For You (manxman)

Rightfully

In the past, he cursed his fortune.

He was a fool. He partook in a fantasy. A romance that he had wished would survive time and avoid the staleness of skinship it will bring.

They'd hide behind pillars, sneaking in kisses and greedy touches.

Stay in bed longer to reacquaint themselves.

And whisper words of affection when no one is around.

He was a fool. He had let himself be swept. His words sounded like a promise. It made him more than content. He was thoroughly satisfied that he has forgotten everything else around him. He held on to it too tightly, bruising and choking him to ecstasy. He believed that that man was the only person who could ever bring him happiness.

He did not know back then that promises were meant to be broken.

He told him that he would stay by his side forever.

"I can no longer be with you."

He told him how he treasured their moments together.

"I've wasted enough time with this whimsical charade of yours."

He told him that nothing else matters.

"You own the smallest portion of land with not much bounty in the soil."

With the mouth he uses to kiss him, he told him that it was only him that he loved.

"I no longer wish your company. I am betrothed to someone that I know I will have a future with."

He cried, he begged with pathetic tears. He prayed to the gods that let this be a dream, a terrible dream that he wants to wake up from. Let it just be an illusion of his fears.

They did wake him.

His prayers were answered.

All this time it had been a dream, and the deities woke him to face a nightmare.

Five years ago, the love of his life married a woman of rank with land that extended far more than his, its soil abundant of fresh harvest, a plethora of coin that can purchase more than two castles, and a title that makes you more noticeable in court.

He was ashamed of his name, and everything it brought. He shunned the luxury he had over others.

He had wallowed in misery. Let him sleep again. Have that wonderful dream that he was still cherished. Embraced in faux affection. He closes his eyes. It's dark, no one is here. Nothing but emptiness. Was he shrouded in lies all this time? If it is true, then there is no place he can call a haven for himself.

He opens his eyes.

"Quentin, come here."

The arms clutching him is firm and secure, locking him in a suffocating, yet not unwelcome, embrace.

But he remembers.

It dawns upon him that this could be another horrific dream, but he couldn't bring himself to move away, not when it envelopes him protectively like a charm.

It is as he feared. He is still a fool.

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Soldiers often find the comfort from war in the bottom of their cups or the bed they share with their partner. He found no such source from both. The dull blade in his hand was. But it never lasted, every weapon didn't. Fight after fight, the swords he held shattered into pieces, like the hope of a warrior about to face an opponent far better than he is. It is at that time it shifts, his comfort now lies in the hands of the enemy, sharp and deadly, most importantly, it is his for the taking.