Castle of Thorns

[Nemaisare]

The man was lying asleep beneath a thin quilt. Designed to keep off the chill of fall, it kept him comfortable during the nights. He was used to a winter far colder than what this temperate climate offered too. When the snow came – and come it had, twenty times – he hadn’t been ill prepared. But the stone that was already so cold around him had been unable to grow much colder, and every day he’d fan the coals to life in the kitchen hearth with shaking hands and chase that cold away.

Perhaps it was merely that he no longer looked for warmth so much these days, no longer missed company or laughter. And he could hardly remember what a crowded tavern felt like. Nonetheless, winter affected him far less than he’d anticipated, his first year here. And as he built up the walls or closed off the gaps while he worked on other parts of the castle, Liam had found it bothered him less and less. So now, while the snow lay dusting the world beyond his open window – it lacked shutters – and hoarfrost crept along the bare branches of the trees that surrounded him, the man lay asleep.

All seemed quiet, for he lay without moving, and the light that stirred dust motes across the floor was the pale, gentle, midnight ray of the moon. There was no sound without save for the distant cry of an owl, and no sound within but the rasp of his breath down a throat damaged by the heat of a witch’s spell cast many years ago. The wind was barely a brush of sweet shivering, and could not compete with the low moan that welled up from his chest. It broke the illusion of calm as his eyelids flickered. The sliver of shining white beneath his right one showed a fast shadow now and then; for it could not close all the way, the skin was stretched too tight across old burns.

He moaned again and tossed his head, sinking into the grass pillow he’d made for himself before the first snow, as though it might rise around him to protect him from dreams. But remnants of memory were hard to escape, and as it dragged him deeper into sleep, he struggled all the more. His arms lifted to shield his face from a heat that had already raked sharp claws and coals across it. And as he turned his head again, matching a vertical pose he’d once struck, another night, some twenty-three years past, the damage was revealed. A wrinkled, melted, shiny scar was puckered and stiff across the right side of his face. It swept back from his nose and over his eye, across his forehead and scalp, it had stolen his hair and left nothing but a stump of his ear, a vague outline fused to the skin behind it. The scar continued down his neck and back, covering the whole right side of his body.

It was there on his right hand in the way his arm did not lift as high as his left, and in how three of his fingers curled inward, the least of them like a claw. And then he screamed.

The pain was nothing but an ache now, caught and trapped by his muscles from the long hours of work he put in every day when he could. It had twisted his back and the sharp turn of his head had pulled at the muscles of his shoulders. The jolt had sent his nerves racing, and his mind took the opportunity to add to his dream, until he startled awake, sweating, panting and terrified anew. The witch would have him. She would tear him limb from limb for his laughter, for his failure to treat her daughter well… The man sat up to ward her off, the woman hiding in the shadows to pounce when he let down his guard. But as always, the quick movement wrung a gasp from him and a twinge from his back, and the reminder came that she’d already had her revenge, and was letting him live it now.

His left hand came up to trace the lines that marred the left side of his face, a flash of red across the palm. He could feel only slightly raised marks where the tattoos were, but he’d spent long enough staring into a mirror that he knew precisely how like a briar bush he appeared. Black thorny vines sprawling across his features and taking up every part of his skin that remained unblemished by the burns. His features were fine, what could be made of them, though the bones showed a little too clearly that he was not eating well. Hardly the castle’s fault, for it kept a kitchen well stocked with anything he might wish for, even in the midst of winter. He simply could not find an appetite, most days. And it was taking a small toll. Far smaller though, than had the building not been well-enchanted and prone to keeping him alive. He would have starved long ago, otherwise.

Moving to the edge of the bed, Liam let his face sink into his hands, and rested there for a moment more; trying to rid himself of both the memories and the emotions they’d called up. But when he finally stood, his hands were still shaking. He would have no more sleep tonight.

Beginning the day early was not and had never been a foreign concept to the man. In his old life he’d been a carpenter. And to make use of the natural light as much as he could, he’d risen before the sun to bathe and break his fast. Usually, however, it had not been the middle of the night. Still, that too, he was used to now. And he might either begin his work, or haunt the halls until the sun rose. Truth be told, Liam was drawn to spend as much time as he could away from the bed he’d just left. It was comfortable, and warm enough, but sleep seemed a luxury he should not afford himself, when the witch had told him he must fix this castle or remain, forever, within its crumbling walls. Some days he cared not a whit for escaping the fate she had set him, but most were taken up with some form of activity pertaining to that very endeavour. Even had she told him nothing more than that he was trapped here for eternity, Liam would have worked on the old building.

A man who sat idle every day was a man who found his thoughts wandering far too often to the regrets of his life. A man needed something to occupy his hands. And leaving one’s home in disarray was hardly right. Although it had taken him a few years to become proficient at wielding a trowel and mixing the right mortar to set the stones, he was lucky in that he had at least found them already cut. Most of what he used was the old stone that had fallen in on itself. He’d long since finished the rough cleaning of all the rooms, cobwebs and dust still remained in more than a few places, but they were new, and the dust was no longer inches thick. He’d come across few surprises in all his time here, save for a few antiques of varnished wood that had survived the elements and one particularly lovely piece that had stilled his heart the moment he saw it, but had gradually warmed it from the cold that had been creeping in on him.

It was a lonely world, a ruined castle, but this one had more secrets than the strange timelessness that kept him alive. And his feet carried him towards that room now. Down shadowed halls and up curling flights of stairs. Past arched windows and line after line of brickwork. He was in a tower, the view, when he paused for breath, was an astonishingly isolated vista. Snow covered trees and shadows. Nighttime, and a few desolate stars.

The room at the top housed this castle’s treasure. An unexplainable one.

He’d thought the witch had set him here along with the spell, having chosen the place purely for its location. He thought she was the one who had made it timeless, in accordance with her revenge for his insult to her daughter. He did not think his actions deserved such an… excess of magic, but he had still believed that, until four years ago. When he had finally climbed the steps. A last challenge, he’d thought. There had been cracks in the wall from the vines that grew up it, digging out the mortar. And a few empty spaces that he’d had to fill. But the climb up was less harrowing these days, now that he’d fixed it up and knew what awaited him.

Liam couldn’t help but pause in the doorway, as he did every time he came up here. The moon could not reach as far into the room from this angle, but if he waited long enough, it would slide across the floor and up the side of the bed. It would slip across the covers and then alight on a sleeping face. One that seemed far too calm, too serene and composed and still to be made of flesh. But there was colour and life in those cheeks, and warmth. He’d almost been startled by that discovery once he’d worked up the bravery to touch her. This woman locked into a timeless moment some far distant time ago.

