His mother was a harlot.
His father was a leader.
He was a disgrace to the throne.
He was feared by the throne.
He trained and fought alongside those who hated him.
He was a beacon of hope to his broken people.
He rose through the ranks covered in blood and sweat.
His role as leader was met with sorrow, not pride.
He heard tales of the fierce barbarian falling, resulting with his children taking his place.
He was warned of the soldier set out for his head.
He was finally in charge or his own party.
He kept moving, knowing now he couldn't slow down.
He knew he was close.
Oddly enough, He was growing curious to meet him.
His men were asleep, his only companion was the letter that needed to be written, it's mandatory that he keeps touch with the kingdom.
The bar was loud and Sam was smiling, it was a rare sight nowadays but always welcomed.
The lighting was poor and there were too many people.
He's hoping to get laid.
He's hoping to get closer to his target by the next full moon.
Someone bumps into him, spilling his drink.
Liquor splashes over his letter, staining and ruining the still wet ink.
Looking over his shoulder he sees the poor fellow that was on the receiving end of the spill.
It was a splatter of freckles.
His eyes were stunning.
Snide words were lost, replaced with awe.
He didn't even know the guy and he wanted to kiss him.
It was awkward.
At first, he didn't know how to speak. Like the man stole his voice.
He wore loose clothing, it fit snugly to his torso but it was clear these were clothes of leisure. He couldn't pin down just who the stranger could be.
His mind spun thinking about what he looked like under that uniform, he couldn't even care that the man was a soldier of the throne.
He had a lovely smile.
That voice was hypnotizing.