdom, the future he was meant to build. The marriage with Zephyr, while born of necessity, didn’t seem like the kind of sacrifice that would tear him apart. But then again, he didn’t know Zephyr—not truly. He only knew the prince as the enemy, as the heir to the kingdom that had been at war with his own for so long. And yet, something about the idea of the marriage didn’t feel entirely wrong.

“I don’t think I will be sacrificing anything,” Edric said, his voice steady but uncertain. “Not when it means securing the peace. Not when it’s for the future of our people.”

Marsh let out a low, teasing chuckle. “That handsome, is he?”

Edric laughed, the sound surprised but genuine. He shoved Marsh lightly, grateful that his friend wouldn’t be able to see the flush rising in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course not, Your Highness,” Marsh teased, his tone playful. But then he straightened, his voice taking on a more formal edge. “Your Majesty.”

Biting his lip, Edric shook his head, his thoughts spinning. “Please. Don’t,” he said, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He wasn’t ready for the formalities of kingship—not now, not from anyone, especially not from his best friend. “I’m still Edric. Just—”

“Just more,” Marsh interjected softly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. He reached out and gripped Edric’s shoulder, a steady, reassuring touch. This time, Edric did not push him away. He knew the spirit in which the gesture was made—Marsh wasn’t just offering his support, but an unspoken promise that he was there, standing with him, no matter what. And Edric appreciated it more than he could express.

Before he could say anything more, the sound of footsteps echoed up the stone staircase. Edric frowned, wondering who else might be coming up here at such a late hour. The castle’s halls were quiet now, save for the soft rustling of the wind and the faint crackle of the lanterns.

Marsh, ever vigilant, took a step forward, his hand instinctively going to the sword at his hip. His posture shifted, placing himself between Edric and the incoming presence, his body a protective wall. From behind Marsh’s imposing figure, Edric could see nothing but the growing flicker of a lantern’s light.

Then, as if sensing the tension ease, Marsh relaxed, his hand falling away from his weapon. He stepped back slightly, his posture softening. “It’s only Victor,” he said with a hint of amusement. “Did you miss us, Victor?”

Victor, one of their oldest friends, rolled his eyes at Marsh’s teasing but said nothing. His gaze fell on Edric, and he offered a slight nod. “Not precisely,” he replied, his tone dry. “Someone craves an audience with you, Your Highness.”

Edric’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing. He didn’t expect any requests from Alec or his other friends at this hour, especially not with everything that had just transpired.

As if on cue, the shadowy figure behind Victor stepped forward into the light. Edric blinked, his gaze sharpening in surprise. There, standing in the lantern’s glow, was Prince Zephyr. His face was grave, his eyes shadowed with the weight of his own thoughts, yet he offered a small, courteous bow to Edric—a formality that Edric instinctively returned.

“Dismissed,” Edric said with a simple gesture, his voice steady despite the maelstrom of emotions swirling within him. He nodded to Marsh and Victor, signaling for them to leave. “Prince Zephyr and I can surely look after ourselves.”

Marsh, ever perceptive, studied Zephyr for a long moment before speaking, his voice tinged with curiosity. “Ah,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, “this is the Eskarven.” He hesitated, then, with a sudden, impulsive movement, reached out to clap a hand onto Zephyr’s shoulder, his strong fingers landing on the bare skin left exposed by Zephyr’s sleeveless linen shirt.

The moment Marsh’s hand made contact with Zephyr’s shoulder, both men let out anguished gasps of pain. The sound was so sharp that it startled Edric, and before he could react, Victor’s hand was already hovering over the hilt of his sword, his body tensing in an instant.

“Wait,” Edric shouted, stepping forward between Victor and Zephyr. His hands shot out, palms raised, trying to separate them without causing further harm. “Victor. That’s an order.”

Victor looked from Edric to Zephyr, confusion and concern in his eyes. “What did you do to him?” he asked flatly, his voice icy with suspicion.

Zephyr, clutching his shoulder, his face tight with discomfort, managed to speak through gritted teeth. “I did nothing,” he said, the words pained but firm.

Edric’s heart pounded in his chest as he swallowed roughly, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on him. He glanced between Marsh and Victor, who were both still trying to make sense of what had just happened. “We don’t know what it means,” Edric said, his voice low, but urgent. “But it seems that a Rafrian and an Eskarven cannot touch without causing one another pain.”

He watched, holding his breath, as Marsh and Victor processed the implications of his words. Marsh clicked his tongue in what could only be sympathy, while Victor appeared more shocked than anything else. The silence that followed was thick with uncertainty, the weight of Edric’s words hanging in the air like an unspoken truth.

Edric took a step back, his voice becoming more commanding. “You must not speak of this,” he implored. “I beg of you.”

Marsh nodded immediately, his expression one of understanding. “You have my word,” he said, his tone steady.

