The Lover's Curse

Chapter 3: a Bath, a Coming-out, and an Heirloom

I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling hollow. Simply getting myself to the washroom takes all my mental fortitude. I see my mother in the hall. She just cocks her eyebrow at me like she does when she wants to talk. "Later", I tell her.

I enter the washroom, trapped in thought. Was it worth it? Or would it have been better to have never been with him? I contemplate this as I run the bath, thankful that my family is fortunate enough to have indoor plumbing, a luxury unique to the extremely wealthy or those living in a building built by the elves. It's a marvel that these ancient pipes still work.

The old pipes let out a low groan, but the water begins running with no issues. Crimson water erupts from the spout, which always happens when they are first turned on. The rusty water had scared me as a child, but it's harmless. The rippling pool warps my reflection as I stare into it, and for a moment, my eyes look like the brigands whose life paid for my ale. The water begins to run clear, and the crimson is washed down the drain along with my guilt.

The tub is large and made of the same strange, smooth, pale stone as the outside of the building. It takes time to fill, so I busy myself with lighting the many candles throughout the room. The dim, flickering light never fails to calm me. As I light the candles on the large wooden cabinet across from the tub, I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror. I look terrible. My wavy, medium-length brown hair is a disheveled mess, and my blue eyes are red and puffy. I stare at myself for a long while, thinking of Luke's honeyed words. Not beautiful enough, I guess. It seems to me that the tub can't possibly fill any slower; I feel disgusting, unclean, and in desperate need of the rejuvenating power of a warm bath.

The bath certainly makes me feel a bit better. The hot water soothes my muscles, and the warm glow of the candles gives the room a peaceful quality. I've detangled my hair, washed my face, and nearly scrubbed the skin off my gangly limbs before I finally let myself relax. I use the time to think about the situation rationally. Luke is going to be wed, to whom I don't know. He likely won't be able to join Joan and me on our adventures, having to finally pledge himself to the service of some lord or temple. We'll see each other, sure, but I've spent almost every waking moment with that boy since I was a child. Through the long hours of training together under my father, helping him with his studies, getting into trouble, or wandering the countryside in search of adventure--it was always us. But now he'll have a home, a family, a life, all without me—with some strange girl. The idea is almost too much to bear, and I struggle to keep my emotions under control. Then, my thoughts shift to Joan and her vision.

Lover's Thorn is a legendary weapon of myth. The sword Valeia herself drove through Malok Ul's heart, allowing her and the other Divines to create this world. If her vision was true, and we could find it, we'd all be heroes. Bards would sing of our deeds for generations. We'd be rich, rich enough to live as we please. Luke and I could be together. But it was probably just an ale-induced dream. I shouldn't get my hopes up.

Then I hear a knock and my mother's sweet voice from the other side of the thick wooden door. "Valen, we need to talk."

I feel the urge to drive a sword into my face again, not wanting to face my mother after she saw Luke and me. Unfortunately, I did not bring my sword with me to bathe. I exit the safety of the bath and dry myself with a thin cotton towel. I dress in the clean clothes I had brought: plain trousers and a loose, white shirt. I fidget with my wet hair before I go to face her, feeling as though I'm being sent to the gallows to die.

I force myself to breathe deeply as I walk through the cluttered hall. My mother is quite eclectic, and our whole living space is filled with old things: beautiful furniture, old books, paintings, strange carvings, and anything she finds interesting. There are so many old things that finding a patch of unused wall space is nearly impossible. Our family is not considered nobility, but my mother comes from a family of wealthy scholars, and my father was a captain in the Snowfall Guard, so we have enough money to indulge my mother's many interests. I reach the small common space, where I am surprised to see my father sitting across from my mother in great, cushioned old chairs carved from dark wood. The seats are situated by the fire, around a low table carved from the same wood on which my mother has placed a tray with tea.