A Nordic King(69)

The nightmares broke through the morphine and became infused with the darkness that was always lurking just out of my vision, blurring the edges and perpetually luring me back in.

Helena was always in them. I feel she found a way into my brain, found a space and carved it out for herself and made it her home. She would only come out at night, when I was dead asleep, and then she’d make my world the hell that was hers.

I had nightmares nearly every day for a year.

During the next year they came at me once every few weeks.

Ever since Aurora showed up, I haven’t had a single one.

I thought, maybe, because the children were happy, that she was letting me go in peace. There was no need to terrorize me, no need to remind me that she was dead, and I wasn’t.

But now, tonight, the nightmare has come back.

I’m lying in bed in my usual suite at Drottningholm Palace in Stockholm, having spent the day with King Arvid of Sweden, and I’m nearly drenched with sweat.

The nightmare had come in swift, and it stayed for what felt like forever, combining with reality.

Helena had been here, in this very room. It’s like she’d been afraid to visit me at home and decided to haunt me in Sweden instead.

I was awake and then I was asleep and then there she was, slowly opening the creaking doors of the armoire at the end of the room and stepping out.

She walked toward me in bare feet, wearing the dress she died in, blood covering her face so that there was no bare inch of skin.

Her eyes remained fixed on mine, green and relentless as they were in real life.

I had to remind myself to not be afraid and to not hate her either.

But the former was hard.

She stopped at the foot of the bed and stared at me. It could have been minutes or hours, time has no part of dreams, it doesn’t exist in them. But it was long enough for every hair on my body to stand at attention, for my chest to have this immense pressure on it, like a pile of bricks had been placed there.

I knew I was dreaming, I was lucid. But that didn’t stop the fear that I could be having a heart attack in my sleep.

Finally, she said something.

“You don’t deserve this.”

Her voice had a hollow, metallic ring to it, like a speaker was lodged in her throat and the words were coming out that way.

What don’t I deserve? I tried to say, but I can never talk or scream in my dreams.

But she didn’t answer. She started pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed, her eyes never leaving mine. Eyes full of anguish and torment and pain.

I’m sorry.

But she can’t hear me.

She’s not even real.

It felt like ages before she finally stopped her pacing, stopped her staring.

She turned around and walked back to the closet.

Stepped inside.

Shut the door.

Then I woke up.

Thank fucking god I woke up.

My eyes flew open, and I was gasping, and my pajama shirt was sticking to me and that shift back to reality let me know that it hadn’t really happened, that it wasn’t real, that it was all in my head.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I still think you can be haunted. By your past. By your mistakes.

By your lies.

I’m staring at the closet now, just willing for it to open again, for this ghost to prove me wrong.

But the room is empty and dark, and it feels different. There’s no malice here, no terror. There’s snow swirling outside the windows, casting in a cold, hazy light even though it’s probably the middle of the night now.

I lay my head back against the pillow and take in a deep breath, trying to pacify my racing heart.

I didn’t even want to come here.

After I slept with Aurora, after we had finally given in to each other, the last thing I wanted to do was leave her. But duty calls, often at rotten times, and I had to go early the next morning to Stockholm. I wanted to bring her. If she was anyone else in the world, I could have brought her. She could have been my date for my dinners here with the royal family, first with King Arvid, then with Prince Viktor.

It’s a stark reminder of who she is.

She’s not my date.

Not a girlfriend.

Not just a lover.

But the nanny.

I had sex with my fucking nanny.

To anyone looking in, I would look like a disgrace. I would look lecherous and bullying and a slave to desire. She would look like a victim, perhaps even the opposite. She’s fourteen years younger than me, my help, and I’m a widowed old man.

No one would understand the truth.

That she’s not just a nanny.

She’s Aurora.

She’s my reckoning and savior all at once.

She’s her namesake, those northern lights that brighten the darkest winter skies.

She’s my homecoming.

And I’m in love with her.

It’s pointless now to deny it, especially after last night, when I buried myself deep inside her and found everything I’d ever been looking for.

That woman walked into my life like the blazing sun, burning away the cobwebs and illuminating all those dark and hollow points inside me. She made me realize what it is to be happy and to have someone that makes you happy. She gave me life again when I’d stopped living mine long ago.

She’s all those things to me, she’s everything to me.

And that’s why I’m choosing to ignore reality for now.