Elves are passionate fuckers. Their desire for love, connection, bonding, power, and understanding is beyond my people's desire for gold. They never go halfway, it seems. It's all or nothing. Become the greatest or do not try at all. Even when I was summoned, they insisted I participate in the Ritual of Understanding. They could have waited until I recovered, but noooooo. It absolutely MUST be within moments of arriving, or the Chosen One is worthless.
The fucking arrogance of these people.
Text after text, I read it is nothing but petty squabbles between rulers or landowners who're fighting over complete and total arbitrary bullshit. Who the fuck cares if there were either twenty-three thousand or twenty-two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds for your shipment of stupid fucking PLANTS?!
(The next section is scribbled out, but barely legible through the heavy markings)
I fear I may not be the Chosen One they were seeking, for I am small and lack the magical ability they deem sufficient. Or useful. Or anything. I've been ridiculed, laughed at, spat on, and humiliated over and over. Why do I stay? I ask myself every night I lie in bed. Alone.
One day, I will find someone who deems me useful. I am sure of it.
Note scribbled by Tinkletonkle Rattail not long after his Summoning.
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"I see you've finally taken my offer, Vendrick." A woman in all white arrived through his window. "Or should I say, Your Highness?"
His jaw tensed.
"Did anyone see you?"
She playfully laughed.
"No, of course they didn't, silly."
The King was still frustrated after today's events near the central section of the Capital. Only one elf had been too wounded to be revived. Yet one was still too many.
Attacks like this weren't anything new. Being directly at a Chosen One within the Capital with civilians around?
That was different.
Advisors and royal keepers addressed the media and encouraged the King to do the same, but he felt ill. A healing spell powerful enough to regenerate limbs entirely, restore the wounded's blood, and heal every scar, scrape, and mutilation, all while easing their pain? It took a toll on the caster's body, but he must not show it.
The King must not show weakness, especially in these times.
"Not going to say anything?"
Her hands were on her hips, leaning forward, revealing herself to him.
"You know why you're here."
He sank further into the bath within his private quarters.
She rolled her eyes.
"Fine, just pretend I never said anything."
He let out a deep exhale. Moments later, hands were around his neck, tracing down his muscular chest.
"Hello, darling."
A soft kiss brushed his neck.
That voice.
He closed his eyes; he didn't want to open them. Seeing her may be too much.
"Sol…"
"I heard what you did today, saving all those people."
She lathered the King with a moist towelette. Touching him in places she knew to be pleasurable.
His jaw worked; he was trying hard to focus. To make this his reality. It had been so long. He hadn't seen her in solong.
His eyes opened as he leaned his head back. His wife, who had been with him for nearly a millennium, was standing over him. Her short curly hair, dimples, and… he closed his eyes again. It was too much.
"Is everything alright, dear?" Sol whispered in his ear. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"
She continued to trace her hands further, and he leaned into her touch. He missed her delicate fingers.
"Yes, Sol, everything is fine."
An image of his daughter standing in front of the new Chosen One popped into his mind, and he felt frustrated all over again. Then, the image of the Chosen One doing the same as his daughter had aggravated him further. Yet, the twenty-fifth was the one who gave him this idea.
"As you say."
Sol continued to clean his body. Rubbing the cloth over the pristine and muscular skin. His hair was fine, platinum blonde, and straight as Elise's.
"Do you ever feel… worthless, Sol?"
The King asked a particularly vulnerable question. This was the first time he had asked her something like this, and it made her place the towel on the rim of the golden tub and think.
"Not with you, my dear."
The King tensed.
"She wouldn't have said that."
"Oh… what would she have said?"
"She'd tell me to stop being such a baby." He laughed. "She was always pushing me to better myself."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning into him. Her hair drifted in front of him, and he could smell her: vanilla and redberry—an intoxicating combination.
His reality was unfolding toward a destination he had thought impossible.
"Sol…?"
Her voice was muffled against his neck.
"Yes, dear?"
"What if I betrayed you, disowned you, then told you never to return?"
The King's voice was near its breaking point.
Sol leaned up and thought for a moment.
"I would probably resent you."
"What if she's a failure to the Sylvian name?"
Sol pieced together the conversation.
"It doesn't matter who harms who first; it matters who stops the cycle of hurt."
"Are you saying my daughter defending the Chosen One has some greater purpose for me?"
"Perhaps." She paused, tracing a hand over his pectorals. "I wouldn't be here if not for her actions." She kissed him. "Or perhaps it has nothing to do with you, my love."
The loss of a loved one is never easy to process. It is either buried, ignored, or all-encompassing. All three never come within absolute realization of the situation.
For some, the event will be nothing but another Tuesday afternoon. A minor inconvenience. A bad weekend. The memory is buried.
The recollection of the loss only comes up as brief conversations between those who know and those who don't.
For others, it is a lifelong struggle where every day is counted, remembering their loss. Instead of the memory fading, it grows stronger. The simple act of existing is more painful without their presence.
For Vendrick. King Sylvian. It was the latter.
But now she was here. She held him dearly; he could smell her. Feel her. Every detail was exactly how he remembered it.
The lurking disarray that he had to bury, day after day, had faded. Even if it was brief, he cherished this moment.
The fact that this was no longer his reality had been placed away. He reveled in the lie of the situation.
Their lips met. She even kissed like her. How she managed to do so, he didn't know.
And he didn't care.
They pulled away from one another, and the King stood and stepped out of the bath. He could cast a spell to dry himself instantly, but preferred it when others did the task.
"Come. To bed with me."
He commanded the vestige of his wife, but she knew she could refuse if she wanted.
"Anything for you, my love."