The King's Cursed Bride

Absent of Elon

Had Carissa the strength, she would have fought them like a cat receiving a bath as they stuffed her into a dress they deemed more "suitable" and dragged her to the dance. Though the pain had vanished with that broth, her body was still weak, her muscles feeling as though they'd been reduced to mush.

The sky had dimmed to a dark gray, and something inside Carissa's chest pinched tight. Were she in Nysia, she would likely see the sun setting. When would she see another sunset? Another sunrise? The moon? The stars? The unbroken gray clouds covered everything, smothering the beauty above them, suffocating the people beneath them.

Her melancholy mood continued to lurk in the recesses of her heart as the women seated her at a bench at the edge of the clearing. Lanterns hung from poles, casting the area in a dim glow. A few men were tuning their stringed instruments, which looked similar to the fiddles the villagers played in Hasita. One man was straddling a sizable drum between his thighs.

Though the men were clustered together, their gazes followed the women around the clearing, all of which appeared to be nightwomen. The women winked and giggled before turning to whisper to each other. It seemed the men and women were already selecting their dance partners.

One man began strumming a lively tune, and the other musicians were quick to join in. Occasionally, there was an unpleasant twang as someone hit the wrong note, but the melody was cohesive for the most part.

The men immediately flocked to the women, sweeping them into the middle of the clearing. Carissa could see why Dove had said she wouldn't like this dancing. The men and women often pasted their torsos together, their hands wandering in a manner that made Carissa avert her eyes. Raucous laughter rang through the air as the land descended into darkness.

A hand jutted into Carissa's line of sight. Were it not so large and knobby, she would have thought it a woman's hand. His palms were smoother than hers, completely clear of callouses, and he was so pale he nearly glowed. He seemed the type of man who had never worked a hard day in his life.

She gripped her own hands more tightly, wishing to feel Elon's hand clasping hers. Wishing he were offering her a dance. She didn't bother looking up.

"Eh, what's this? New woman thinks she's too good for the likes of me?"

"Leave her alone." A figure plopped next to Carissa, a quick glance revealing it was Dove.

Dove's stern expression quickly melted into a flirtatious smile, though Carissa caught a glimpse of the hollowness in Dove's eyes. She felt a pang for the woman, remembering all too well how that felt.

"I assure you," Dove continued, "I would be much more fun to dance with."

The man yanked Dove off of the bench so hard the by the time Carissa blinked, the woman was gone. Dove laughed, and Carissa wondered if she was the only one who could hear how it rang false.

She dared a quick peek up at dancers. To her surprise, many were staring at her. The men were staring at her with open curiosity, a glint of something darker in their eyes, though Carissa didn't bother trying to discern what. She wasn't certain she wanted to know.

The women looked at her with either envy or pity. Envy likely because she'd inadvertently caught the attention of so many men. Perhaps pity because she had no one to dance with. One man began to grope the woman he was dancing with, and Carissa ducked her head, heat winging across her cheeks.

But she didn't need their pity; she was quite happy to remain by herself. Except that wasn't entirely true. If Elon were with her...

But it was useless to dwell on such things. Thinking about him wouldn't make him hasten to her; it would only arouse questions and longing and regret.

Many more men asked her to dance throughout the night. She either ignored them or denied them. As the night wore on and drink flowed freely, the men became more insistent and she retreated from the bench to sit in the shadow of a barrel next to a building.

Hidden as she was, no one found her, and she received no more dance requests. Their tongues became looser and their steps sloppier. The nightwomen who had helped her told the others about how she claimed Elon was her husband, and their voices thickened with pity.

Poor Carissa, who hoped her husband would find her.

Poor Carissa, who thought she was wed to the King of Nysia.

Poor Carissa, who was chasing after a lunatic.

When Carissa could bear no more, she left. Whatever had laced the broth had briefly alleviated the pain, but it was quickly returning, making her feet burn with each step and turning her breaths ragged with pain.

The people of the caravan had been so different from these. They were fiercely loyal, and after their commitment to Elon, had given freely to other travelers, offering to share their tents, food, and company.

But this place was purposeless. Even as she walked down the streets, every establishment was a place of pleasure and leisure. These people were falling apart, their own actions destroying them. A situation both tragic and ironic.

Perhaps there were worse things than suffering and death. Perhaps living without a purpose was worse, only seeking one's own selfish pleasures. And if Elon gave purpose, then perhaps the worst evil was simply Elon's absence. Living apart from him in this life and the next.

A few drunkards were stumbling through the streets, inebriated enough that she didn't fear one pursuing her. If only they hadn't rejected Elon. He could have transformed this town by first transforming its people.

Carissa staggered back into the nighthouse, her pain making her stop for breaks more often. She dragged herself up the stairs, back to the room she'd woken up in. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the object on her bed: a single flower, glowing as white as the moon would have, were the clouds above to part.

And next to the flower was a folded piece of paper. Carissa reached for it, her heart lurching in her chest.