Page 32 of The Curse Between Us

He didn’t want Zephyr to leave. It was as simple—and as selfish—as that. But how could he say so when Zephyr’s health was in jeopardy? How could his own feelings matter in comparison to Zephyr’s well-being?

He looked over at Zephyr, his heart heavy with the unspoken weight of the decision. There was no visible emotion on Zephyr’s face, just a look of quiet thoughtfulness. Edric’s voice was tentative when he spoke. “Zephyr?”

Zephyr met his gaze, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet resolve. He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence between them felt like an eternity. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady. “Yes,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to Edric’s. “Yes, I believe that would be for the best.”

???

They did not have much time for private conversations over the following days. The feast was an extravagant and noisy affair, full of laughter, music, and dancing, with the air of celebration thick in every corner of the hall. Had circumstances been different, Edric might have enjoyed it thoroughly. He had long been accustomed to the ceremonies and revelries of his court, but the shadow of Zephyr’s imminent departure loomed heavily over him, clouding the joy of the evening. He forced himself to smile, to clap along with the entertainment, to engage in polite conversation with their guests, but each glance toward Zephyr was like a dagger to his chest. Each look was a painful reminder that soon, his husband would be leaving, and Edric could do nothing to stop it.

Zephyr, for his part, seemed to endure the evening with quiet grace, his every word carefully measured, his laughter polite but distant. His usual warmth was hidden behind the thin veneer of composure he had been forced to adopt, and though Edric could see the toll it was taking, Zephyr never once allowed his true feelings to show. It was a skill Edric admired, but it also hurt him to see Zephyr carrying the burden of his decision alone.

Even after they retired to their chambers, there was no opportunity to discuss Zephyr’s choice. The exhaustion from the long evening of socializing hit Zephyr immediately as they entered the room, and without a word, he collapsed onto the bed, his body already betraying the toll the day had taken onhim. Edric stood in the doorway for a long moment, his mind a swirl of conflicted emotions, but he knew better than to disturb Zephyr in such a state. He could not bring himself to burden him with his own pain—not when Zephyr already had so much to bear.

The next day was filled with intense negotiations regarding trade agreements, and it consumed both of their energies. Zephyr, despite his condition, attended each meeting with the same diplomatic skill he had always exhibited, but it was clear that he was struggling. By the time the day was over, Edric could see the exhaustion weighing on him, and yet there was still no time to speak of what loomed ahead. The true nature of their pain would have to wait.

It wasn’t until the day of the tournament—the last full day of the Eskarvens’ visit—that Edric and Zephyr finally had a chance to speak privately. They were seated in the places of honor, high above the crowd, with the best view of the tournament grounds. The sun shone fiercely, and the air was thick with the promise of competition. Hadley and Clara, standing at the front of the group, led them in a joint prayer, their voices mingling in perfect harmony as they sang the traditional hymns. It was a moment of shared reverence before the chaos of the games began, and Edric found himself momentarily distracted by the beauty of the ceremony.

But soon, the archers took their places, and the tournament began in earnest. Edric could hardly focus on the contest; he cared little for the competition. His thoughts were consumed with Zephyr. He glanced over at him, sitting cool and composed beside him, and felt a pang of sympathy. He leaned toward Zephyr, keeping his voice low, but the words came with an undeniable edge of concern.

“How are you feeling?” Edric asked quietly, his eyes searching Zephyr’s face. “I know this cannot be easy for you, with the sun so intense.”

Zephyr offered a small, but strained, smile, his eyes distant as he responded. “I’m fine,” he said. His fingers brushed the small flask of Elsie’s tonic that hung from his belt, and he patted it absently. “I have Elsie’s tonic with me.”

Edric nodded, though his heart remained heavy. He looked down at the Eskarven delegation, now seated several rows below them, and his stomach twisted with the thought of their impending departure. Tomorrow. Zephyr would leave with them, and Edric had no idea when—or if—he would see him again.

“Zephyr—” Edric started, his voice thick with emotion, but he faltered, unable to finish the sentence. The words he wanted to say—the plea, the confession, the raw, desperate ache in his chest—were too much to voice. He could not impose that on Zephyr, not when so much was already on his shoulders.

Zephyr turned toward him, his expression expectant, and Edric’s words died on his lips. He couldn’t bring himself to say what was in his heart. Not here, not now. He could see the conflict in Zephyr’s eyes, the unspoken understanding between them, but Edric could not put his own feelings ahead of what was best for Zephyr.

Instead, he gave a half-hearted smile and said something that felt entirely wrong. “I think I ought to give your people a true spectacle.” The words slipped from his lips before he could pull them back, and as soon as they were out, Edric regretted them. But there was no turning back.

On the field below, the attendants were clearing the targets from the archery contest, setting up for the sword-fighting portion of the tournament. Edric’s gaze followed them, the anticipation in the crowd palpable, but his mind waselsewhere. He was angry. Angry that the situation was so unfair. Angry that they had been brought together, only to be torn apart again. Anger coursed through him like wildfire, and he could not contain it any longer.

“I’ll give them a spectacle,” he muttered to himself.

Zephyr frowned, concern flickering across his features. “Edric—” he started, but Edric ignored him. His decision was already made, and he couldn’t back down now. He needed this. Needed something to feel like it was in his control, something that could distract him from the ache in his chest.

Without waiting for another word, Edric rose to his feet and made his way down the steps. He could hear Zephyr calling after him, but he pressed on, his determination outweighing everything else. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prove. Perhaps it was to the Eskarvens, or perhaps it was to himself. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the fight, the release he could find in the clashing swords.

When he reached the ground, he was met by the attendants who stood at attention as soon as they saw him. “Might you have a spare sword for your king?” he called out, his voice loud enough to carry over the murmurs of the crowd.

A stir of excitement passed through the audience as they saw Edric approach, and he was handed three swords, all of them gleaming in the sun. Without looking, he grabbed one, shrugging off his outer layers of clothing as he did. The cool air hit his skin, but he didn’t care. He was beyond caring for anything except the fight ahead. He climbed over the barrier that separated the fighters from the spectators and crossed the field to join the group of soldiers and fighters who were whispering in disbelief at his sudden appearance.

The sword felt heavy in his hands, but he rested it casually over his shoulder, turning to face his opponents witha grin that held no humor. “Shall we?” he said, his voice sharp with challenge.

The trumpets sounded, signaling the start of the match, and Edric lost himself in the heat of the moment. His body moved automatically—thrust, parry, block. The clash of swords, the cries of the audience, the rush of adrenaline—it all blurred into a single, intoxicating rush. His anger fueled him, and he fought with reckless abandon, not caring for the rules, not caring for the spectators. All that mattered was the fight.

He struck with every ounce of frustration, of confusion, of loss. The blows he landed were fierce, but there was no satisfaction in them. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the release that came with each swing of the sword.

The crowd roared, but Edric hardly heard them. He was focused entirely on the fight, each movement a way to push back against the universe that had torn him and Zephyr apart. The anger in his veins felt like the only thing keeping him together.

His next strike was expertly blocked, and Edric blinked up into Alec’s face, startled for a brief moment. His brother was standing before him, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern.

“What are you doing?” Alec hissed between his teeth, his voice tight with frustration.

Edric shook his head, not bothering to answer. Alec wouldn’t understand. Despite their earlier conversation, Alec could not grasp the depth of Edric’s feelings for Zephyr, not in the way Edric himself understood them. He couldn’t understand why Edric needed this fight so desperately.

They were separated again, their swords clashing as Edric pressed forward with abandon. There were no consequences here—this was just a game, a distraction. But Edric didn’t care. He fought as if his very soul depended on it.

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