“Rose…” His voice rasped harshly, the years of neglect and the witch’s spell having taken their toll on his vocal cords, and he shut his lips over any other words before he broke the silence further. He had nothing really to say to the woman, she refused to wake up, though he’d tried shouting, pulling her hair – not too forcefully – and pinching her. He’d moved the bed to let the light shine on her face, or the wind to come howling into the room and leave her cold. But after only a few months, he’d left his attempts aside. She would not wake up, and perhaps it was better that way.

He did not know where else she could go, and did not think she would like the prospect of living here alone with a man as strange and twisted and unfriendly as he had become. But even her silent, unconscious presence had eased the burden when he’d found her, just to know he was no longer alone. Now he knew the spell had been cast on her. And he had wondered, over the years, whether it by was the same witch who had cursed him, or if she had simply made use of the castle for her own means. It did not matter, really. What mattered was that he was not alone. Before he had found her, Liam had feared that he was going to go insane. Sometimes he almost believed he imagined her, but he could not deny what his hands and eyes told him was real.

Her hair was soft, her skin smooth and the roses woven into her hair were both at once. Liam sank onto the bed beside her, staring at the floor for a while before drifting sideways and curling up as much as he was able against her side. It was comforting just to feel someone nearby, after the dreams he had had. And he shut his eyes to imagine that he was back home, to try to remember what it was like there. Sharing a bed with his sister when he was younger. But he found it had been too long, the memories were fading. All he had left that was still as clear as day were those two encounters with the witch. The moment when he had turned her away with a laugh, and the time when she had turned away from him after having paralysed his limbs and breath with one look. Her eyes had been so full of anger…

When he opened his eyes, Liam was surprised to find that there was sun outside the window, and he’d slept the rest of the night through. No dreams, no nightmares, just the oblivion he always chased after. He sat up and blinked, grimacing as he eased the stiffness from his spine. A good sleep it might have been, but his position hadn’t been good for his spine. And with the sun up already, he’d wasted some of the day when he could have been working. At least he’d slept in his clothes again. A habit, since he didn’t care if they became unpresentable anymore. But-…

A hand brushed the woman’s arm and he recoiled instinctively, momentarily lost until he remembered his retreat here during the night. Her company had chased away his horrors. Liam smiled, a crooked, lopsided thing, only one half of his mouth moving. “Thank you.” She might not hear him, but his gratitude needed some outlet. And in a fit of bravery, or foolishness, or both and a little bit of wistful thinking, the man bent towards her and brushed his lips against hers. A small kiss, she would never know. A token of his acknowledgement of the depths to which he owed her presence. Then, he forced himself upright and headed for the door. He’d wasted enough time…

[Lizzie B]

Broken music filtered in through the thick stones of the palace walls, a last song to accompany their last look at the city in which they had been raised. A last melody for a last glance at familiar faces, a final beat of the drum for their final breath of sweet mountain air. They would not be coming back. War was a messy, bloody thing that they were powerless to stop. They'd offered treaties, they'd sent letters, her father had offered her hand in marriage to a man twice her age. But what did he want of beauty, of youth? Why would he want any of it, when he could stain the world with blood?

Heartbreak was something with which she was not accustom. Did it always hurt so much? The castle was empty, servants out in the streets to bid goodbye to their loved ones. Well, what was left of them. The men had all been dressed in armor, handed swords, men who had spent their lives washing dishes and grooming horses. They would not return. She could feel it in her heart, in her soul as she walked down the empty halls. Her pace was somewhere between a walk and a run, so quick that a stumble would send her flying forward. Her breath came in short gasps, each one accompanied by a broken moan. Was she dying? Her heart ached with every beat, her chest heaved, her hands trembled for her core had gone cold. And yet, her dress was too tight, too confining.

Love seemed so important, and yet, if felt like poison coursing through her veins.

It was robbing her of judgment, even more so than it already had. She knew, she was well aware of her growing stupidity as the desperation set in. At first her feet had told her to flee from the balcony on which the royal family watched the soldiers ride off to their doom. But it was too much, to lose him like this. Her father could take him, but he couldn't make her watch. Her father could take him...but he couldn't stop her from bringing him back. The servants quarters were in a part of the castle she rarely inhabited, and for a moment Rose found herself lost in her own home. She paused, spinning around, half convinced the shadows were chasing her. These halls that belonged to her had belonged to many before, and if ghosts did exist, they were as haunted as any halls could be. No one was following her, no one but the grief. A sob met her ears and she rushed towards it, hearing his final words in her head. "I love you Rose. Nothing will ever change that. Not time, or distance, or marriage, or babies. Whatever happens, whoever you become...I will always love you." She was counting on it. She was betting her soul on it.

The door gave way easily, banging against the wall with force. A lone servant sat on the bed, a middle aged woman whose secret Rose had kept since she was a child. Magic tricks had once made her grin and giggle. Now? Now she wanted a bigger trick. The woman flinched, caught hiding in her quarters when she no doubt had other duties to attend to. But Rose didn't care, she didn't even think on it. Her blue eyes were wide and wild, pale cheeks stained with a blush that was usually reserved for fevers, full red lips trembling along with the rest of her. The pale pink gown was rumpled, having fallen haphazardly off her shoulders. "Y-you!" She exclaimed, rushing forward to the woman whose tears still rolled freely. Her son had been sent away, her precious boy who was no more than sixteen. Rose herself was eighteen, foolish and young, desperate and careless. She did was no royal did, and dropped to her knees before the witch that had washes her dresses and cleared her dishes for years. "I need you to bring them back. Please. I need you to bring him back to me..." she reached for the witch, but the woman recoiled, suspicious. "Don't you think I would?" she breathed, trembling with the anger she felt towards this stupid, sniveling princess. What did she know of pain? "Selfish girl. I've lost my son! Don't you think I would bring him home to me, if I could?"

