In Which Nythran's Nightmares Pale in Comparison

December 31, 1165

Three-year-old Cladelia squirmed as Nythran lowered her into her bed. "Papa! Let's play longer! Please?"

"Sorry, angel," Nythran laughed, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. "Your sisters have been asleep for an hour already, and your mama is probably wondering where I am."

The little girl shook her head in protest. "No, she's not."

He had to admit, that probably was the case. Some of Nythran's friends spoke of women who enjoyed their husbands' company, but other than the occasional secondhand piece of information, this species was a mystery to him. In all likelihood, Riona had been fast asleep long before the year-old twins, but he wasn't about to confess his marital woes to his young, impressionable daughter. "Good night, sweetheart."

"Night!" mimicked Cladelia. "Good dreams!"

The base of Nythran's neck shivered. "Sorry?"

The little girl's eyes widened in concern. "You had bad dreams. Hope they go away."

He had been having bad dreams, in fact, but he didn't know how Cladelia would have known about them. Perhaps he'd taken to screaming and moaning in his sleep? In any case, that at least gave his wife an excuse to leave halfway through the night and sleep in the guest chamber, but if the dreams were disturbing his children, then perhaps he should have been the one to take up night-time residence somewhere else in the castle; he doubted relations with Riona's side of the family would improve if three girls under the age of four knew that their father was nightly bound in his own dungeon by their Uncle Searle, who would then proceed to cover every surface in the castle with oil and throw down a torch at Nythran's feet. "Uh... thank you, angel. Sweet dreams."

Perhaps it would help to discuss these dreams with someone, he considered as he left the nursery and stepped into his bedroom, but who was there in which to confide? Surely not his friends, who might think him mad; surely not his family, who had enough troubles as it was. It didn't seem like a good idea to bring it up with Riona, as she always seemed so uncomfortable talking about her twin brother. No, the only reliable listener he could think of was his horse, and Nythran doubted that he'd have much useful insight; it seemed he would just have to deal with the problem himself.

"Riona?"

A glance toward the bed assured him that she had not yet left. She lay above the covers, peaceful and unmoving, as though she had no intention of doing anything other than simply breathing. "Riona? I think I'll sleep elsewhere tonight; I don't want to risk waking the children."

She didn't respond; perhaps she was asleep after all. Regardless, he doubted she would miss him in the morning, so he chose not to wake her.

Even though she wasn't fond of him, however, he figured it would only be rude of him to leave her in a lit room. He did try to be a good husband, even if he was never good enough for her, and he would not have her waking up to a flickering candle--or worse, a burning table.

He made his way to the desk and began by dousing the candles there. He then backed away to proceed elsewhere in the room, but caught sight of his Riona's slanted cursive on a nearby piece of parchment. That was odd--Riona never cared to write if she didn't feel obliged. Nythran's curiosity struggled against his respect for his wife's privacy; he allowed himself a quick glance, only to find that the note was addressed to him anyway.

Nythran,

I'm sorry about everything. Please tell Searle that I am not the stronger one after all.

Searle? Her brother? What could that have meant? For all she was cold and quiet, Riona was as strong a woman as any--much stronger than her sighing, woebegone brother, at any rate. This didn't make any sense. "Riona? Riona, if you're awake... can you please explain this note?"

No answer. He turned around and headed toward her bedside. "Riona, please wake up."

Not even a twitch of her slipper. As he stopped at her side, he couldn't help but notice a half-full glass of wine on the bedside table. In their entire four years of marriage, Nythran could only remember Riona ever having about three glasses of wine over the course of that time, and always in the afternoon--never before bed. Also, this wine had a peculiar, acrid odor he could smell even with several feet between his nose and the source; had it perhaps been exposed to the air too long? "Riona?"

Again, there was no reply. Shaking his head, he turned to look at her, only to stumble an inch or so backward in shock.

He had been led to believe that she was asleep, but her eyes were wide open--moreso than they ever were even during the day. Their teal depths were both glazed and glossy, and her ordinarily neutral mouth was curled into an almost taunting smile. He tried making a sudden hand movement; she didn't blink. So far as he could tell, she wasn't even...

...breathing.

"Oh, God! Guards! Somebody! Help!"

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