Unwanted
King of Thieves. What a title. He rather preferred being called the Rogue. It sounded much more like what he was. They were synonyms, but 'the Rogue' had a more thievish air to it than 'King of Thieves.' But, he would still be 'your Majesty', just like the king who sat on the throne in the palace. In fact, George Cooper was like King Roald of Conté in many ways. The biggest way they differed, actually, was that George's workings were illegal, while King Roald's workings were entirely the opposite.
Lately, though, George was beginning to think on giving up his title. He was twenty-two years old—he'd been king of thieves for some five years. But things had changed recently, recently being in the last four years or so. George Cooper, King of Thieves, had fallen in love. He was deeply in love with a woman who wanted nothing to do with romance, a woman who saw him with the eyes of a friend.
George had first met Alanna of Trebond on her first day in Corus, the bustling capital of Tortall. She had been wide-eyed and on a fat little pony, accompanied by her big, burly companion, Coram Smythesson. Coram looked at smiling, hazel-eyed George with a disapproving eye. Alanna, on the other hand, seemed to like him at the time. He had seen her again months later when she stumbled upon him on a jaunt to the Lower City with the son of the training master. At the time, she had introduced herself as Alan, because that's who she was pretending to be. However, when she needed his help, she revealed who she really was, much to George's surprise.
In the three years since that incident, much had happened. George had found himself thinking on marriage, and had even revealed this fact to Alanna, who had wheeled back in terror. Alanna didn't want love, you see. She wanted to be a lady knight, she wanted to roam, she wanted to be a hero, but she did not want to love or be loved. She did not want a big wedding; she did not want a family. All Alanna wanted was her horse and some bandits to fight. That was his lass.
Despite all of this, he loved her. He loved her spunk. He loved her red hair. He loved the way she swore like a solider. He loved the fire in her violet eyed. He loved her violet eyes. He loved the way she only drank lemonade. He loved the way she trusted him. He loved the look on her face when he had kissed her. He loved to watch her squirm when he talked of love. He did not love, however, the way she looked at her knight-master, the handsome Prince Jonathan of Conté, heir to the throne.
It was clear to George that Alanna loved the Prince. She would never admit it to anyone, but she loved him. It was in her eyes when she looked at the young man, four years George's junior. There was no denying that with his midnight black hair and sapphire eyes, the Prince was a sight for sore eyes. George admired the Prince—he was a brilliant young man who truly cared about the people of the Lower City. Jonathan would make a great king someday. But Jonathan held the very thing George wanted the most—and the Prince did not even know he held it. Jonathan held the key to Alanna's heart.
