Then the crown had been placed on his head and everything began to change.
He had been an avid student of history and feared a repeat of the past if society rushed forward again, unchecked. He had been young and full of dreams of a united government. No race divisions, no ruler to oversee them all, just people striving to make the world better for the betterment of them all. He made it his life’s mission to change the elven way of life and make those dreams a reality.
Opposition was expected; just not as vicious as what he had encountered.
Humans had been able to adapt to every climate and danger thrown at them for thousands of years because they saw change as a way of life. Elves were the other side of that coin. They refused to change, even when survival depended on it, until it was either thrust upon them forcibly or no other action was available to them.
To say it was an uphill battle was like saying water was wet. It in no way described the hurdles he had been forced to make, or boulders of resistance he had to move. Elven culture was a stone block. In order to make a sculpture, you had to chip away at it over time. Each hit had to be calculated, the pressure managed perfectly. You had to know when to accept your losses or push for victory. He had made enemies; it was unfortunate but unavoidable, but he had also inspired people and drew their undying loyalty to him. Stone will eventually chip under a constant stream of water pressure.
Sooner or later, something had to give.
Isolationism was a thing of the past. They had to step back out into the world and take a stronger position in the events shaping it. Man was no longer the dominant race and being the elder one, they had the chance to lead by example. It had taken him forty years to build what he had, and it still wasn’t enough.
Sitting at his desk, going over the documents before him and reflecting on everything he had lost and gained, he couldn’t help but feel the task would never be complete; not in his lifetime. If he failed, it would never be tried again. Though elves lived centuries longer than Man, he wondered if even that would be enough time to make these changes permanent. Would the elves retreat once more when he was no longer there to bully them?
Sighing, he got to his feet and went to the window, taking in the night sky. It was too late to be brooding like this. It had been an exhausting day. Anyone that fought to be in his position had to be insane. The amount of work never seemed to end.
He ran his hand through his short black hair, the tip of his pointed ears extruding a bit, as he stepped into the moonlight. His gray had begun to show and when he forgot to shave, was even more apparent in his facial hair. Right now though, he was clean shaven and he preferred it that way. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark blue tunic and comfortable black pants. His light gray eyes searched the horizon as he took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves.
A cool breeze lit upon his skin, giving him a sense of revival. Shutting himself up in his study wasn’t doing him any good. He wanted to go to bed, to be embraced by his adoring wife, but something gnawed at the edge of his consciousness, refusing to let him relax. Looking to the moonlit horizon, he watched the clouds in the distance flash sporadically with concern. There was a storm coming. he felt it in his bones, and it was not of natural origins.
Acting on instinct, he had gone before the elven council that morning and requested the mustering of his armies. They wanted something substantial to act upon, not a hovering storm on the horizon. He had nothing to give but his gut feeling, which was rarely enough. Yet, in the end his wishes were granted simply because the people were uneasy and restless. It made the politicians look good in the eyes of their constitutes if it appeared they were doing something to quell their fears; even if they considered it a futile exercise. Horns were sounded and across the Elven Nation, word sent that his knights were to return home for a meeting of the Round Table.
Thoughts of his table, his reforged creation, made him smile. One of the few existing books of literature left to Man had been the everlasting inspiration of his life. The author of Le Morte d’Arthur was long dead, but his work lived on through him. The view of the world through the author’s eyes had always felt incomplete, but the essence of it felt true in his heart. As a young boy, he would read it repeatedly until he fell asleep from exhaustion, his mother’s loving hands placing it carefully on the nightstand for use on the following evening. He had tried to explain it to her once, but his words had failed him. He found it hard to describe the inner pull to those ancient writings, as if he had once lived through the stories themselves and witnessed them firsthand.
Inspired, he had created his own Knights of the Realm, making them swear an oath to uphold the virtues outlined so long ago, in a world forever lost. He had built himself a round table, where all could sit and be equal to one another. No one looked down on anyone and each had a voice in the choices made; democracy resurrected once more from the ashes of old and forged into a beacon of light for all.
They trained constantly, and when those that were deemed worthy were knighted, they were sent out to the distant lands to live by their oaths and come when called. Not many were gone at a time, but enough that their presence was no longer forgotten by those ruling what was left of the world. They had taken the first steps, but it was not enough, and he fully intended to push even further.
The papers he had been going through were proposals to the other races, plans for constructing a unified future. He had recently received input from his old friend Constantine, the human ruler of Lancaster, and felt heartened by his response. If things went as planned, a new castle would be built, one that was held by not one race, but by all. A new Round Table would be constructed, one where all the races could sit together and make plans for their future. It was a massive undertaking and would give meaning to his life. It would be his legacy and would forever cement their involvement in the world’s future.
Exhausted, he blew out the candles on his desk, and by firelight left his study to go to bed. Closing the door, he briefly let himself feel hopeful. He wanted so much to believe, to bask in the victories he had purchased with his own blood and sweat but couldn’t help but feel a small cloud of fear raining down upon every thought. It was the nagging feeling that life would never let him get what he wanted so easily. He worried that in the end, the price might be more than he was willing to pay; something more than his own life.
