Striding down the path, I walk until I lose sight of him. A pretty pocket of tranquility, yet no one is able to access it. The Frost King hides this greenhouse away like the disgraceful secret it is.
At the curve ahead, the king appears, arms crossed over his chest, blocking my way forward. “Why are you angry with me?”
“Have you ever considered what the world would be like if you eliminated winter altogether?”
The silence alters. It takes a new shape that loses its edge, a softening on the inside. “It will not change my mind,” he says, “but I would like to know your perspective on the matter.”
That he is willing to listen to me speaks louder than any action.
“You are a god. As such, you have always been in a position of power. Even here, banished by your people, you reign over this realm.Whether eternal winter is your intention or not, you decide who lives and who dies.”
Dropping his arms, he strides toward me, drawn by curiosity, compelled perhaps, as I am, by an inexplicable pull. “You think me cold and narrow-minded.”
That sounds about right. “Yes.”
“I think you brash and reckless.”
I shrug, letting the sting of his thoughts slide down my back. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“I did not ask to be a god. I was born immortal, granted strength and power. It is all I know.”
“No,” I correct him. “It is all youallowyourself to know.”
His lips part in retaliation, but by then, I’m moving past him through the greenhouse. The trail eventually splits. I go right, crossing a small footbridge arching over the trickling creek.
“If I must suffer,” the Frost King calls to my back, “then others must suffer, too.”
A god speaks of suffering. How quaint.
I’m so disgusted by his lack of self-awareness that I consider strangling him with one of these vines. At the very least, I will be rid of this lashing emotion, this turmoil that refuses to abate in his presence, only mutates into something frightening and unrecognizable. A black, eroding thing.
Whirling around, I spit, “You are the most selfish, narrow-minded, heartless god I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting! You speak of suffering, yet food piles upon your table like mountains, your clothes are made of the thickest furs, you live in a fortress able to house thousands, and disease cannot ruin your body.” I step toward him, and he retreats, knocking against one of the hanging plants. “You are not burdened by your life.”
His nostrils flare with impatience. It is a victory. The more cracks in his armor, the more human he appears. I seek what lies beneath that hardened exterior. I seek the truth.
“Think what you will of me—”
“I do.”
“—but know that a mortal’s suffering ends with death. A god’s suffering is forever.”
I’m reminded of the scars coiling up his back. Is that what he refers to? Might he have other scars, internal ones, like my own? I’ve glimpsed pain in him, however fleeting. “Tell me,” I demand. “Tell me how you have suffered.” So that I may not loathe the sight of my husband day in and day out.
“I have suffered,” he says, “more than you could ever imagine. But my suffering is not what pains you. It is not what dims your spirit.” His throat dips with his swallow. “Will you tell me what happened at your village?”
I’m not sure what’s more shocking: that he recognizes my pain, or that he seeks to remedy it. “Why do you even care?” I whisper. My wellbeing is irrelevant to him. So long as I am alive, he can use my blood to fortify the Shade. I am his tool, sharpened at will.
“You are my wife,” he says, as if that is all the explanation needed. He picks a rose from a nearby bush, passes it into my hand. “Tell me.”
I want to tell him. I don’t want to tell him. I want to be alone. I want company—any company, even his. He uttered a command, but phrased it softly, as a question. It is for that reason alone I reveal this dark, rotted seed that has rooted inside me.
“My sister is married now. Our home sits empty.” Although I did not attend the wedding, Elora would have been a lovely bride. She’d dreamed of gold ribbons in her hair. “She invited me to dinner with her husband, Shaw.” A sweet, sugary scent rises to my nostrils, and I realize I have crushed the flower in my hand. The mangled red petals float to the ground.
Boreas appears as though he might say something, but he gifts me silence so that I may continue my story.
“Shaw is a good man. Dependable, loyal, and doting. Yet I sat at their dinner table and did not recognize the woman sitting across from me.”
There is nothing I would not do for my sister. Always, I sought to make her feel safe and loved. I built the walls of our lives, the roof, the door. Does Elora not realize every sacrifice I made was for her?