Victor hesitated, his gaze flickering to Zephyr once more, but after a long moment, he, too, nodded, albeit with visible reluctance. “Mine as well,” he said, though the tension in his posture remained.

Marsh turned his attention to Zephyr, his expression softening slightly. “My apologies, Prince Zephyr. I meant you no harm.”

Zephyr gave a small, tight smile. “Nor did I to you,” he replied, his voice low and measured. “I would shake your hand, but—”

Marsh let out a soft chuckle and, instead of a handshake, offered Zephyr a brief, respectful salute. “I like him,” he muttered under his breath, only loud enough for Edric to hear. Then, he turned to leave, his voice returning to its usual teasing tone. “Don’t be up here all night, then.”

Edric waved a dismissive hand at Marsh and clasped his hands behind his back, watching as both Marsh and Victor’s footsteps faded into the distance. The air between him and Zephyr remained charged with unspoken tension. They stood there for a few moments, only a few feet apart, but it felt like an entire world of distance separated them.

Finally, Zephyr spoke, his voice breaking the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his gaze still distant. “About your father.”

Edric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He shrugged, the weight of the moment settling heavily on him. “It was peaceful, in the end,” he said, his voice thick with a mix of emotions. He cast a sidelong glance at Zephyr, catching the flicker of the lanterns over his sharp features—his strong jawline, the way his eyes seemed to hold the weight of an entire kingdom’s history.

“Your brother—” Edric began, but the words faltered on his lips. He hadn’t seen Prince Hadden in years, and he had no idea how the Eskarven king had passed. Yet somehow, he could sense that it hadn’t been as bloodless as his own father’s death.

Zephyr grimaced, pushing a hand through his hair in a way that seemed to betray his composure. “Yes,” he said simply, and Edric knew without further explanation that it had not been a peaceful death. Two kings, two deaths, two entirely different kingdoms—each with its own story, its own legacy.

“And so here we are,” Edric said softly, his voice carrying a mix of grief and tentative hope. His thoughts about his father’s passing were still tangled, interwoven with his own anxieties about the future. But he knew that Zephyr, too, stood on the cusp of something monumental. They had both lost so much, but in its place, there was the possibility of something new, something better.

Zephyr looked out over the land, his expression thoughtful, before he spoke again. “Here we are,” he echoed, his voice almost wistful. He took a few steps closer to the edge of the wall, peering out over the darkness that had swallowed the land below them. “It’s not at all what I expected.”

Edric, intrigued, raised an eyebrow. “In what ways?”

Zephyr shrugged, still focused on the view beyond the walls. “All I’d ever seen of your land before was the battlefield,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the weight of their shared past was pulling him inward. “There was never any time to admire it, to see the beauty beneath the harshness of your sun.”

“It must be very different, though,” Edric said quietly, following Zephyr’s gaze out into the darkness. His mind wandered, trying to imagine the view from the castle of Eskarven. He’d heard stories of its vast, frozen landscapes, but he had never had the chance to see it for himself. He had never taken part in any of the rare ventures across the mountains that had occurred during his lifetime.

Zephyr’s voice broke through his thoughts, steady and deliberate. “It is,” he replied, his face remaining stoic, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed his inner conflict. He held himself with such an air of quiet resolve, as though he had spent years honing the art of bearing his burdens with grace. “You have never seen it, have you?”

Edric shook his head slowly. There was no need to speak more; the answer was clear. Zephyr closed his eyes, and the dark sweep of his lashes stood out starkly against his pale skin, framed by the soft glow of the lantern’s flickering light. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, carrying with it a sense of wistful reverence. “There is so much less colour than here. Everything is white and gray and blue, shimmering and pure. The sun shines fiercely, but it deceives us, because the brightest days are often the coldest.” He took a deep breath, almost as though he were breathing in the very air of his homeland, and his words carried a raw beauty that made Edric’s chest tighten. “The waterfall that tumbles down from the mountains is eternally frozen, like a sculpture formed by the hands of Plenty itself.”

Edric felt a sharp pang in his chest, the longing in Zephyr’s voice cutting through him like a dagger. There was so much Edric didn’t know about the world outside his own, so many lands he had never set foot in. And yet, Zephyr’s words painted a vivid picture of a land both alien and beautiful. “It sounds beautiful,” Edric said softly, almost to himself. Then, with a determined breath, he added, “I promise you, we’ll get you home as quickly as we can. This whole scheme—” He sighed, shaking his head, “—I know how important it is. But your duty to your people is important too.”

Zephyr turned to look at him then, and for the first time, Edric saw the true weight of his gaze—heavy with the burdens of responsibility, yes, but also with a touch of gratitude. “Thank you,” Zephyr said quietly. His voice, though low, was filled with a depth that left Edric almost speechless.