Yet, if it did come to that, he knew that he would; for those are the moments that defined who you were and who you would forever be remembered as.
II
“Well that went well,” Willow whispered with her head inclined towards his, her hand clasping his own and squeezing lightly.
He barely heard, her loving blue eyes swallowing his soul. She could’ve told him that he looked great in a pink gown and high heels and he would have been powerless to argue. Thank God that had never happened. The disturbing image stayed with him, as if emblazoned on his mind, and she eyed him curiously as he made a physical effort to shake it loose.
“Or not,” she finished with a depressed sigh. She withdrew her hand and he was startled from his thoughts by her quick retreat.
“Oh no, it was, really,” he stammered. “I just had a bad mental image in my head that I had to force out, sorry.” He was not much of a conversationalist, rarely talking to anyone but a few of his attendants now and then. Yet with her, it always seemed he said too much.
His heart was fluttering, and a wave of light-headiness hit.
Whipping her short blond hair about, she started to walk faster, pulling away so swiftly that it shocked and rooted him in place. She was so stunning in her dark blue dress that for a second, it was all he could do to stay on his feet and watch her leave.
Wait, she was leaving. “Not of you!” he protested, rushing to keep up.
She ignored him, eyes ahead, her chin uplifted in mock frustration. Things were always like this when she was around. Though she loved to tease, he could never really tell when she was serious or just making fun,
and this was obviously one of those times as he struggled to find the right thing to say and fix what he’d apparently just broke. He brought himself to a halt, made sure that they were alone, and admitted defeat. “It was of me wearing a dress and heels, ok? Are you happy?”
That brought a quick snort that was choked off as she came to an abrupt halt.
He stood there embarrassed; his face flushed.
She turned to face him, her sharp elven features exotic in the torchlight illuminating the hallway around them. The green amulet that hung between her breasts sparkled, and though it had been the gem that had caught his eye, her brows suddenly drew together accusingly, making it clear that she thought it was her cleavage pulling his attention instead. He hurriedly forced his gaze upwards, but stopped around her chin, refusing to look her in the eyes. If any more blood flooded his cheeks there’d be little left to fill his rampaging heart.
Her jaw had opened slightly in response to his words, and for a brief time he was so entranced he forgot what they were. Then it dawned on him. He smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders. He just couldn’t help himself when he was in her presence; he was hopelessly lost.
“Is this some human effort at a joke? Are your secret desires to cross-dress supposed to make me laugh?” she thundered, eyes drilling into him.
He was a loss for words; there wasn’t a recovery possible from a statement like that. What was he going to say, he was wearing a tiara too? Sighing, he remained still and waited for her to decide what to do with him.
She stepped closer, “so, let me get this straight. You were looking into my eyes and instead of listening to the love of your life, your fiancé, as she spoke to you, you were instead imagining yourself in full make up, wearing a pink cocktail dress, and probably some pinkish high heels to match?” One of her eyebrows rose as she slowly slid another small step his way. “If I had a brother, I might have been able to get you betrothed to him instead,” she snarled, then struck him lightly on the chest and flung herself about.
She marched away and though his legs felt like rubber, he stammered forward, mind racing to find a way to make things right. He silently wished for a fairy to fly in and reset the last few minutes of his life, but as his heart hammered in his chest, he realized there would be no reprieve. No fairy Godmother was going to undo this travesty of his own creation, and he was clearly not capable of fixing it himself. In addition, there weren’t any windows in this corridor either; otherwise he might have jumped out of one.
Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to slow his quickened pulse, but it refused to listen. He reached out and snatched her arm, swinging her around to face him. Their bodies slammed together, her face inches from his. “No, I was thinking you could say I’d look good in one and I’d believe you without question. You have that effect on me, and you know it.” He had finally been able to finally get it out, though it sounded breathy as he tried to get control of his firing nerve endings. He caught sight of the corners of her mouth, the look in her eyes, and thrust her away from him with sudden rage. “Are you laughing, seriously?”
Her giggling erupted without restraint. She raised her hand to cover her mouth as it rebelled against her efforts to force it down. She shook her head, her inability to speak due to the laughter erupting from her throat.
“No?” he interrogated, stunned.
“No,” Willow cried, tears leaking down her flushed cheeks. “Absolutely not.” The Elven Princess put her hand over her trembling lips and coughed. It didn’t help, as she broke into fresh peals of laughter, holding her stomach as she doubled over.
He felt a thin smile creep up on him, but he fought it down. She was laughing at him! How could he even think of joining in? Furious, he forced his way past, brushing off her arm as it came out to restrain him. “I can’t believe you,” he said over his shoulder but was cut short as her weight plowed into him from behind. He stumbled as her arms wrapped around his neck, her body drifting as she clung to his back. He nearly fell to his knees with the suddenness of it. It was a good thing she was light, or they’d both be on the ground nursing impact injuries.
