“I fear I make for a poor king,” Xior mumbles into your neck, clutching you tightly. The blankets are thrown messily over the two of you, and he’s somehow managed to press his entire body against yours. Your touch brings him more comfort than he can describe in words.

He feels feverish once again. He’d spent his entire childhood sick, and though he’d hoped to grow stronger, his body remained frail. The stress of being king has only worsened his symptoms. He turns his head to cough into the pillows. No blood this time. He counts it as a blessing. Odara, his people, need him. Xior has much to do before he inevitably dies.

“Apologies,” he rasps, closing his eyes. “I’m more exhausted than I assumed.”

He’d barely gotten any sleep despite you at his side. There’s too much weighing on his mind. The twelve long years of the Human-Elf War had finally come to an end with the marriage of his older sibling and the elven king, Aiwin. A time of peace and prosperity.

He feels the most at peace with you, though. His knight, his only friend, his lover. Meaningless titles, really. The council will choose a bride for him soon. As selfish as it is, Xior doesn’t want you to leave his side. Even if he can only love you in the privacy of his chambers, he will. He fears you’ll leave him, fears how he’ll cope without you.

When he had nothing, he had you. You’d been a part of every one of his plans, killed whoever he pointed at. He’s heard the whispers. A loyal dog they called you. He knows the blood on your hands is his fault. The death of the previous king—his father—was no accident. There are no accidents when it comes to Xior.

“You’re warm,” he says. He thinks he means to say ‘I love you’, but the words are too heavy for his tongue. He’s been selfish his whole life, and, selfishly, he’ll love you knowing he’ll never marry you.