Alone
by Sauron Gorthaur
Bog hated this time of year.
The season of love.
Spring.
The damp chill burrowed its way down beneath his scales, impossible to escape, and the odors of rain and damp wood and a thousand growing things irritated his persnickety sense of smell. When the breeze was just right, sometimes he'd even catch a sickly sweet whiff of primroses.
He hated it. He hated all of it. But what he hated most was how Spring reminded him that he was alone and always would be.
He pressed his face down into his milkweed-silk pillow, curled on his side in his nest with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to fall asleep as the night wore on. Insects chirred outside his castle walls. But loneliness ate away at the heart of the goblin king.
His ban on love kept public displays of affection at a minimum, but he knew that goblin couples continued to pursue their romances out of his sight. Not even fear of their king could kill off the sweet promises that drifted in with the whispers of Spring. Spring was the perfect time of year for it, after all. New life was burgeoning everywhere and love was in the air. It sang through the blood of every creature in the Dark Forest, filling them with yearning and tender thoughts and sweetest hope. Even if he could limit its sickening outward spectacle, Bog knew that love was not something he could ever truly ban or destroy.
He could not even destroy it in his own blood.
He was always aware of his loneliness, but never more than during the Spring.
He dug his claws viciously into the thick bed of moss that lined his nest, snarling into his pillow, but there was nothing he could do to ease the ache of his heart. Nothing he could do to stave off the damp chill of the air creeping under his scales and to know with full certainty that there would never be anyone to cuddle against to keep away the cold. Nothing he could do to forget that he was too hideous to love.
He ranted in front of his subjects about how much he loathed the very idea of love, how it crept into your heart like the Spring damp and rotted everything it touched. He snarled and growled at his mother when she insisted on humiliating him in front of girl after girl after girl who only looked twice at him because he came with a throne. He pretended as if he couldn't care less when she prattled on about finding someone who would make him happy.
The truth was that he cared very, very much.
As a young goblin, he'd just assumed that one day he'd have a mate. When he'd gotten old enough to get past the idea that love was icky, he'd daydreamed fondly of the time when he'd find a beautiful, fierce goblin girl to call his own. He'd assumed he would have someone special to hold and bite and kiss, someone who would make him happy and to whom he'd bring joy and pleasure in return, someone he would have children with. He'd loved the idea of being a husband, a father to little goblin princes and princesses, a king with a queen at his side.
Then That Fateful Day had happened, and Bog's dreams had shattered with his heart.
He was too hideous to love. He had done something too terrible for anyone to trust and desire him now. He was a monster that no one could ever wish to sleep beside.
Spring reminded him of That Fateful Day. Spring reminded him of the jagged shards of shame and guilt lodged in his broken heart. Spring reminded him that there was never going to be anyone for him to hold in his arms and ease the unceasing ache in his chest.
Knowing that he could never have such a future did nothing to stop the fact that he wanted someone to love so badly that it made him want to tear out his own heart and fling it into the mud to sink forever and never torment him again.
He hated how badly he wanted love.
He snarled again, shoving his face down into the pillow as if he could suffocate his feelings and the inconsolable ache of his heart during a season when the rest of the world was basking in the bliss of true love's happiness. His fingers tightened impulsively along with the painful constriction of his heart. His next snarl was half a sob as he curled in upon himself, painfully aware of every cruel, sharp, hideous inch of his body.
You are a monster. What you did was unforgivable. You are unlovable.
You've always known you never had a chance. You wouldn't have resorted to that love potion if you thought there was any other possibility of someone loving you.
Who in their right mind would let you hold them? Who with eyes in their head would willingly share your nest.
If you had a good personality, maybe someone somewhere might be willing to overlook your ugliness, but you don't even have that!
You're a monster, a disgusting, cruel, ugly, horrible, evil, hideous monster.
No one will ever, ever, ever want you.
He choked against the pillow, throat tightening, and screwed his eyes as tightly shut as he could, but he couldn't stop the tears that slipped treacherously from underneath his eyelids and traced glistening paths down his sharp cheeks. He hated himself even more for it, but he gave in and sobbed into his pillow as he had done far too many times during the long, dark, lonely nights of these past eleven years.
Nothing would ever change. He was going to be alone forever.
~o~o~o~
Bog did not know that a world away, in the kingdom of meadows and streams that lay just beyond his, a fairy girl was sobbing herself to sleep on what would have been her wedding night, her own dreams shattered, an oath sworn, purple make-up covering a broken heart, outward confidence and defiance not able to completely hide the very real pain of finding herself so very suddenly unwanted and alone.
~o~o~o~
Bog loved this time of year.
The cool brush of Spring against his scales still carried some of the Winter chill but whispered of the coming warmth and the burgeoning of life that lay just around the corner. The scent of rain and damp wood and his Forest blossoming back to its full glory wrapped cozily around him. He made a content chuffing sound deep in his throat as he snuggled closer to the woman in his arms, pressing his face to her, and curling his whole, lithe body against her. She was warm and soft against his scales, chasing away the cold that still lingered in the air.
Marianne sighed and wriggled herself a little closer in return, closing every smidgeon of space that still existed between them. Her hair tickled against his cheek. He wrapped his arms even tighter around her, pressing her to his chest, delighting in the amazing, beautiful, fierce little fairy who had chosen him to be her husband. His heart felt full and happy to overflowing, his gratitude to Marianne beyond expression. Sometimes his love was such an overwhelming ache in his soul that it simply flooded out of him every time he looked at her or opened his mouth.
He loved the softness of her body curled against his. He loved the way her gorgeous wings draped over their nest when she slept. He loved the way her lips quirked and her eyes glittered when she looked him with desire (for him!) glowing off of her. He loved the way she chased away every bad memory of feeling unwanted, unworthy, and alone, and he loved that he could do the same for her.
He nuzzled her, rubbing his jaw and nose and cheek fondly against his beloved's face, growling serenely and pressing soft kisses to her skin that he hoped conveyed even half of his love and adoration and thankfulness towards her. She giggled sleepily, one hand pressing gently against his cheek in playful encouragement to his nuzzles and kisses, her own arm wrapped about his waist just below his wings. He rubbed his clawed toes ever so gently against the top of her foot, their legs twined, and marveled at how two bodies that were so different could feel so entirely perfect together.
The ardor of Spring rushed through his blood, but he no longer dreaded it.
She gave that lovely, sleepy little giggle again as he adjusted his body to cradle her more easily, pressing her down into the soft rolls of moss, and nuzzling until his lips found hers. She sighed against his mouth as he kissed her, her slender fingers stroking his crest and his back. When he parted from her, they lay with their foreheads pressed together, eyes closed.
"Mmmm, Bog," she murmured against his skin. "Love you."
Two weeks of being married was not nearly enough time to rob him of the wonder of those words. He hoped the electric shock of joy that they sent through his whole being never ever went away. "I love you too," he whispered back, blissful tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.
All right, so he'd had to admit to his mother that she'd been right all along, retract his ridiculous ban, and confess to his court that he'd been craving affection so badly that it had taken him a grand total of two hours to fall more madly in love than he'd even known was possible.
It had been entirely worth it.
Vaguely, he remembered those long, sleepless nights, weeping from loneliness into his pillow, ashamed and angry at himself for wanting love, no hope left to cling to that he could ever have what he desired. Now, with Marianne in his arms, it all felt like a bad dream from long ago.
It felt so, so good not to be alone any longer.