“It’s beautiful,” I say, turning to look at him. "Do you normally celebrate Yule alone?”
He holds my gaze as he studies me. "I normally do not celebrate it at all."
He leads me to one of the couches, and I lower to the soft cushions, glad to be off my feet. I know the healing would go faster if I pushed my muscles more often, but I’m still torn about doing anything to speed the process.
I glance back at the view, as a bonfire is lit and the merriment begins. "So, you sit here each year watching the village celebrate?"
Alaric crosses to the cart and pours tea, loading a plate with gingerbread before handing it to me.
“This was my mother’s favorite room,” Alaric says, surprising me by bringing her up. "When I was a child, we would celebrate in here together, and she would talk to me about my people, and the importance of being a kind and just king someday."
“She sounds like a wise woman,” I say, unsure whether to push now that he’s finally speaking of his past.
“She was," he says. "She was something of a wild woman, though. She did not conform to convention. She jousted and was trained in all manner of weapons, but more than anything she loved the outdoors.”
“As do I.”
He doesn’t respond, and I sip my tea in silence. Even without words, I’m glad for his company, and once again, I’m forced to admit how much I’ve come to enjoy being with him.
I’ve nearly finished my drink when he speaks again, his voice much more strained than before.
“I don’t enjoy it, Adara.”
I look up sharply, and for a moment I’m caught up in the thrill of hearing my name from his lips. Then his words register.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The blood cravings. Taking a life. Living alone up here. I don’t enjoy what I’ve become. It’s not a choice.”
“Alaric,” I begin, but he interrupts me.
“When I was young, I wanted nothing more than to rule. But my privilege blinded me to what ruling really meant. I wanted the riches, the grand balls, the adulation. I knew nothing of what my people suffered or what it felt like to be hungry or alone.
“One night, during a winter storm, the worst the kingdom had ever seen, a woman came to the castle doors. She was beautiful despite her bedraggled state and, in my entitlement, I assumed she would be flattered at my attention.”
“And was she flattered?” I ask, caught up in his story now.
“Not exactly.” His smile is sardonic and wilts fast. “When my persistence became too much for her, she grew enraged and revealed herself as a witch. Her first thought was to exile me, or transform me into some kind of rodent, but my mother pleaded with her.
“In the end, she cursed me to become the creature of my heart. Cold, calculating, and out for blood. Literally. From that day forward, I became the monster I am today, cursed to thirst for the blood of humans above all else."
He pauses and, in a gravelly voice, he says, “Mad with hunger, I killed my parents two days later. Left their bodies on the terrace, because I was too ashamed to look at them. When I realized what had happened, I set out immediately to find the witch and force her to lift the curse, but she’d vanished. When I returned, I buried my parents in the forest. Then the snow began to fall and the ground hardened. After that, I began burying the rest in the garden I showed you.”
His story is bleak and paints a picture of a once-selfish, entitled prince who quickly learned the error of his ways. I can’t help but think the witch who cursed him acted cruelly, or at the very least, rashly. And she certainly didn't consider the weight of the consequences for her own choices. She is perhaps more responsible for the murders he's committed than he is.
Were witches common in that time? Since then, only a handful had been born over the years since he’d been cursed. Was that by design? Was her curse somehow tied to my magic?
Alaric’s nervous gaze brings me out of my musings, and I try to come up with some kind of loophole for what the magic has done to him.
“What about animals?” I ask, thinking of the wolves he protected me from. “Can’t you feed on them instead?”
“I have tried. Many times. But animal blood is different. It doesn’t quench the thirst, and I don’t want to needlessly deplete the game available to your village. Not when the humans need it more.”
He has a point. Thanks to endless winter, game is already scarce for villagers. We can't afford to lose more, especially if it doesn't even save the lives of his victims.
“What if you simply fought against it?” I ask. “Become stronger than the curse?”
“I’ve tried fighting my nature. Resisting the insatiable hunger I feel burning in my throat night after night. The longest I can go between feedings is one year. Much longer than that, and my bloodlust takes over." He glances away, unwilling to look me in the eye. "I lose myself completely until I’m sated. Your parents' death was the consequence of me testing my own limits."
I tense at the mention of them, but he continues, seemingly determined to tell me everything now.
“I’d gone too long without feeding and nearly went mad. They were hunting too far from the village for their own safety. The moment I smelled their blood I lost all thought and reason." He pauses, holding my gaze with his, despite the immense guilt I can see in his eyes. "They were kind in the end, despite what I did to them. And brave. Your father fought to the last for your mother. I could see that he loved her very much.”
My throat tightens as I think of them now. The stories my father would tell me at night before bed. The warm hugs my mother gave freely. Gingerbread baking in the oven on the eve of Yule. So many happy memories that died the night they did.
I can’t bring myself to speak, and after a beat of silence, he goes on.
“When the thirst subsided, I counted ten dead. I can’t explain to you the depth of remorse I felt at—”
He looks away, staring out the window at the blanket of white, and I wonder if he’s thinking about our last conversation and how hard I’d been on him.
“My control allows me to take only one life a year rather than dozens, as long as I maintain that schedule without fail.”
“That’s why you demand a sacrifice.”
He nods, shifting in his seat. “Their time with me is never uncomfortable. I give them luxury and fine food and a warm bed. I let them tell me their stories. Teach me about life outside this castle. Remind me what it’s like to be among people again.”
It sounds terrible, the torture of reminding himself what he’s lost, but I don’t say so. Besides, the victims are the ones he feeds on. The ones whose lives he ends.
The ones like me.
But already, I’ve been here a month. Does he normally wait so long to feed once his yearly guest arrives?
“And how long has it been?” I ask. “Since your last feeding?”
His eyes meet mine, and it strikes me now how much darker his eyes look than the last time we spoke. “Just over a year. I must admit, I don’t think I can go much longer.”
For a moment, his eyes flash with a predatory hunger that sends a shiver of terror through me.
"Is this why you cursed your kingdom with eternal winter? To punish others for your own pain?"