"Please!" Rose sobbed, reaching for her skirt. The witch's hand flashed out, swift and quick, backhanding her across the face. Rose didn't cry out, but rather, she went dead silent. Her hand cupped her face, feeling the sting as it started to throb. A sort of clarity came with it, but not the sort of clarity she truly needed. "Use me." Her bright blue eyes traveled up to the witch, filled with passion. "Use me. I'm yours. Whatever you need, just...bring him back. Bring them both back. We can bring them both back." The witch stared down at her, glittering tears falling over her pretty face. Yes, the princess was as beautiful as the flower she was named for...but stupid. Blind, and stupid. Still, if she could have her son, what did it matter? "Why would you give it all up? You're living a charmed life." She wasn't afraid of changing the princess's mind. It had obviously already been made. "True love." Rose replied without hesitation. The witch raised her brows. True love was as rare as anything could be, despite the fact that many children's tales believed otherwise. True love was not a thing of times like these. It came rarely to a select few, for most would not live to meet the one they were meant for. "If it's true love you want," she said softly, cupping the girl's chin in her withered hand. "It's true love you'll get."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been simple. A curse, to freeze time. A curse to make sure she would never age, a curse on the castle. Of course, she hadn't thought to ask how it could be broken, or if it could be broken. And there would be another curse, a curse to put her to sleep. She wouldn't wake until true love's kiss found her, no matter how violently she was shaken or how angrily her father screamed. They would have to bring them home, all of them. If they wanted to wake her, to revive their heir, her true love would have to be found. Every soldier, every man on earth would be beckoned, and it would be him who would wake her. The man who had groomed her horse with such loving hands, the man who had run his hands through her hair and held her close in the darkness of the stables. She knew. She was sure.

She had been sure.

Her father had seen her distant gaze, and he didn't like the look in her eye. One evening he summoned her to his chambers, where a beautiful woman with long, dark hair was waiting. Her belly was round, no doubt containing some man's child. Something filled her expression when she saw Rose, hate mixed with sadness that the princess would not recognize until it was too late. Her father broke the news. Roman, her true love, was married. It was his baby, his wife, and she had been...what? Was it possible to love two people at once? Or had she been his pretty little pet, his key to power, his fool? Rose had thought her world would shatter when he left, but now she saw the true horror in it all. Everything she had believed in, everything she'd devoted herself to, everything she'd been willing to sacrifice the kingdom for...was a lie. Worse, the rival King had agreed on a truce. After a second look at her painting, he had decided that her hand in marriage would bring him as much joy as war.

It was a new level of misery, but one she deserved. As she made her way back towards her chambers, Rose knew what she had to do. The witch's son would be coming home, there would be no need for a curse. That wasn't to say that Rose didn't want to drift off to sleep and await her true love, but she knew her duty. Hadn't she made enough mistakes? Everyone would be happy now, everyone would be saved. Everyone except her. The tears were just about to be set free, when something caught her eye. Oh. Oh, that was...odd. A spindle, a shiny silver spinning wheel in the middle of the hall. Well, she would just tell one of the servants and...oh. It was so beautiful. What was it for again? Oh, yes, making thread...her feet were moving on their own accord, carrying her towards it. What had she been so upset about? It hardly mattered, with that glimmering piece of sheer beauty before her. It was spinning all on it's own, glinting silver in the flickering light of the candles. One hand reached out, brushing along the wheel. The spindle seemed to be especially beautiful, it's sharp end gleaming as her pale finger pressed against it. Oh!

The came, spilling out and dripping onto the floor. The spell broke with the pain, reality coming back to her as the warm liquid trickled down her hand. Deep, it was deep, she'd cut it deep...but that pain soon faded. The witch stepped out of the darkness, a knowing smile playing on her lips. But she didn't know! Rose opened her mouth to protest, but all that escaped was a cry of pain. Her body seized, agony starting in her core and spreading through her limbs. Her legs buckled, head slamming into the cold stones as she fell in a lifeless heap. The feeling was fading, her mouth locked shut, eyes barely able to move as the witch knelt down besides her to stroke her hair. "Don't worry sweetheart. The next thing you'll know will be true love's kiss. It won't hurt for long, shhh, I promise...don't fight it...."But it wasn't true loves kiss. It was pain, and darkness, and dark thoughts swirling in her head. This was what she wanted, more than anything. But was it her fault? Was she guiltless? No, no. She was as guilty as they came....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dark wasn't as peaceful as one might think. It was suffocating, smothering her, even if only for an instant. There was no sensation of lips, no warning, just blackness. It seemed like mere seconds before the feeling started flooding her limbs. It hurt, just as it had when it left. But it was the good kind of hurt, the kind that reminded you that you were alive. The wire holding her jaw shut came undone, letting her move to suck in a much needed breath. It was a loud gasp, a convulsion, like someone who'd nearly drowned coming up for air. Only, her throat was painfully dry. She coughed, shaking for no apparent reason, lifting a hand to press against her chest, and then her face, and then...it reached out.

Air, only air. She opened her eyes and the room was blurred, but as it came into view she saw no one leaning over her. No true love, only a ceiling that looked...disturbingly different. Aged. How long had it been? Where was her family? Sitting up didn't seem to be an option, but she managed to roll over and push herself up on one arm with a grunt of effort. Her vision was still blurring in and out, but she could see it, a figure in the doorway. "Did you..." her voice was hoarse, unused, with a hint of desperation. "Did you kiss me?" blinking hard, she managed to clear her vision. But the man in the doorway was no one she wanted to see. He was no one anyone wanted to see, horribly deformed. Burned, it seemed? His hair was gone, any sign of unscarred skin marred with black markings...thorns? They looked like thorns. He looked like evil, ugly evil. Perhaps he had come to take her to her maker? Perhaps this was her punishment. A gasp of fear escaped her, but she barely managed to move back in the bed. Her limbs seemed clumsy, weak, eyes struggling to stay open as the room spun. "Guards!" It would have brought them running, but there was nothing but the sound of her own voice that came back to her. Where were they? Where was everyone? The room looked so different, and the window...the window. Her window looked over the village below. So, how come there was nothing but a mass of trees? Her eyes eyes back to the horrible monster in the doorway, the one she was sure would kill it. "This is a mistake..." she whispered, but only because her voice was giving out. "This must all be a mistake..." And then, the true horror. Rose stared at him for a long moment, the color draining from her cheeks. She gripped the bedspread, trembling with the effort. In her eyes was the same terror that one might see in the expression of a man about to be hanged. "Did you...kiss me?"

[Nemaisare]

Shock.

Surprise…

Cold fear.

The first emotions his mind entertained as he heard that gasp behind him. Shock that there was any noise at all. Surprise in that he must be imagining it; and the fear because he wasn’t sure which would be better, and didn’t want it to be either. A ghost of shattered idles. He’d let fancies drift into his reality and was paying now, with imagined wakings of ghosts long gone.

