Page 36 of His King Enslaved

Somehow, he got one foot in front of the other, out of the apartment, down the halls, around the corners, and into his own apartment, until he fell face-first onto the large, empty bed.

He was a fool. Here he was, pining over a clever, gentle, beautiful man, selfishly wallowing and despairing, leaving his Flower to wonder if their children would be safe. And Ardor was right to wonder. This was no longer about Sindar’s infatuation with a man who had no choice. This was about protecting their children. All four of them, goddess willing.

Sindar of Kysan had to be better than this. He knew that. He’d sworn he would be. But now it was different. A new conviction rose from the shattered remains of his heart.

He would be.

He must.

The lives of his future family depended on it.

* * *

WHEN AMBANI ARRIVED the next morning, she was pleased to find the king fully dressed and standing in front of the mirror, rehearsing a speech to the trade guild. Sindar dragged his heavy heart throughout the day’s royal duties, and the next, and the next.

At night, he flopped onto his bed face-first and cried into the sheets.

He was going to die.

Even Bani did not truly understand how deeply love’s hooks had buried into his flesh. Nobody could understand. All he needed was a word from his Flower, and he would be sated. Only a word. A single word! Until then, he wouldn’t be able to think, let alone govern a kingdom.

By the fourth morning, as he lay blinking up at the ceiling in the early dawn, he said, “A word,” into the empty bedroom. He went to the desk, scrounged for paper, found it, and sat.

Sindar could not remember the last time he’d written a personal letter. He stared at the page and placed a pen to the paper, but immediately drew it back. What could he possibly say to the most perfect man on earth? Ardor deserved the sweetest poetry, and he was no poet. He deserved the finest songs, and Sindar was no musician either.

Sindar was still mired in uncertainty when Ambani arrived, and he panicked. He hastily wrote, “How are you?” and was immediately disgusted by his own wretched banality. But that was it. That was all he had, all he was capable of. It was like that first meeting in the hall all over again.

He folded the sheet, grimly stamped it with the royal seal as if he were signing his own death warrant, and sent it on its way. As soon as it left his hand, a weight lifted. He allowed Ambani to dress him and somehow kept up with her steady string of instructions about the day’s events.

Would Ardor write back? He was angry, and rightly so. What if he ignored the letter entirely? What if he refused even distant contact? The gnawing in Sindar’s heart was replaced with a different sort of agony as he waited, and when a guard arrived midday with an envelope, he all but jumped to take it.

Your Majesty,

I am well, as is our daughter.

How are you?

A

Daughter. They were having a baby girl. A precious baby girl!

Sindar pressed the letter to his face, inhaling a hint of Ardor’s fragrance, and nearly died on the spot. He had a lifeline. Letters. He could write letters to his beloved, and his beloved would write back.

And so he did.

Tell me about our baby. How do you know she is a girl? What else do you know?

Waiting was once again agony, but a reply came before nightfall.

She is not a girl yet, but I can sense her potentiality in the womb, which is a strange feeling. It’s one thing to read about, and another to experience. She will look like you. She will be healthy and have no hereditary conditions. All is as it should be.

It was too late to send a reply, as his Flower surely needed rest, so Sindar lay awake in bed, repeating each sentence, absorbing it. Their daughter would look like him, but not Ardor. It had been that way with Xandar and himself. They were the spitting image of their father, and had not inherited his mother’s soft, unearthly beauty. That made him oddly melancholy. He’d finally accepted he would outlive the man he loved. He’d hoped to see Ardor in their children. Something about it nagged at him. It seemed the genetic rules for Flowers were different. Ardor did not look Pavarian. He was exotic, even among his own people.

Sindar woke early before dawn, and was feverishly scribbling a note when Ambani arrived. He shooed her away and rewrote it again and again until he was satisfied with his foul handwriting and promptly sent it on its way.

I wish I could see you in her. Will our Flower child look like you?

The reply was a long time coming. So long Sindar worried he’d inadvertently insulted his mate. But in the late afternoon, he received his response, and immediately understood the wait.