Acceptance #2
He was going to die.
Even Bani did not truly understand how deeply love’s hooks had buried into his flesh. Nobody could understand. All he needed was a word from his Flower, and he would be sated. Only a word. A single word! Until then, he wouldn’t be able to think, let alone govern a kingdom.
By the fourth morning, as he lay blinking up at the ceiling in the early dawn, he said, “A word,” into the empty bedroom. He went to the desk, scrounged for paper, found it, and sat.
Sindar could not remember the last time he’d written a personal letter.
He stared at the page and placed a pen to the paper, but immediately drew it back.
What could he possibly say to the most perfect man on earth?
Ardor deserved the sweetest poetry, and he was no poet.
He deserved the finest songs, and Sindar was no musician either.
Sindar was still mired in uncertainty when Ambani arrived, and he panicked. He hastily wrote, “How are you?” and was immediately disgusted by his own wretched banality. But that was it. That was all he had, all he was capable of. It was like that first meeting in the hall all over again.
He folded the sheet, grimly stamped it with the royal seal as if he were signing his own death warrant, and sent it on its way. As soon as it left his hand, a weight lifted. He allowed Ambani to dress him and somehow kept up with her steady string of instructions about the day’s events.
Would Ardor write back? He was angry, and rightly so.
What if he ignored the letter entirely? What if he refused even distant contact?
The gnawing in Sindar’s heart was replaced with a different sort of agony as he waited, and when a guard arrived midday with an envelope, he all but jumped to take it.
Your Majesty,
I am well, as is our daughter.
How are you?
A
Daughter. They were having a baby girl. A precious baby girl!
Sindar pressed the letter to his face, inhaling a hint of Ardor’s fragrance, and nearly died on the spot. He had a lifeline. Letters. He could write letters to his beloved, and his beloved would write back.
And so he did.
Tell me about our baby. How do you know she is a girl? What else do you know?
Waiting was once again agony, but a reply came before nightfall.
She is not a girl yet, but I can sense her potentiality in the womb, which is a strange feeling. It’s one thing to read about, and another to experience. She will look like you. She will be healthy and have no hereditary conditions. All is as it should be.
It was too late to send a reply, as his Flower surely needed rest, so Sindar lay awake in bed, repeating each sentence, absorbing it.
Their daughter would look like him, but not Ardor.
It had been that way with Xandar and himself.
They were the spitting image of their father, and had not inherited his mother’s soft, unearthly beauty.
That made him oddly melancholy. He’d finally accepted he would outlive the man he loved.
He’d hoped to see Ardor in their children.
Something about it nagged at him. It seemed the genetic rules for Flowers were different.
Ardor did not look Pavarian. He was exotic, even among his own people.
Sindar woke early before dawn, and was feverishly scribbling a note when Ambani arrived. He shooed her away and rewrote it again and again until he was satisfied with his foul handwriting and promptly sent it on its way.
I wish I could see you in her. Will our Flower child look like you?
The reply was a long time coming. So long Sindar worried he’d inadvertently insulted his mate. But in the late afternoon, he received his response, and immediately understood the wait.
My father wanted to prove he could birth the most beautiful Flower of an age, and he made me unique on purpose.
Growing up, I looked quite different from my siblings and parents.
It was often difficult and isolating, but in hindsight, the experience prepared me for the solitary life of a Flower.
I have mixed feelings about how my descendants should look.
Will it be easier if they bear a familial resemblance to their siblings, or will it be best in the long run if they are visually distinct?
I don’t know the answer, but fortunately, I have several years to consider it.
Sindar’s chest ached, and he pressed the letter against his chest.
When Ardor said they were strangers, he was right.
Whatever intimacies they shared in the marriage bed did not extend to knowing his mate’s soul or mind.
But this… this was something he understood well.
Familial resemblance had shaped his life and personality.
It drove his destiny now. For years, he’d despised sharing his brother’s face and rued not having one of his own.
He came to think of it as Xandar’s face.
Xandar was born first. Sindar was an imitation. A shoddy copy. A second-rate spare.
Whenever a girl called him handsome, he automatically thought, She considers Xandar handsome. His face felt like a mask and was never truly his own. His face had ruined his life, but it was also the reason he met Ardor. Without it, he wouldn’t be here right now.
The desperate need to hear from Ardor as quickly as possible faded as Sindar acclimated to putting his thoughts into words. Letter-writing forced him to slow down and absorb what Ardor was saying. He held the letter to his chest as he slept, and when he woke, he was ready to reply.
He longed to confide in Ardor about the difficulties of a shared face, but it was too risky to put such things in writing. Instead, he wrote:
I want all our children to feel as though they are part of the same family, but I hope they all have some claim to uniqueness. I want them to be comfortable in their identities.
Was his phrasing too vague? He couldn’t risk being more specific. A letter could easily be intercepted and read, and a lot was on the line.
Sindar shouldn’t have wondered if a man as intelligent and empathetic as Ardor would understand. His Flower’s response was prompt, delivered before lunch.
Each will likely feature a distinct part of you while having their own claim to Kysanian beauty. Your warm eyes for one, your fine nose for another. I hope they will one day unite Kysan, so that the past does not repeat.
As usual, Ardor understood perfectly.