Page 8 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

I trace a drawing of Pikr’s handsome, chiseled face. The lines between his white and black patches are smudged from years of admiration under my fingertips, and I wonder if they would be soft to the touch in reality, or if they’d be as hard as the muscles I felt on his back when he paraded me through Dimword.

The memory of his touch makes my eyes squeeze shut. The pain of his shoulder jabbing my navel, the bristle of his calloused hands on my sensitive, exposed flesh. Pikr will receive no more of my soul-lilies. My heart aches at the thought of releasing the century-long crush I’ve held so tightly, but there is a time to nurture dreams, and a time to snip the buds.

Chapter Six

Pikquarrys

A full day has passed since my improper moment in the woods with Princess Loreleivnna. I’ve managed to avoid seeing my best friend or his daughter so far, but my thoughts are a different matter.

My mind is a tangled wood filled with thoughts of her. Some are memories, and some are fantasy. All melt together until it’s hard to see what’s right in front of me, and I trip over my own hooves, right into the burning heat of the crucible.

This morning, my luck ran out. King Vyrion sent for me, and even I cannot refuse His Majesty’s call. After fifty-five years apart, I’m excited to see my friend, of course, but I can’t help feeling I don’t deserve to be in his presence, especially knowing the jovial greeting that awaits me.

The palace gates part for me without assistance from the guards. I walk forward slowly, nodding at the guards, and pause to check the wear of the wrought iron gates. Like most of the palace, the gates are made of iron and living flora. They hold my enchantments flawlessly. I forged and enchanted this gate after the death of the willowisp tree whose branches had formed the previous one. Luna Wysteria spiritvines sprawl through the intricate iron swirls in a delicate weave. Fallen brown leaves of nearby blisteroak trees crunch underhoof.

Maintaining a slow pace, I delay the inevitable as long as possible. Eventually the palace’s verdant entry gardens give way, and my hooves clack on the cobbled stone of the modest courtyard. My gaze lingers on the memorial to the wise Nocturn Aevumdivus. The pathway parts around the water feature.

Vines twine around the ledge that circles the fountain, occasionally twisting up the stone surface to dip into the water. The living palace serves as a backdrop to the memorial. Branches boast plumes of colorful leaves so dense they’re like clouds of ochre, scarlet, and golden russet.

Proudly displayed in the center of the fountain is petrified wood from the first fallen Aevumoon Iris, carved to depict the tree it once was. Its age is lost to time, and very few of its siblings have fallen since. Some believe the petrified iris is one of the Wise Ones themselves, a stray that didn’t make it into the soil in time for the slumber.

The sight of the remnant reminds me of the conversation I shared with a female I’d thought to be a stranger inside of the Mossy Moon Tavern. A pretty young petal, far out of my league and technically below my station, teasing me about sex oil and moonlit frolics. Such flings have stayed far from my mind since leaving Svitaeryl to spellcarve in Ashfall Alley.

Perhaps the forge has aged me. Intercourse is a matter of maintenance. Moonlit frolics through fields of aphrodisiac pollen are for doe-eyed lovers Princess Loreleivnna’s age, not tired old blacksmiths who’ve lived over half their lives.

Still, I hope she doesn’t truly believe I require moondust oil to please a lover.

I grunt and stare into the crystalline water of the memorial. Reaching into my pack, I retrieve a lacrimae lily I’d gathered after my major mishap and Princess Loreleivnna’s hasty retreat. My chest pangs. The flower is so small and dainty in my palm, much like the female it belongs to. The shame of my mistake will haunt me for my remaining century.

Cupping the flower in my palms, I gently place it in the water. The ancient power instantly recognizes the tears of a beloved svitayl elf. Rings circulate the warm gold flower, its burgundy accents bleeding out until all that’s left is a puddle of diluted purple.

I’ll never forgive myself for making the poor lass cry. She’d sought affection from the wrong creature. In that moment, with her sweet scent surrounding me and her soft skin a balm on my calloused hands, I’d wanted so badly to give her what she wanted of me. It’s a relief I came to my senses before making a grave mistake.

“Pikquarrys!”

The King’s voice startles me, and I move quickly to hide the last drops of his daughter’s tears being absorbed by the fountain.

“Your Majesty.” I plunge into a clumsy bow.

“For petal’s sake, get up, you mad steed.” Vyrion laughs. “Done plucking about? The pleasure huts all tired of your mug?”

He yanks my forearm to pull me in for a hug, patting my back twice. It’s not the greeting of someone angry. I exhale in relief that my interaction with Princess Loreleivnna hasn’t been disclosed.

I lean into the warm embrace of my oldest friend, and the feeling that I’ve committed a dire sin sloughs from my shoulders, if briefly. “I’d hope not, for they haven’t seen it in half a century.”

“Then the spiritvines whisper truth. The last petal remains, and the message is he loves me not.” Vyrion gives me a playful shove. He grips my forearm, forcing me to bear the full brunt of his finger pointed in my face. “You’re avoiding me.”

I manage to hide my wince, but a surprised snort escapes me. I mask it with a grin and bat his finger away, breaking his hold on my arm. “Your vines tell tales as tall as Mount Ingensduum.”

Vyrion grunts, giving me a narrow-eyed stare that conveys his disbelief, but he turns toward the palace. “Come along, O Unplanted One.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

He snaps his fingers. “Snip that shitbud this instant. I’ve no patience for it today, Pikr.”

I chuckle. As the foal of a lowborn, the inclination to use titles is forged into my marrow, but it’s easier to let go of propriety with Vyrion.

We’ve known each other since I was a foal and he was a sapling on the cusp of princehood. My father was the blacksmith in Dimword, which was no bigger than a village back then. While learning the family trade, I’d accidentally enchanted a low-carbon steel sword to always deal deadly blows. A valuable enhancement wasted on a useless weapon, but it caught the attention of the king. The princeling accompanied his father to our humble forge, and while the grown-ups discussed my fate in hushed whispers, Prince Vyrion and I bonded over a game of vineball.