Still, he turned slowly around, cautious, as though a sharp movement might break even the stones around him. And for a long instant, all Liam could do was stare.

Her arm was lifted, hand raised; grasping at the air. Delicate fingers curling around nothing and falling back as eyes opened. Blue. He’d imagined them thus, once, when he’d first found her and wondered if she was real. But then, he’d also imagined that they might be green or brown. Still, it was startling to see them flicker open, blurry and unfocused though they were. He overstayed his welcome simply to see them come to life, and nearly fell over his feet as he tried backing from the room when she pushed herself up onto one arm.

No, no, no! She could not see him. She could not see what she was left with! He didn’t know her story, he didn’t know the reason she’d been caught in this spell. But he did not imagine – not for an instant – that she’d imagined the happy ending being one where she was left alone with one man. Ugly and scarred. He wanted to close his eyes and turn away, that he did not look on her any further, that he might leave now, before she’d seen him, but he knew it was too late when she spoke. Still, he might have fled this apparition had her question not been a suspect one. Did you kiss me? How could she know? Why did she ask such a thing? Her very first words…

He was so startled by his guilt that he could not answer her. Not even to deny the truth.

And as her eyes focused further and she saw him, truly saw him, Liam flinched from the horror in her gaze. He turned his head away to hide the worst of his scars, and hunched over, trying to be nothing frightening, nothing ghastly or ugly. Too late, he knew, but the shame that filled him in that moment was too great to hold within the paralysis of his limbs. He moaned as she struggled to pull herself away, calling for guards that would never come. The sound rose from the depths of an emotion deeper than his chest, and rolled from between parted lips that could neither shut against it or form words from it.

Liam clenched his fists, the action drawing up his right hand closer to his body, the pain closing his eyes that he would not need to see the fear he caused. Finally, however, the small disgust that seemed to hide beneath her fear shattered his stillness, and those features of his face that could move adopted a determined expression as he forced himself to face her. To ignore the horror that shamed him, and to make her see what she was stuck with. But the shame still filled him, and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he’d touched her even that little bit intimately. Or that he had touched her at all.

“N-no, mm’lady. I-I’ve kissssed nnnone.” His speech stuttered and slurred in his effort to control himself, hiding a poor man’s accented brogue behind formality and awkwardness. Liam’s brown eyes were wide themselves as he continued to stare. His desire to run replaced by the very firm belief that he could not possibly flee far enough to escape this moment, when his world had been shattered. “Wa-wass y’really true asleep?”

[Lizzie B]

The moan that escaped whatever creature cowered in the doorway was as chilling and gut wrenching as any noise could be. It was the sound of a caged animal, the sound of agony, a sound that should have filled her with pity. Instead, it only hardened the ball of ice that was forming in her stomach. Animals were most dangerous when caged. She had watched the cook corner a chicken once, a chicken that seemed to know it was doomed to die. The bird had fought relentlessly, scratching and clawing the cook's arm until she finally wrung it's neck. The worst part had been the moment of quiet, the way it cowered just before it fought for it's life with an insane sort of viciousness. Was this the moment of quiet? And if it was, which one of them was to die?

Yes, she was cowering as well. Hunkered down on the bed, gripping the blanket, eyes wide with terror. If he...if it had kissed her, what would her fate be? Should she be happy, or run for her life? But it couldn't be her true love, there was simply no way. But what if it was? Or worse, what if it wasn't? Why was she awake? Did magic make mistakes? The creature admitted that it hadn't kissed her. It wasn't nearly as shocking as his appearance, for at the same moment he turned to face her. The cowering creature in the corner became a man, one that appeared to be badly burned...and covered in black markings. Yes, they were thorns. Only his brown eyes were ordinary, staring back at her, making it difficult to look away. There was no gasp of horror, though it was present in her expression. Rose let out a breath she'd been holding, suddenly breathing heavily as the weight of reality pressed down on her chest.

Her lungs felt cramped, her head too light. He hadn't kissed her. This was all...what? A mistake? She pushed herself up into a sitting position, staring around the room that was so familiar...and so changed. Her head snapped up when he spoke again, inquiring as to whether or not she'd truly been asleep. Rose didn't want to tell him, didn't want to utter the words and admit the grave mistake she'd made. What had she cost her kingdom? Her family? Even if he left her alone, as she so desperately wanted, who would answer her questions? The castle was eerily silent, and her call for guards had gone unanswered. Were there any guards? "No." she said, with strength that didn't quite reach her expression. Her lips trembled as she looked away, gazing out the window. The steeple of the church, the roof of the butcher shop, the pasture where strawberries were grown to make sweet wine and little tarts...all gone. All thick, dark forest. Those buildings had been made of stone. For all she knew, those buildings could have been abandoned centuries ago. "I was cursed."

She threw back the quilt that covered her, dragging her legs over the edge of the bed. It took effort, as though her muscles weren't acquired to doing much of anything. Then again, maybe they weren't. Rose stared down at herself, noticing for the first time what she was wearing. A deep green ballgown, one of her best. No. The best. This was her best dress, her most expensive dress, and in her hair...her trembling fingers found the roses, clipped neatly below the bud, blood red and fresh. Then, they had been put there recently? No. No, the curse. But flowers like this, the dress, "These are for funerals." Her voice was low, and she felt incredibly sick at the sight of the flowers. With a new found panic, she ripped them from her hair, tossing them away, intent on escaping the tomb that was her bed. Her legs didn't carry her far.

They gave out as she rushed forward, and she collapsed on the stone floor with a cry that was filled with more emotional agony than physical. It seemed to hit her as her aching chest hit the stone, as her hands slapped against the rough surface and the chill seeped into her skin. These stones had been smooth only moments ago. Her city had once gleamed in the sunlight, her bedding had once smelled like soap and lavender instead of dust. Her legs had been strong enough to carry her, and the small scar on her finger had been a gaping hole filled with blood. The air had been warmer, voices had floated up to meet her. And even when they hadn't, there had still been...presence. There was no presence anymore, only empty. "I killed them." The words were barely whispered, as she pushed herself up off the ground. Sitting there, her skirt pooled around her, curls a tangled mess that hung in her face...she looked like a girl who had spent far too long at a ball. Maybe someone who had had an extra glass of champagne, whose eyes now filled with tears over a lost love who normally wouldn't illicit so much as a quickened pulse. A pretty girl who'd had a rough night, a simple girl in a big dress who knew little of the world and it's cruelties.