“Need to lose some weight there, honey,” he mocked and got a playful slap on the shoulder in response. “Seriously, is your ass getting big or is it just me?” He reached around and patted her rump and she bit him in the ear—bit him.
“Be nice,” she purred, nose twitching upward, eyes narrowing. She lowered herself back down, then raised a hand to caress his cheek, but he refused allow it. “Oh, don’t be like that. I wasn’t laughing at you, Sweetie, I just couldn’t get the image of Princess Tristan out of my head,” she teased, giggles escaping as once again, she tried unsuccessfully to cough them away. “It was just too funny.”
He turned his head the other way and she brought up her other hand, forcing their eyes to meet once more. “I understand what you meant. It’s very sweet. I love you,” her voice purred, her begging eyes melting him instantly. Then she leaned forward and placed her lips on his, her hot breath warming his bottom lip.
Unable to fight any longer, he responded with fierce passion, one of his hands sliding to her mid-waist and pulling her closer. A hand stroked the hair at the back of his head, then yanked softly. Untethered lust began to rise, and all the blood left his face on its journey south.
She broke away, giving him a naughty grin at his body’s response, “not just yet, Lover Boy. I have a few dresses back in my room I want you to try on first.”
“You are never going to let me forget this, are you?” he responded with a heavy sigh, forcing his gaze away.
“Never,” she replied, grinning mischievously. She beckoned for him to follow and though he fought it, his will was weak. It was a battle he would never win; nor did he truly want to. He forced his feet forward and chased her down the hall to her awaiting chambers.
III
“When did he get here?” Erik asked, trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes. His aide Jarel was handing him a cup of coffee, which he accepted graciously; it was the least the man could do for waking him at the hour. Coffee was the one indulgence from the old days that he was grateful for, especially on early mornings like this.
“Not too long ago,” his High Magister responded. Revan had been waiting for him outside his chamber doors. The fact that he was awake and meeting him personally spoke volumes for the importance of his waking. They walked down a series of stairs to the ground floor and he was careful not to slosh the remnants of his coffee as they did so.
“You know that I was up late, so it’d best be important if you dare to wake me at this hour,” he commented dryly, voice filled with impatience. He couldn’t help being agitated; lack of sleep did that to a person.
The magister smirked and coolly replied, “would I have done so otherwise?”
Revan was the strongest druid in service to Forlorn, and as such had assumed the responsibility of maintaining order amongst the other magic users in the kingdom. While Erik dealt with politics and matters of the sword, Revan delved into the arcane; a world he could scarcely understand. Most elves were born with some form of innate magic, but the degree of control that Revan had shown was unheard of in their recent history. Not since the time of the Freedom War had one member of their race been so highly skilled in its use.
The magister was adorned in the brown robes of his order, his cowl pulled back, so his dark blue hair fell loose upon his shoulders. His features were hard, eyebrows arched, ears longer than others of their race and very prominent in his features. He was walking with a long staff with runes etched throughout, a large emerald fixed to the end. It was not a sign of the magister’s age, of which, Erik had never learned, but for use in the archaic arts he practiced.
The elf had come from one of their outlying settlements to the east as a young man and had quickly risen in the ranks of the magic community. Revan’s brown eyes bore into him, as if reading his every thought. It made him uneasy and the magister knew it.
“Yes, you would,” he sn
apped, trying to wipe the smile off the elf’s face. “Where is our guest?” By the Gods he was cranky.
“We gave him chambers in which to rest. He’s exhausted from his journey; his horse foaming at the mouth when he arrived. I have sent for food and wine, though I don’t expect he’ll be awake much longer to enjoy it.”
He smirked, “well, that’ll make one of us.”
“There’s word from the Scryers as well, but I’d prefer to relate their tidings after you talk to the messenger. It bears upon the subject at hand,” the druid stated firmly.
“Interviewed him already, did you?” the King inquired with a raised eyebrow.
Revan didn’t even glance his way, “of course. I would not wish to wake you if it were nothing more than a salutations or tribute from another monarch.”
He sighed deeply and felt his heart sink in his chest. “I take it it’s going to be a long day.”
“Of that Sire, you can be sure,” Revan stated as he opened the door to the guest chambers. He followed his king into the room, the door softly clicking shut behind them.
IV
Tristan stood on her balcony; his urges temporarily sated. His gaze returned to the night sky, and the fog that had spread over his mind was a welcomed ending to his day. The last hour had, as always, defied his belief or understanding. The fantasies of his childhood now seemed foolish in comparison. Though not their first, it still felt like it every time. He had only ever been with her and knew that she was all he would ever need. When they were joined together, he felt more complete than he could ever remember or imagine feeling in his life. When they were forced apart, he had the occasional doubt, but one look at her and he was reeled back in. There would never be any part of his life when he wouldn’t want her.
The torches on the streets below flickered, the distant battlements reflecting the soft moonlight and making the experience more serene. He had perfect moments like this before, and he was wary of them.
The New Age Saga Box Set Page 6