Vanilla

Kings, Dancing in the Dark

A/N: To all my lovely Beans, Stars and Bakers, happy valentine's day. It's been nearly eight years since I've typed my first word here on Wattpad, and yet again this year, I spend it locked away in my ivory tower. The mind indulges in a world that doesn't exist. Romance is an interesting subject. It is at such a point in my life that I realize how apart of it I am from the very thing I write about. 

Still. 

Enjoy.

___________________

Prince Leroy,

     I've only ever written political letters to subjects residing in the embassies of other kingfoms. This would be my first attempt at a sentimental (or not) letter and I'm still not entirely sure what should go into this. For starters, I'd read several examples of historical letters sent in the past but they all seemed to involve some form of 'missing' the other.

     I must make this clear: I do not miss you. Neither do I wish to meet you any time sooner than five years later, should you still be alive (a mere possibility, considering the nature of your kingdom).

     Should you be curious, I've sent along with his letter a photograph of my training grounds. Having given your words some consideration, I have decided to take my combat lessons a little more seriously. Perhaps in some near future, we would duel on the top of a hill, at the setting of the sun, in the midsummer breeze.

Signed,

Vanilla Julian White

___________________

It was in the raging heat of August that the southern kingdom of fire and blades dispatched a group of informants on an intel mission to the north, riding through the tropics and cutting through forest and hills and mountainous regions rising above birch and pine and into the clouds above till they arrived at the peak of an arctic tundra—sheets of ice and the pale, silken nature of snow cloaking the land in a gentle hush.

The winds were still upon their arrival, quite as though the coldest of all biomes, having hindered the growth of trees and other greens of flowering nature, was now eager to welcome the only other spark of life that could, for all intents and purposes, warm the very tips of its fingers.

King Julian of the north had so graciously arranged for a pleasant reception to welcome even the informants of a rival kingdom but had, due to political and public reasons, restricted the matter to one of a smaller scale. Informants were, after all, usually sent for private and investigative reasons and therefore necessitated the exercise of restraint.

Vaughn Alekseyev, royal tutor to the once bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Prince Julian and current first advisor to the now grown-up, refined version of the latter, had been waiting at the front gates of the palace for more then fifteen minutes. Having checked his watch at least five times in the past two minutes and glanced over his shoulder to ensure the rest of the reception remained in their exact positions without a single strand of hair out of place, the advisor could not help but entertain the thought of cancelling the entire welcome ceremony.