One thing was for certain. She didn't look anything like a murderer.

And yet..."I killed all of them...." her eyes were far away, head turning quickly to listen for a noise that wasn't there. A small shake of her head. "It was a mistake. I didn't...it was...I should have...but it's all too late." as her breathing quickened, a tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. When she looked up at Liam, the horror in her expression was not brought on by his appearance. No, she had done something much uglier. "There's no one else here, is there?" Moments ago she'd been royalty, with a duty to her country and the power to stop a war. Moments ago she'd been headed to right her wrongs, to make her parents proud, to sacrifice herself for the good of her kingdom. Instead, she'd destroyed them all. Moments ago she'd been someone important. And now? Now she was an orphan, a traitor, a prisoner. There was a reason she wasn't supposed to be awake. No, she should have never woken up at all.

[Nemaisare]

Their eyes met for the first time with intent, with true reason and awareness behind each iris, and Liam was shocked by how much it hurt. Here was the first human in 23 years to face him, to see him, and for him to see. The first person he might speak with, might share a day with… The only person… And she did not want to see him.

Was this what the witch had planned for him? That he would someday find the salvation to a mind drifting away from reality and it would ruin him all the more? Oh, he’d entertained no idealised notions that anyone would find him handsome ever again. He’d never believed he would be the man his friends looked up to. But he had thought, perhaps, that when his sin was forgiven or paid for, he would find some company that would not judge him. As he once had judged… But for all that it hurt, he could not turn away. She had been his anchor for years now, unaware, unmoving, unseeing; her eyes had been opened though, and he could not deny that expression of horror. It was directed at him.

There was something though, something deeper that spurred the heavy breaths she took, the panting gasps and the frantic, searching gaze. Something wrong.

He tried to bring her back, away from that fear. If she did not think about who was asking the questions, perhaps it would do her good to have something like a conversation. If only he could make his mouth work properly. But all he could think of was a question that would ease his curiousity if answered, and probably do nothing to take her mind off the situation to which she had awakened. He flinched again as her head jerked back, her eyes once more on him alone, the movement as violent as her breaths. But her attention drifted again to the window as she answered. It was a very simple answer, for a moment, just one word.

It continued though, and his own breath caught. Cursed… She’d been cursed. It was not a great surprise, to hear that a woman who had been lying asleep without dying of starvation or even seeming to breathe was cursed. But the confirmation was refreshing. And, even more, they were words spoken to him. The first in a long time – her first questions did not count, for she had been speaking at him, not to him. Quiet, soft, and beautiful. He might have basked in the moment had it not been rather less than pleasant. He could not say he enjoyed any talk of magic, now that he was experiencing it.

Before, in another life, he would have scoffed and made fun. But now… He only shivered and curled in on himself, hunching over while she made as if to stand. The gown she revealed was gorgeous. Fit, he thought, for a Queen or a Princess. Someone as beautiful as her. And it reminded him again that his place was not in this doorway, staring at her. But he had no other choice. He could not leave her to her own devices. Surely that would be as cruel to her as her fear of him was cruel. With the confusion that still swamped him, it was all Liam could manage to witness her desperation as she found something new to terrify her. Funerary preparations… He had never heard of such a tradition and it only reminded him that she was from a world very different to his as she tore the flowers free and threw them away.

He followed their flight and felt some dull ache in his heart as each perfect flower crumpled on the stone, bouncing just a little and occasionally losing a petal. They flared just like her skirts when she tumbled out of bed herself, and it said something about his mental state that Liam didn’t even try to catch her. It wasn’t that she’d hurt him too much to care, or that he hadn’t noticed – it was rather hard to miss – or even that he was still paralysed with too many emotions. He wasn’t. It was only that he was feeling lost, as terrible in his own way as these roses to the young woman. And he wanted to escape this new role life had given him. He wanted to hide from the truth that even his sleeping Rose did not care for him. He was thinking of the chair back he had thought to finish today, as a break from the last wall he needed to fix. He’d been carving a rose into it, much like the one he was looking at now… But maybe that hadn’t been the best choice…

Still, when he finally turned his gaze back to her, in a confused sweep of dazed memory, he found himself frowning. Had he heard her right? There’d been a whisper, drawing him back out of his shell. And now it came again, a little louder. I killed them all… Killed them? Killed who? Killed how? She had been asleep; there was no evidence of death in this place. Not even the rats had been able to die until he chased them out.

But there she sat, crumpled and distraught, claiming to be a murderer. A murderer in a dress with brushed hair that had once held roses. That didn’t seem like the fate of a murderer to him. His chin jerked and the left side of his mouth twisted as he found himself fighting a laugh. Wasn’t the fate of a murderer, at all. Oh no, killers were hanged, round these parts. Or rather, they had been in his county. He didn’t know where they were now. He’d been too fevered from the burns to know where they were walking, or how long it took. But his amusement died when she looked at him. Murderer indeed, of dead humour.

Finally, his heart went out to her. Not from pity for himself, or self-loathing. Not for her beauty or her silent presence, but simply because she was as lost as he was. And she was only now learning it. He shook his head jerkily in answer to her question, hitching himself forward towards one of the roses she’d flung away. “Nnone, m’lady.” It was as she said, there was no one else. “Sss’an empity place naow.”

Staring down at the cast away flowers, Liam raised a hand to trace the lines on his face again. An act of uncertainty, grown subconsciously over the years. The movement brought a different flash of red to his attention, and he cupped his palm upwards around the strange tattoo that matched the curling petals well. He’d had a rose to carry with him long before he’d found this human one, but he did not think it could compare. A tattoo on the hand could not talk, after all. It could not cry. Of course, it also could not stare at you as though you were a monster, but he pushed that pain away. “Ben empity long while. No… nnno dead, m’lady.”

He didn’t know how to say that whatever she was thinking about couldn’t be her fault. He wasn’t sure he should. Maybe it was her fault, but he still didn’t think it was fair to her. He wanted to say more, but already the awkward stutter was being replaced by the rasp of misuse. His throat no longer liked words. He rubbed at it with his left hand, grimacing, before turning back towards her. She oughtn’t sit there on the floor like that. Even he knew a lady didn’t do such things. “Canst I no‘elp m’lady up?”

