The Curse of Eternity

Death Twenty-Two

The nights settle into easy routine. I wake, brake my fast with the Immortal Lord, then lessons with Ceres and Myorla, mid-night meal and more lessons.

Despite my loud protests and lack of interest, Mistress Bryerne accosts me at random intervals with patterns, thread and material.

I never imagined my life would turn out to be this.

After our breakfast dishes are cleared the Immoral Lord says, "This early night Myorla and Ceres shall not be returning."

"W-Why?"

"From this night and henceforth I will be teaching you."

"T-T-Teaching m-me?"

"Yes. I will be teaching you Tiygressian."

"W-Why?" Apparently, it's the only word I can enunciate.

Beyond the required flickers, I am mortified at spending any more.

"Myorla and Ceres do not have the spare flickers to teach and they have other duties." The Immortal Lord explains.

My heart flutters like leaves in a maelstrom.

Why would the Immortal Lord willingly spend any flickers with me? He poisoned me after all. For Dyu's sake, he poisoned me.

"You are my Moons' Turn Bride. Like it or not you are now a part of me. I drank your blood and you drank mine."

"I-I-I drank y-y-your blood?"

"Yes." He sighs. "The moment you fed me your blood we became a pair."

A memory resurfaces along with sweet, earthy and tangy. I want more.

Can blood taste amazing? Do I taste good to him?

"Yes," he says.

"Huh?"

"Yes," he repeats and presents me with children's picture books.

At seeing the picture books, anger rises.

I am not a child to be looking at such things!

After a quarter of a candle, I realize I am. I am a child. The Immortal Lord is patient, kind and intelligent. He never bombards. Cӱbreesian runes are hard and confusing.

Yet, I teach him as he teaches me.

He has an interest in Cӱbreesia's Touch, it's a form of magic but rare; there aren't many blind nobles.

"I have written letters to all the major schools," he says one bright night.

"Huh?"

"I have written to all the major schools," he repeats, "I will find you volumes with Cӱbreesia's Touch."

"Ah," I say, not glancing from the characters I've been made to trace and repeat.

"No," he says when I write Rea't wrong. He grabs my hand and together we pen the rune.

"It has to be in one fluid motion. There is no lifting of the quill. You see?"

"Like this?" I ask.

I repeat the motion.

"Perfect."

Writing the runes are harder than learning their meaning. My hands are used to short, staccato motions; not the long liquid lines of Tiygressian.

The Immortal Lord's nearness unnerves me, especially when his braid snakes over his shoulder, as it so often does, when he leans towards my parchment. I am distracted by the smooth feel as it runs across my arm. I like the sensation and I want to run my fingers over the coil.