And then, as though the tension in the air had finally broken, a slow smile tugged at the corners of Zephyr’s mouth. It was small at first, but it grew until the edges of his lips curled into something brighter. “And who knows? Perhaps one day you will see my home. After all, we are to be married.”

The words hung between them, and Edric was surprised into a laugh. The tension that had built up in him over the last few days seemed to dissipate for a moment. He reached out as though to sling a friendly arm around Zephyr’s shoulders, but the gesture faltered as soon as his hand was halfway there. Something in Zephyr’s expression, in the way his shoulders stiffened, stopped him. The smile that had been growing on Zephyr’s face quickly faded, and Edric’s own mouth tightened, the sudden awkwardness palpable between them.

Despite the long list of reasons they ought to hate one another, despite the complicated web of politics and duty that held them together, Edric was quickly coming to enjoy Zephyr’s company. He was realizing that Zephyr was not just a symbol of a marriage contract, but a person—someone who could become an ally, even a friend. And yet, the physical affection that he might normally show to his closest companions—Marsh, Victor, or even Alec—could not be extended here. Not like this.

He drew his hand back quickly, offering Zephyr a rueful smile. “I should not have—”

“It’s fine.” Zephyr’s voice was slightly strained, but he smiled again, a small but genuine expression. The moment of discomfort passed, and Edric breathed easier for it. “It is getting late, though. I think we ought to retire.”

Under other circumstances, Edric might have shivered to hear those words coming from Zephyr’s low, rough voice, but something about the moment felt different. There was no sense in dwelling on things that could never be, no point in dreaming of touches that were forever out of reach. So Edric merely nodded, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand. With a slight bow, he said, “Please, allow me to escort you to your room.”

Zephyr raised an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Such courtesy,” he remarked, his tone teasing, but there was a hint of surprise in it as well.

Edric stopped abruptly and turned to face him, looking up into Zephyr’s face. The playful words lingered in the air, but Edric couldn’t quite tell whether Zephyr was joking or genuinely taken aback by the gesture. Perhaps it was both. He squared his shoulders and met Zephyr’s gaze with an unwavering sincerity. “It may not yet be common knowledge,” Edric said, his voice firm, “but you are my betrothed. As such, you are due every courtesy granted by your royal status, plus some.” He took a step closer, his voice growing even more resolute. “If anyone—and I do mean anyone—dares to treat you with anything less than the honour you deserve, they will have me to answer to.”

The weight of his words seemed to hang in the air between them. Edric’s heart beat in his chest, and with the steps placing Zephyr above him, he could see the slight movement of Zephyr’s throat as he swallowed roughly. His eyes widened in surprise, and a shuddering breath escaped his lips. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he spoke in a voice almost too quiet to hear. “Thank you.”

Edric felt his face flush at the sincerity in Zephyr’s voice, but he turned away quickly, embarrassed by his own passionate declaration. “You don’t need to thank me,” he replied softly, though he wasn’t sure if Zephyr had heard. “It’s just common decency.”

Zephyr said nothing more, but Edric could feel his gaze on his back as they walked down the remaining steps in silence. The halls of the castle were quiet now, only a few attendants still lingering to make their hasty bows as the two of them passed. The rest of the castle had long since fallen into slumber.

When they reached Zephyr’s chamber door, Edric paused. He made another bow, deeper this time, despite the nagging sense of awkwardness that lingered in him. He meant what he had said, and he was determined to lead by example, in this and in everything else.

“Goodnight, Your Highness,” Edric said, his voice formal, though there was an underlying warmth to it.

At the sound of the title, Zephyr’s face softened, and he shook his head. “Please, might you use my given name?” He hesitated for a moment, almost shy, before continuing. “Neither of us is above the other in rank, and we are both in a rather nebulous state when it comes to our titles. It would be…” He paused again, as if searching for the right words. “Appreciated, if we could lose some of the formality between us.”

Edric blinked, taken aback by the request. He had never thought to call a prince by his first name. But now that Zephyr had asked, it felt right. It felt as though something had shifted between them, something unspoken and yet undeniable.

“Very well, then,” Edric said with a smile. “Good night, Zephyr.”

Zephyr’s smile was small but genuine. “Good night, Edric,” he replied. He paused as though he were about to say something more, but then he shook his head, his lips curving into a small smile before he gently closed the door behind him.

Edric lingered for a moment in the dimly lit hallway before slowly making his way back to his own chambers. Tradition would dictate that this would be his last night in them; after the coronation the next day, he would be expected to move into the monarch’s chambers. But as he thought of the room where he had just witnessed his father’s death, he shuddered. He could not imagine taking up residence in that place so soon.

At least, he thought to himself with grim amusement, no one would dare question his authority in declaring such a thing. Not once he was king.

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