I withdrew from my father's solar and walked purposefully toward my own. I was uncertain of what welcome, if any, I would receive on entering my chamber, but either way, we would have matters settled between us tonight.

I was vexed at my father for having revealed what should have been Aria's privilege to do in her own time, but my sire had been impolitic and blunt in his delivery; he should not have let her provoke him to discourtesy. It had been her right to realize and announce the tidings herself, but the damage was done and my father's remorse was now his burden to suffer and mend in his own way. I was mollified by that at least: that he now undertook to suffering that regret. Godwin was never wrong and on the rare occasion that he was, it vexed him terribly.

I thought back to the moment in question and pondered her reaction — how her features had blanched with shock. She had been wholly ignorant of her burgeoning condition. 'Twas, however, a fettle that I had discerned days after inception because her scent had changed almost the day after our wedding night.

A child inspired by an enkindled wedding bed, I grinned in satisfaction. But the smile was only cursory.

As I approached my chamber door I heard a giggle issue forth, muffled and softened by the barrier that stood betwixt myself and my young wife.

At first I was outraged, but the burn of fury soon ebbed as logic prevail; and I calmed enough to realize that there was no other male scent here but mine. Thus I became intrigued and stayed my hand at the latch to listen at the door a moment longer. I did not often hear her laugh and I realized of a sudden that, if she never forgave me for being a monster, I never would again.

Aria is a reasonable woman. She will come around. I was certain.

"Are you perhaps the little raven that tried to warn me away from the maze all those months ago?" came her familiar, husky voice. I had always thought it a good voice — strong and confident — even when it faltered or tripped over nerves.

I then, curiously, heard a raven caw in response, the sound rending stridently from within and I wondered fleetingly how a crow had come to be in our chamber.

"Yes?" she seemed to translate. "Would that I had listened to you then, master crow. I thank you for your efforts, vain though they were. I am myself unfortunately a curious bird; to my own detriment, 'twould seem."

Her words were lorn and bespoke of despair as she continued her strange intercourse with the bird. I might have grinned, amused at her odd inclination to talk to beasts; but that she spoke to me at all was proof of that penchant, and thus not so ludicrous after all.

I chuckled derisively to myself and entered the room, having delayed the inevitable long enough. I was properly subdued by the thought of how this girl bedeviled and, yes, even scared me. I had never thought to be discomfited by anything, least of all a slip of a girl, yet She affected me as no other could, casting my composure to discord and ruin.

She was a theriac — a medicinal draft, stimulating and intoxicating all at once; and I craved her like a tincture that I could not go without. I had neither required nor anticipated the emotions she evoked. In fact, I despised them! I wanted none of this perilous and tricky sentiment. I trusted it not and understood even less of these matters of the heart. They were naught but a woman's weakness.

The act of ruminating on the subject was like to cause a megrim, so I dismissed the puzzle. My brooding now dispelled, my eyes were then drawn immediately to her, and I grimaced as her shoulders became rigid at my entry. A large raven sat perched on her finger, but no sooner had I entered than it fled out into the night.

Witless crow, I scoffed with a shake of my head.

'Twas howling outside and black as worm fodder, but still it had flown into the eye of a pitch black storm that roared its displeasure across the countryside. The cold permeated the room with a sharpness that even I could feel keenly, as it surged through the open window, and I moved thither to bar the cold's encroaching bite.

I scratched my jaw and thought again about how odd it was that a crow had come to my wife in the night as if it were messenger from Odin himself, but what message had it delivered?

"You have not eaten," I remarked. I knew that she had not. She merely nodded, yet intent on ignoring me. Ordinarily I might take umbrage to her disregard, but the ice had yet to thaw from her demeanor and I was loath to force the matter lest she crack entirely. However, she was no longer the sole resident of her body, and my child required nourishment. "You have more than just yourself to care for now-"

"I know, Lucian!" she bit out.

Yes, I thought. My father has left me to repair what he has wrought.

"As to that," I sighed, "I cannot excuse the way my father chose to disclose your condition. It was poorly done, Aria, and for that I apologize." When I placed my hand atop her shoulder, she winced perceptively. I then removed it directly and clenched my fist in annoyance, but still my calming tone prevailed. "I know I have much to atone for. Tell me what I might do to set things right?"

"Can you bring Thomas back from the dead?" she spat, yet shunning me with the iron facade of her back.

"I am sorry you feel Thomas' loss so keenly, Aria." I betook myself to sit on the bench beside her somber, little frame. "But I am not sorry that he can no longer plague you with his dubious friendship." My words were having an inclement effect and I continued hastily for the gathering clouds in her glare suggested that she was on the verge of a scathing reply. "No, listen to me, Aria!" I took her unyielding, cold hand into mine. "A man does not care for a woman if he is of a mind to take by force that which she is unwilling to offer; moreover, he is less of a man for subjecting her to violence-"

"And what of you!" She hissed and yanked her hand away. "Have you not also subjected me to violence?"

"Was not that your curiosity that lead you thence? Into danger," I reasoned. Taking her hand once again, I held it firmly lest she snatch it back. "Did I not warn you away, Aria?" I presumed that she was referring to the night that I had marked her arm through Niflheim's portcullis, and I implored her silently to understand that I had never meant to hurt or lie to her.

It was her that I cherished above all things, to my detriment, and even above my own life. I would fain give it up if it meant the fates would spare her in my stead! Had I not earlier challenged Fendrel... twice! But the moments dragged ere she replied.

"Yes," said she at last, with a strange look of wonderment softening the lineaments that had hardened when first I had broached the subject of Thomas. I felt hope begin to bloom in my chest and forged on with heady determination.

"I told you, when I found you outside Niflheim, that I would rather die than hurt you, Aria. Do you believe me?" She nodded slightly and I continued. "Have I destroyed your trust in me completely? Am I now beyond redemption?" I could hear the dread in my own voice because the thought — that detestable possibility — of how she might answer had plagued me since Aria had first realized the truth and looked at me with such petrified horror.

There had been something germinating between us since the wedding night: a newfound regard and mutual understanding; perhaps even affection. These were certainly tepid sentiments indeed, but love might someday grow from there. Although, I was no longer sure that she now reciprocated my feelings. But I could not dwell on that.

Despite being presently invigorated with hope, I could not quell the sour taste of presage that foreshadowed the air betwixt us, and so I increased the pressure of my fingers against the flesh of her palm.

I watched as her refulgent gaze glittered with moisture, yet I wondered at the strange turn of her mouth and the tightness around her chartreuse eyes. She tentatively reached out to me with her other hand as horripilation electrified my skin in anticipation of her touch.

But, as with a freak of sunlight through billowing, black clouds, her impulse was only ephemeral. She retracted her hand and I felt the dismay well up in my core like a dank shade as she opened her mouth to speak.

"I do not know, Lucian. I am not even sure I know who you are," she whispered in a peculiar voice devoid of life, her coldness squeezing my heart in its skeletal grip ere she stood and walked away.

I had lost her. A heavy sigh escaped me, my mouth distorting in anger and dolor. I was furious — at her, my father, but most of all myself; I had allowed myself to care and to hope. Well, that was my torment to overcome. But for now I was spent.

Perhaps if you told her you love her... came an urgent whisper from within. You do love her Lucian! it insisted.

My pride was in tatters, but vanity be damned; if I thought it might sway her, I'd have declared my feelings openly. Yet I knew that she would not see past my monstrous nature; and I could not blame her for it. However, I could no longer stay here either, and be constantly near her, knowing how she felt about me. Hence, I withdrew as the monster — the shadow between us — trailed in my wake.





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