Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 47

When the setting sun colored the marble walls a flaming red, the lush gardens below the balcony deepened to a forest green and a lonely breeze ruffled the papers strewn across his desk, Sir Ellanher Marches, Royal Sorcerer of Midaelia, and the youngest one to ever occupy the post at that, decided this was indeed the perfect evening to fetch the finest Velan wine from the cupboard, and sulk in silence pondering over his failed love life.

Others-- who were obviously not pleased by his prosperity and definitely envied his riches would pretend to care for him by saying he was dramatic, that he held onto misery for too long and should 'get over it'.

But others had not had the misfortune of being hopelessly in love with a brilliant alchemist during all his years at the academy. Yet how were his feelings returned? The alchemist, clearly too absorbed in his work for trivial things such as romance, answered Marches' invitation to a royal dinner by ignoring the letter and disappearing from the academy without a trace.

For four years.

Come next Spring Fest, it would be five.

Marches still had not recovered from the soul-racking blow to his self esteem. And of his cherished feelings there was left nothing but resentment, or so he thought.

Get over it? As though just any other man or woman would fill the void left in his soul, as though any other would possess such bewitching brilliance!

Down poured the tyrian drink into an etched goblet, and the sorcerer took a long, tragic sip; one step away from becoming such a handsome embodiment of what unrequited love did to tortured souls, the angels carved into the marble walls of Lord Rhilio's temple would envy.

Letting his white hood fall off his head and onto his shoulders, he loosened the gold brooch clasping his cloak.

His eyes lingered on the glittering piece of ornament, a bitter memory awakening at its sight.

Perhaps he'd been overconfident, thinking he could win the alchemist's heart with just a gift.

Yet Marches' mind had been made ever since he'd laid eyes upon the ruby brooch during his visit to Drisia in one of the meetings with the Council. Such a flawless jewel, mined from the farthest reaches of the caves deep in the Drakhall mountains, who else should it have adorned, if not the soon-to-be lover of a Royal Sorcerer no less?

Soon-to-be.

A sad smile spread across his lips. Overconfident indeed.

He leaned back in his lush, gilded chair not unlike a throne-- one that he was glad to occupy, thank you very much. Colorful words such as vain or snob which naysayers might hurl toward him rolled off like raindrops from fresh leaves. This comfort was the least the world owed him after putting his heart through such pain.

This office set on the ground floor of his tower was his safe haven. With a sigh, he felt the day's exhaustion slowly easing off from his tense shoulders. Ah, sweet tranquility.

But his reverie broke then, as the doors to his tower banged open.

Startled, he sat bolt upright and the wine spilled across his papers, and worse-- his priceless silk robes.

"By the Gods, it was actually them! Captain Walric and the Silverhaart Warriors, in the flesh. They ordered a thousand blades from Kilford! Just got the news,” cried his uninvited guest.

Rhilio have mercy on me.

He brought his hands together, taking a deep breath to steady himself after this abrupt interruption.