[Lizzie B]

Empty. An empty place. But it couldn't be! Only moments ago it had been bustling with life, there had been people in the streets and torches that lit the halls. They looked so dark now, so bare...at least, from what she could see. The room appeared to have been tidied up, but there were things that could not be restored. The color of the tapestry on the wall, the smoothness of the stones, the polish of the door. It was a place that had been restored, a shadow of it's former glory. But then, so was she. She could feel the weakness in her limbs, caused by more than the heaviness of her heart. Thin, pale arms wrapped around her tiny waist, as if she were attempting to hold herself together. Her gaze turned to the floor.

Empty.

It was physical pain, it had to be, emotions couldn't hurt so badly. It sent her rocking forward, air rasping down a throat that seemed to close as she tried to breathe in. That was the extent of it. That was the end of her outburst. There was no screaming, no pulling at her hair, none of the desperation she had felt that day when she pleaded to the witch. This was a different kind of agony, the kind you knew would never leave. What had happened? Had they left? Of course. Of course they had. She hadn't married so the war had gone on. Had they brought the soldiers home? It hardly made a difference. Did the witch tell them about the curse? Surely they would have noticed. But would her mother have left her? Could her father have walked away from his only child? He would break her heart if need be, he would marry her to his enemy without hesitation. But he was a king, and that was what Kings had to do.

Rose had never had much of a fantasy when it came to her fate. She knew her marriage would most likely be political, and war was always brewing on the horizon. The most fairy tale like time had been her 'fling' with Roman, and now even that seemed tainted and wrong. It had always been made clear that being a member of the royal family was a responsibility. It was the obligation to hold lives in your hands, and to make choices...not about saving them all, but who you could afford to lose. It was a lesson that should have been taught to a son, but there was no son. Her mother had nearly died giving birth to her, and there had been no more children after that. Son, daughter, what did it matter now? Now she was a disgrace.

They had loved her so deeply. Even after all the hours she was forced to spend with tutors and Nannies, there was true devotion in their eyes. Her mother had spent hours braiding her hair, a task that only took minutes. Her father had set her at his right hand during meals, even when important people came to visit. The two of them would snicker over the ridiculous customs of foreign courts, he would fill her room with Roses...had he woven them into her hair? Had he wept when the witch told him? Had her cursed her foolishness, as she was now? How selfish could a person be? This must be it. Surely, there was no greater crime than one that could wipe out a kingdom.

No one dead. The roses fell in her line of vision, his hands running over his ugly face. No, ugly wasn't the right word. It was...frightening. He spoke like a child, worlds slurred and uncertain, body hunched as though she might kick him. She tried to move her foot, and barely managed. Sitting up was becoming an ordeal. No one dead. The words lit a fire in her core, and she realized suddenly that hot, angry tears had begun to pour down her cheeks. Could he help her up? Him? Touch her? Help her up so she could stand? Could she stand? Was there a reason to?

"Of course there's no one dead here!" She hissed. "No one ever dies! That's the point! That's my penance! They've gone, the village has turned into a forest. They could have been dead for centuries, for all I know! Everyone I love, everyone I know! My...my parents..." a choked sob escaped her, true agony in her expression. "I was speaking to my father minutes ago! It feels like it was only minutes...and now he's....no. No, you can't help me up! Why should I get up? Leave me here on the floor to rot! I deserve to rot! I should have been dead a long, long time ago. I can feel it. I shouldn't be alive."

A strange sort of calm came over her, tears still falling, dripping onto the expensive material of her dress. A dress for a party...or a funeral. "I'm afraid I couldn't stand if you lifted me up. I think...I've spent enough time in that bed, I'd just prefer to stay here-," and that was when she truly noticed him. Her eyes traveled up, wide and brimming with tears, scrutinizing him. She didn't know his name. She didn't know where he'd come from, or what his story might be. Obviously he didn't know about her family, so he must have come after? Why was he in her room, of all places to be? Had he thought her to be dead? More importantly...why did he look that way. He was cowering, but his appearance was terrifying. Stooped, cowering, and yet...threatening. His skin had markings of thorns, the parts that weren't burned. Would those thorns come to life and slash through her skin if she did let him touch her? "What are you?" she whispered, without any thought to the fact that it might have been offensive. He looked more like a creature than a man, and what sort of man would live in such a cursed place as this?

[Nemaisare]

She was curling in on herself. A gesture he’d come to recognise in himself. Pain was her companion, and she rocked it in her arms and hunched her shoulders over this most precious of consequences. For whatever she had done, this was her penance.

But Liam couldn’t understand that. What wrong could anyone do that would have them waking, alone, to a ruined house and an empty home? There had been no deaths within these walls for a good long time that he could tell. It had simply fallen into disrepair. Her family would certainly be dead if they had not remained. But it was hardly her fault that time worked better in some places than it did here.

So he stared at her after he turned back. Waiting for her answer, watching as she collapsed inward. A withered flower, when she had once been the only bright and vibrant creature within this room. Had she yelled then, had she screamed and shouted and cried as though her heart had been torn out, he might have gone to her regardless of her refusal of his help. He might have tried to hold her, if he could have. To offer what comfort was his to give, little though that was.

But she made no such gestures. A woman raised to reserve, or a wound that rent so deep it could find no expression. Liam knew naught of these things. He saw only an angry young woman who returned his attempts with scornful words to illustrate her point. To draw pity from his dry heart. And indeed, her plight was worth the pity she called out in him. How long did it take for trees to overtake houses so completely there was hardly anything left but the occasional brick foundations? How long did it take before a family that loved you gave up in ever seeing you awake again? How long before time caught up with them? He did not know. But she must have been asleep beyond his ken.

That alone kept him rooted when she spat out her angry desperation. Those questions circling in his mind as he backed away from her vehemence. The sudden calm wasn’t much better. Liam had long gotten over his own mood swings over his current situation. He was as unused to company as any hermit now, and the strength of her character drained everything from him. His pity, his fear, his shame and his desire to help. By the end, as she thought she might not stand even with his help, softening the blow she’d given him earlier, even her tears could not move him. And he stared at her quietly, almost dispassionately, until she spoke one final time. He’d been waiting to see if she was finished. But now… He wished he had left sooner.

