Chronicles of Mithelain: Cursed

Maylian paused and put a hand on Eanfrid's arm, standing on the step below him. "I need to know you take me seriously. Believing Griffid will do more damage than a hundred curses combined. Have you heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

Eanfrid, distracted by a deep desire to see his wife and children, looked up the turret impatiently, and then back at Maylian with a frown. "A what? No."

"It is a false prophecy made true by belief in it. If you give credence to Griffid and try to circumvent it, your actions may well enact the very curse you wish to avoid."

"Circumvent? I don't know what you mean. You say the curse is gone. In that case I need have no concern." Eanfrid set off again, hating himself for the doubt chewing through his bowels. He was a man who liked to cover all options; it was the reason while this past year had been the best of his life, it had also been the worst. Things had always seemed clear-cut to him. Dear Hilda had died and he presumed he would never love again; but then he'd met the beautiful Cynwise and fallen so hard he couldn't eat or sleep until the stars aligned to make her love him equally. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined ever feeling so powerfully for another man's woman, and a friend to boot; but if he hadn't given in to his desire he would have lost his mind. Eanfrid hated himself for hurting Griffid, easily as much as he loved Cynwise. But he'd had no choice. He still had no choice. And now his son was in danger because of it. Anteran was in danger.

He quaked at the knees at the mention of the Druids of Morta. Griffid's gravelled words resounded through his head: the path of your son's life will lead to the destruction of all that your ancestors have built, for from his loins will spring Anteran's downfall. He could no more ignore those mighty words than he could take back the love that had caused them.