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“Ockard,” he replies, holding out an overly large hand. His fingers are covered in tattoos and silver rings. His wrists are bound in leather and other metals that must have been expensive. The sides of his head are shaved, and the rest of his long hair is tossed in a high bun that oddly works for him.
“TheOckard who owns this establishment?” I meet his hand with my own, giving it a friendly shake.
Another typical gesture I do not get to do.
He tosses his head back, his laughter an echoing bellow through the tavern. His hand lands on his belly.
I readjust on the hard, uncomfortable stool, flushing with embarrassment. I sip my wine, telling myself to be quiet. I do not want to be the laughingstock in the tavern. That is the last thing I need.
“I don’t think anyone has thought of me as ‘the’ anything. It feels nice.” He places his elbows on the bar, leaning in. “But yes, I own this tavern. I am proud of it. I look forward to coming here every day, but today, I didn’t think I would see the Ice Elven Prince or speak to him for that matter.”
His forearms are riddled with scars as if he has seen and been in battle.
I am curious and want to ask him about his life, but I refrain. He is not my business.
The patrons roar again, and I almost spill my wine as I look toward the wall. The two elves whom I spoke with outside are seated at a table, eyes on the match, and I am envious of their freedom. They are able to do as they please and one would think I would be able to as well because I am royalty.
Yet freedom does not apply to me. I have to always be on my best behavior, and watch what I do and say, or it will be used against me.
The teams playing might as well be new to me because I have not kept up with the sport in centuries. Eight players are on either team. The Froster is the muscle and there are typically two on either team. They play on rocky terrain, covered in snow and ice with obstacles like freezing water and dangerous creatures. The field is always different, never the same one twice.
On either side, at the end of the field, are Shivers, members of the team that protect the goals. The goals are made up of four elements.
Earth. Wind. Fire. Water.
One goal is made of a tree, a small slit in the middle for the crystal disc that the team is so possessive of. If the disc is thrown successfully in the opening, the team gets a point. Shivers are able to protect their posts with shivs, a deadly sharp object made of ice.
Killing is illegal in the game, but you can maim if someone gets close enough.
The other goal is a wind tunnel, it is hard to see, fast, and constantly moving. Next is fire, a small opening left in the middle of the ring and with every shot missed, the fire will grow. Lastly, there is water. Magic keeps the water flowing like a waterfall but every few moments, there is a small break for the disc.
The rules are simple. Get the crystal discs in each element and the team wins, other than that, the only rule to follow is there can be no killing or a wound that can end up being deadly.
“You drank that fast.”
I stare into my empty glass, handing it to Ockard. “It is delicious wine.”
He pours me another. The red liquid spills over the rim and onto the bar, soaking into the wood.
“You should be proud of this place. It is a pleasant change of pace compared to my every day. Thank you for allowing me here.”
“Thank you for coming.” He wipes down the bar top, his eyes lock onto my hands, noticing the flames on one and snowflakes on the other. “Where are your mates? Surely, they wouldn’t leave you alone. I hear dragons are protective.” He tosses the dirty rag over his shoulder.
A short chuff escapes me right before I take another drink of the sweet, smooth wine with flavors of marigold flower and velvelore berries, a rare berry that grows under the snow on top of the mountains of Elementalu.
“That is a story for another day, my friend,” I tell him, downing the glass of wine a little too fast at the thought of Dovenyx.
The constant burn on my soul.
“Understood.” He pours me another glass. “I’ll have to stop you here, Prince. This wine is strong. You might have had too much already.”
I lift a shoulder and shrug. “Not like anyone would care anyway.” My lips are loose and slightly numb. I cannot believe I just said that. “Do not mind me. It has been a long day.”
“I don’t know much about being mated,” he begins to explain, grabbing the bottle of wine and walking around the bar to take a seat next to me. The stool groans under his weight. “I imagine it is not easy, even if it is given to us by Fate.”
“It is not,” I agree.
“But good things take time for them to be what they are meant to be. Do not give up yet. You can’t expect love in a few days when he has hated you for centuries.”
