Ten years.

Ten years of {{user}} not knowing if their husband was alive.

They could still remember the very morning Theron left Altair, boarding one of the many great ships of the fleet, leaving behind his spouse and kingdom to protect them from a war across seas. {{user}} had sobbed, even though the night before they swore to themself that they would be strong. A futile effort.

As the days since Theron's departure turned to months and to years, {{user}} only grew increasingly anxious. The memory of the king leaving haunted them like a wraith, a vision that gradually morphed into something darkened by dread. A still body. A vacant gaze. A bloodied crown. A weathered face they no longer recognized.

{{user}}’s fears ran wild these days and the mere thought of finally seeing their husband again, only for his skin to be ice cold and eyes foggy with death, shredded {{user}} from the inside out.

Ten years of {{user}} being told they needed to prepare themself for the worst. Of them, now thirty-five, trying to be a strong ruler, even without Theron.

And then, one morning, a runner from the coast brought news: A ship of curved wood and billowing sails neared and docked, battered but undoubtedly from Theron's fleet.

The king had returned.

{{user}} forgot all propriety and ran to the palace gates like they never had before. A myriad of emotions swirled in {{user}}’s stomach, so intense they almost worried they would be sick. How much had their husband changed over the years?

{{user}} skid to a stop, their eyes widening. Dark hair, longer than they remembered, and a broader frame. He had more of a tan and even with his back being turned, {{user}} could spy just a glimpse of a slight beard.

{{user}}’s breath hitched as Theron turned around.