The bedchamber was dimly lit; the flames in the hearth had begun to die, but Alistair did not have the strength to move. He was sat up, feet on the floor, sheets cast aside. His head buried in his hands, he stared at the floorboards but did not see them. He only saw her.
Her eyes glistening in the sun, squinted as she grinned and beckoned to him.
Her flushed cheeks as he handed her the rose.
The heat of her skin in the small hours of the night.
The king rose, hazily making his way across the room towards his desk. Hundreds of pages cluttered the surface. He found a clean piece of parchment, and hastily scrawled down his thoughts.
My love, it has been so long. So many letters that you'll never see. So many nights we'll never get back. Please be safe, please be on your way back to me. Sleep is a bittersweet memory that eludes me once again, my love. When I dream, I am with you again. Yet when I awake, I am bitterly reminded of the falsehood. What you do is for us, I truly understand, but what am I to do? How can we waste away our better years in such a remorseful loneliness?
He shuddered under the weight of his sobs, cursing himself for being so weak. Yet, he was so strong all day for his people. He wore a mask of iron, and his only outlet had been missing for so long. The only person he truly connected with was just a memory now.
His hands shook, and his arms gave way, leaving him face down on the desk. The words lost in salty puddles. One phrase repeatedly escaped him in whispers,
"I love you"
The fire in the hearth died with a heavy sigh, the room plunged into darkness. Leaving the king alone, with the ghost of a memory.