Her words made him grin. A quick flash of teeth made much whiter than they were by the dark of the tattoos on his skin, and a tightened grimace against his burns. It was a twisted visage, less humour than flat horror. And his laugh was worse. It rattled loosely in his chest and set him to coughing. What was he? What was he? He didn’t know anymore. But that simply fact only fanned the anger in his chest as he straightened from gasping for breath. That she had to ask. That he had no answer. That she could look on him so afraid. Even, maybe just a little, he was angry that his silent, comforting companion had been stolen from him to become a living, breathing human being with troubles of her own. And the open eyes to see him for what he was.

He turned away, limping through the door with a sure purpose now. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t reluctantly walking away from a sleeping beauty to see to his other tasks. He was leaving. “Ussed t’be a man.”

[Lizzie B]

She was afraid. Rose hadn't been raised to feel fear, but that didn't mean it hadn't crept up on her more than once before. She could feel it's icy fingers now, roaming over her skin, creeping up the back of her neck, daring her to look. Of course, she wouldn't. Sometimes it was better not to see the true horror in the world. That was why her eyes had fixed on him, because she simply couldn't bear to look at the remains of her room for another moment. And then there was the fact that she feared he may lunge at her. What if he did? Well, that was that. He could have had his way with her there on the floor, whatever that may have entailed, and she wouldn't have been able to do a thing. The muscles in her core were shaking, like they did when she drew a bow and spent far too long aiming at the target. Vibrating violently, breath coming in short gasps, she tried desperately to look as though she didn't fear him.

Yes, her jaw was set and her hands relaxed in the most tense manner as she waited for a reply. A slight flinch came when he coughed, and a subtle shift of her arm when he started to moved, but Rose didn't cower. She watched him walk away, holding her breath until she heard those words. Those words that would haunt her, more than she was capable of imagining in that moment. Used to be. But then, that didn't answer her question. If he used to be a man, what was he now? It also brought up another very disturbing uncertainty that sent chills down her spine. She had been a girl, moments ago. Now? Now...she felt more like a corpse. Curses had consequences, and this curse was to keep her from aging. It didn't mean she would stay as she was. Could she still be considered a human? Wasn't a vital part of being human mortality? All of that time spent in church, or praying, what did that mean now? Did God abandoned the immortal? Did he despise the unnatural, as she had begun to despise herself?

For a while she cried. It was only natural, with the guilt and the fact that she had lost her entire family. She lay on her side and sobbed loudly, letting the tears soak her hair and her cries of agony echo off the walls. There hadn't always been that echo...it had been different before. Now it was empty, so empty she wondered if the creature that had found her was more of a ghost that anything. Would he come back? Did it matter? Eventually the tears ran out, and the silence began to suffocate her. Rose rolled onto her back, barely breathing, staring up at the ceiling as the light from the window faded into blackness. There had always been a fire in her room, and even then the floor was chilly. Now it seemed to turn to ice, filling her with a sort of cold that was beyond the use of shivering.

Her throat was dry, her stomach painfully empty, but her limbs had turned to led. No matter how hard she tried, lifting her arm was an effort, as though her muscles had begun to betray her. They had paid their dues, they had kept her breathing far longer than any muscles should have to. And now they were tired, as she was tired, and the cold made her want to slip back off to sleep. No, it was more than that. Rose wanted to die.

There was no reason to live. Without someone to live for, without things to see or do, without the satisfaction of food, or drink, or knowing that it all had to come to an end...what was living? Not this. Maybe she had become a ghost too? After all, she felt more dead than alive. She felt closer to her deceased parents and friends than to whoever was outside of the castle walls, living in whatever the world had become. And despite the fact that she'd been so young only hours ago, Rose felt old. Time had a way of catching up with you, even if you had become as old as time itself. It was painful, how weak she felt, how cold she was. A noise of distress escaped her, shaky and weak like her tired frame. Her palms were turned up, as were her eyes, and gravity was pressing down on her chest. Cold, so cold. Could she get a blanket from the bed? No, what was the use? This wasn't the kind of cold that could be fixed by a fire. This was dead.

And so she waited, lying like a corpse in hope of becoming one. She prayed for forgiveness, she prayed for a release. She closed her eyes and waited, sure that death would come and claim her soon. But nothing came, nothing but that cold...and then footsteps, echoing off the halls.

[Nemaisare]

The stairs seemed to wind for a long time, down and down and down. But he only stopped once to rest, closing his eyes against the sight of grey stone and behind it, those tears slipping away. Wide eyes were too much for him these days, it seemed. But not to melt his heart, just to deal with. Anything was too much. She’d tried to be brave. Caught in some time she’d never thought to see, without family or friends or even a familiar view… Dressed for her own funeral… He snorted at that thought, baring his teeth in a silent snarl at the direction his mind was taking and started down the steps again.

If he wasn’t doing her any good, his living statue, then he had chores to finish today. No use standing about staring at each other fearfully. Or letting her insult him the way she had. Intentionally or not, he found he didn’t much care just then. And the fire in his belly carried him through half a day of vigorous work before he remembered he’d not yet eaten. Somehow, he had gone through all the motions to fill in the corner of one room where the stones had been knocked out by enterprising rodents while his mind had been caught in a loop of ragged edges and far too many pitfalls. It was a warm day, and bound to be dry, so he mixed the mortar and sorted the stones and pulled down the ragged cloth he’d been using to cover the hole in both wall and roof. And now… Now it was done.

He stood on the ladder, staring at the stone he had just placed, lost again. Now what?

Slowly, he moved to the floor, setting his feet carefully, making sure of his grip before he moved down another rung. And when he was on solid ground, he leaned forward and let his forehead rest on a rung as he cleaned the trowel. His breath stuttered every time he inhaled, and came out fast. His eyes refused to focus; no matter how long he stared at one particular crack, or how many times he blinked. His head was heavy. His stomach was knotted and his shoulders tense. And when he pulled away, Liam flung the ladder away from wall and rest with a vicious curse. It cracked against the wall and skidded on one tip until it shattered on the floor.

The sound scattered into corners, but the pieces stayed together, still tied by rope. He cursed again and kicked it, lifting hands that were fists as though he could hammer back the reality he was facing. All it brought him was the reflection of his face from the trowel still in his hand. He howled and hurled it away, sobbing to hear the clangour of skittering metal on stone. It left a mark on the wall. A faded white stripe, an imperfection.

Liam shut his eyes against it and spun himself away, directing his whole body with the force that filled his chest still. There was rage in him again. A thriving warmth that straightened his shoulders after every uneven step. A screaming touch that made his fingers curl and relax, over and over. A smile twisting up on one side, holier than thou endowed. He could see it on that witch’s face, overlying her hatred, overlying the fury. Her smug satisfaction now, that he was paying for what he’d done. That he should learn what her daughter had felt! That he should know her pain because it had become his own. What a price to pay for laughter!

