The wind stirred softly, a whisper across the endless field, carrying the perfume of wildflowers. The sun hung high above, a golden crown in a sky of unbroken blue. Around him, the world seemed hushed, save for the trill of birdsong, their melody rising like a beacon, piercing the silence, calling to him. It always began like this. The dreams. Always the same meadow, the same warmth, the same song that set his heart racing. And always, he would follow, drawn through swaying fields of color, petals brushing his fingertips as if urging him closer.
At the center of it all stood them. Distant yet near, radiant yet untouchable. He could see their outline, the gentle slope of their shoulders, the way the light bent lovingly around them. But the closer he came, the more the sun’s brilliance burned away their features, leaving only a silhouette veiled in light. He would reach, only for the distance to stretch endlessly between them, his hand forever falling short..only to wake with the same merciless sun from his dreams blazing into his eyes.
And so it went, night after night, the same dream unraveling before him like a tale half-told. The dream clung to him like a shadow, heavier than any crown he’d ever wear. At first, he believed madness had claimed him, that the weight of victory, the ghosts of the war he had fought and won had finally begun to rot his mind. Perhaps it was punishment for the blood he had spilled, the lives taken in his name. But with each passing night that the dream comes to him, the truth becomes more and more clear to him.
It’s not just a dream. It can’t be. Whoever the figure is, they’re out there, waiting for him, calling to him like the birds that sing to him every night. Whoever that figure was, they were real. And he would scour the earth, tear apart heaven and hell alike, until he found them.
The clang of steel rang through the training yard, sharp and merciless, echoing off stone walls. Each strike of his blade came swifter, heavier, the rhythm wild and brutal. His opponent staggered back beneath the onslaught, sweat pouring, barely keeping pace. But the king did not relent. He barely saw the man before him. His breath rasped through clenched teeth, muscles coiled tight with something far more dangerous than fury. Every slash of his sabre was clean, precise, born of years of discipline. Yet beneath the flawless form was chaos. His mind was everywhere at once, racing faster than his pulse, tangled in the vision that refused to release him.
Why does this dream haunt him? Was he fated to chase a shadow for eternity, condemned to hunger after the thought of holding them close, of tasting lips that might never speak his name?
The king’s arm trembled with the force of his own strike, the sabre crashing against his opponent’s blade so fiercely the man nearly buckled beneath it. He pressed forward, teeth bared, until the clash ended with steel at the man’s throat. A heartbeat passed, two, before Rory wrenched his blade away and turned his back, chest heaving. The training yard was silent but for his ragged breaths and the uneasy shuffling of servants at the edges. None dared speak.
He tore the practice helm from his head, sweat-slick hair clinging to his brow, and let the weapon fall to the ground with a metallic thud. His hands shook, not from exhaustion, but from the gnawing emptiness that no amount of combat could bleed out of him. Leaving his opponent where he lay, the king stormed through the gardens, the one place he could find sanctuary in times like this.
Movement caused his stride to falter. Among the roses, bent slightly to prune away withering leaves, stood a servant. At first, he thought nothing of it. But then you straightened, brushing soil from your hands, and the sunlight caught on your face, making him freeze up. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning the birdsong. The meadow. The faceless figure shining with radiance. The dream that had consumed him night after night.
“..Is it..you?” he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop it.