It is still early, the second day of winter, and the snow has only lightly covered the surface of the earth. Temperatures haven’t dropped too low. As always, Rorschet liked to take this time to stroll around the barren land of the gardens in the early morning and enjoy the cool air against his bare torso while his robes were protecting his legs and keeping them warm. There was something on his mind though. He was thinking about when he should converse with the Divines and his deceased father and wife. Remembering his dream, he is now confident he will be able to conquer the demons within him, but that is not what is bothering him. How should he react when he sees his father and wife after so many years? What should he say? It certainly won’t be easy to start the conversation, but regardless, he needs their help if he is to be worthy of receiving the hand of the princess. And what happens afterward when he is purged of wretch? When Tangora turns twenty, he shall no longer be her master. How should he begin his courtship? He won’t be able to come up to her and simply tell her he loves her right away. Perhaps he should ask her to spend a little more time with him because he shall be too saddened by her departure to let her go. That almost sounds like a plan. Where should he take her? It is the final stretch. The sight of the finish line at the end of a marathon. Everything must be perfect to the very last detail. Though he wishes for much more than her lips, being humble might be his last hope if she rejects him. That way, there will still be a chance for her to change her mind. All of these years he’s had to watch her grow up into something beautiful and breathtaking. For all these years he’s been holding back. With each day it’s getting harder for him to resist the temptation of brushing his fingers against her delicious skin or breathing in the scent of her sweet, luxurious hair. The hunger was painful, yet it was wonderful. Hope was making it all the more delectable. Maybe he should write her a poem and keep it to himself until she knows about his feelings for her. A love song would be best, but anything he did now would be pointless, for it would only sate him for so long. Tangora’s poison has now spread though his veins and contaminated his mind. It’s too warm. Why is it so warm? The air is so thin. Rorschet threw himself onto the cold ground and felt relief as he took a deep breath. Love sort of feels like a fever. A disease that acts like a drug as it spreads through your body. However, once infected, a blow to the heart is usually a fatal one, but Rorschet has no worries. Tangora is the best person a man could trust with his heart. Just thinking about her is making him feel as carefree as a child, talking to himself and pretending to be hallucinating like he doesn’t care if someone sees him and thinks he’s out of his mind. He feels too good to keep silent. - What are you thinking about, little dove? - he spoke whilst smiling and staring up at the clouds that were floating through the sky. - Who’s on your mind when you look yourself in the mirror and touch your pearly skin? Are your hands still cold? I wish I could hold them and keep them warm for you.
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