He wasn’t certain he could remember the girl’s face; he didn’t know if he’d ever even known her name. It was gone, because time had moved on without him. And this, this, was what it brought him! Not enough that she leave him where no one would come! Bad enough that she give him a task no one man should be able to finish in a lifetime! Worse that she give him a rose and then give it thorns!

There was no fear in him now. Had that woman come before him, Liam might well have tried to kill her. One way or another, it would end his torment.

One way or another…

His legs gave out, and he pounded at the snow inches from the gates. Still closed, sealing away a world he was beginning to forget. They were works of art, those gates. Heavy, wrought iron twists and turns, forbidding when closed, welcoming when opened. He did not think he would ever see them that way, though he must have – once – when they opened to let him in. He had been fevered then though, and could not remember. The snow scraped the skin of his hands, biting. But when he wrapped his fingers around those heavy strands of iron, the cold sang. It sank through his bones and swarmed up his arms. It made them ache so that he hissed until it was unbearable. And when his hands were numb, when his knees were numb and his face was frozen over with tears, he dropped his hands into his lap, stared up at a sky that never ended and never turned him away, and he cried.

Life had changed again.

Liam had uncovered another facet of his curse.

***

The fire’s warmth had awakened a different strength within him, one not quite as draining as his anger, and Liam had stayed in front of it after he finally dragged himself back across the courtyard and through the halls to the kitchen. He’d watched the flames flicker and fade and grow anew. He’d watch the reds and golds dance with a gentle care about the more fragile blue heat that curled, catlike, at its centre. And then he reached with the poker and destroyed its sanctuary. The sparks it spat at him woke him from his daze, making him flinch. And Liam shook his head at himself. He was a fool, wishing and raging. But he could honestly say that the soup made itself. Until he tired of what was in the pot and tossed it out, the level never dropped.

He didn’t need to be practical now, it wouldn’t win him anything. The food was there, he had until time collapsed to fix the castle. And if he didn’t want to, then the damned thing could rot. But there was a young woman upstairs who’d been lying abed for the lord only knew how long, if she wasn’t hungry, then she was dying. And if she was dying… Awake and moving though she was, hurt though she’d given him, she was still his Rose. He did not think he could let her die.

He didn’t know if he could carry a full tray of food up to her room either, but sometimes, the harder choice was the only choice.

Liam filled a bowl and poured a glass of water, not even thinking about the bottles of wine he’d found in the cellar. He put some bread on the side, and started for the kitchen door with the tray held tight in both hands, trying his hardest not to tilt it or drop it with his right hand. He had been right, it was hard, and slow, and his back ached even before he reached the stairs. But he had left her in anger; he had left her with nothing. He could not return with the same.

Ten times he was forced to stop, to set the tray down and stretch out his back or massage his right hand. Ten times he wondered if he should not simply go back and leave her to her own trouble. And twice he cursed himself for moving so slowly when he was almost there and realised the soup was cold. But he kept on. And when he came through the door, he almost ruined everything by dropping it all in surprise. She was lying so still, right where he had left her. As though… as though she was asleep again, drifting away back to her own curse. Somewhere he couldn’t follow, but… She would be his warm statue again, the girl who didn’t care. The one who eased his dreams.

With a cautious breath he turned his face away, so she might not have to look upon him if she was still there. “Mm’lady?”

Was she there?

[Lizzie B]

The footsteps came closer, and closer...and then...silence. Did he think she had died? Had she died? Was it even him? Rose wasn't sure if she trusted whatever creature had found her. His grin had been frightening, his laugh hollow and inhuman. His appearance was grotesque, and it was only human nature to assume his soul was something similar. His soul. Was she really one to judge? She was beautiful, yes, she knew it. It had never been a secret, her looks had won her many things in life. But...nothing of value. Her soul was as ugly as his outward appearance, even if time hadn't touched her beauty. She could feel her face now, smooth skin stretched over high cheeks bones. Dark, full lips, wide eyes closed peacefully while she suffered in motionless silence. No. Beauty meant nothing in a place like this.

And while the man, or whatever he was, did in fact frighten her...she hoped it was him. He cowered in her presence, he kept his distance. He was better than any number of things that could have wandered up to her room. That was why she lay so still, hardly breathing as the being lingered near the doorway. Was it true love, come to save her? No, it was too late for that. The magic in her curse was flawed, her chance to wake up to a man who would love her was gone. It was far less punishment than she deserved, but that didn't take away the pain. Dying would have been a blessing. There was no punishment left in murder, no fear at the thought of her demise. This living on...this was agony. There she was, lying motionless on the ground, wondering what monster had found her. She couldn't fend for herself, she could hardly move.

What else was there to do? Playing dead seemed like the most reasonable solution. And maybe, just maybe if she pretended hard enough...it would come true. The uncertain voice that met her ears was familiar, though. Rose opened her eyes and looked over at him with an unmistakable expression of relief, before her face twisted into an expression of pain once more. Mm'lady. Did he know she was royalty? She looked like it, her dress was worth more than a peasant made in a year. Or was he simply being polite? Either way, she had lost the right to the title. He was turned away from her so that she couldn't see his face, cowering again like a scared animal. She had no desire to comfort him, but then, it wasn't as though she could. Could she rise to pat him on his ugly shoulder? No. No, she could barely turn her head.

"My name is Rose." She replied tiredly, head turned towards him ever so slightly. The thought that she might sit up crossed her mind, but it seemed like so much effort. The adrenalin of waking had long passed, and the cold had invaded her bones. She was past trembling, stomach so empty it felt as though it were pressed up against her spine. And yet, the suffering brought her some satisfaction. It was what she deserved. Maybe if she suffered long enough God would set her free from this curse! That was, if he hadn't already averted his eyes with shame...

"I wondered if it was you. You told me the castle was empty but...I wondered if it might be...it doesn't matter." He didn't care. Why was she telling him her thoughts, her fears? What was the point, when he seemed to openly revolted by her? Cowering like that...as though she had a disease and he might catch it. What would the disease be eternal sleep? It really wasn't so bad, not nearly as bad as this. "Why did you come back?" The words were flat, emotionless, as if she'd entirely expected him to remain far away for the rest of eternity.