The Curse of Eternity

Death Thirteen

 Eight nights pass in relative solitude. Since the night the Immortal Lord found me lost searching for food, I had not seen nor heard from him. No noise emanated from his apartments. Whether he remains within his rooms or out the manor completely is none of my concern.

While the rest of the manor erupts into a quiet uproar, I declare adamantly, in the privacy of my rooms, I care not a wit.

After my reintroduction with the poison memory, any traces of guilt flee as cins'ocharkcoc do when hit with flame light. Regret burrows deep and festers like black rot when I think of how I fed the Immortal Lord my blood and healed him in a mistaken sense of guilt. He deserves pain. I'd love to sulk in my room and plot revenge, but the coming and going of maids keep me busy.

Two nights after the Immortal Lord encloses himself in his rooms, a gaggle of maids comes bursting into my room at first blue and hold me hostage by needlepoint and brightly patterned fabric, insisting to measure me within a finger of my life.

I cut them deeply with my refusal to undress, holding firm to the belief the maids Myorla and Ceres have spread the gossip of my cursed skin; the anxiousness the maids emanate can only be fueled by rumors and curiosity to find truth to the tales.

My pride refuses to be gawked at like some rare, captured creature.

I grapple a small, slight maid, with moss green eyes and a fluff of copper hair and wrench the measuring stick from her grasp swinging it like a sword.

The maids gasp and step back.

Yeah, you better stay away or you'll feel the wrath of this three-hand stick. I pick up the stool I'd been sitting on, just for good measure, and ward the maids off for a good half blue.

Finally, Byerne, the headmistress intervenes. It seems she possesses a seventh sense when it comes to rescuing me from ridiculous situations. She claps her hands twice, thunder booms from her palms; the maids and seamstresses abandon their possessions and clap their hands over their ears. Breath hisses through my teeth from the sound, but I refuse to relinquish my improvised sword and shield.

"Out," Mistress Byerne intones softly, so different than the thunderclap, "Shut the door and do not return until you have been summoned; am I clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Byerne, " the maids say in unison and shamefaced they hang their heads and exit the room, quietly shutting the door behind them.

"Now Miss, I said before you have to be firm. It has been over a century they've had a new soul to bully."

"Um," I say ungracefully, holding out the stool and stick, "Th-Thi-This isn't f-f-firm?"

"Hiding behind objects only reaffirms your fear. Unless you are prepared to take action, I would suggest you submit. You must understand Miss, they are rather excited you have decided to stay for so long."

"Y-Y-You m-mean l-live."

"Well, yes, I suppose I do."

It's because your Immortal Lord poisons and drains the previous brides dry. Open your eyes!

"You have stayed for almost a half-moon. Of course, the maids are quite excited to catch a glimpse of the bride who has managed to stay for so long. You give them hope when all hope has been lost."

"W-What? Wh-Wh-Why?"

"The longer you remain within the manor walls, the more hope you will give them, best get used to it."

"H-Ho-Hope for what?"

"Hope you will break the curse, of course."

"H-H-How w-would I d-d-do th-that?"