Tembovu

Guilt was a fickle thing.

It waxed and waned on its own whims, regardless of the mind inhabited by the parasitic emotion. It was a glutton for happiness, consuming it and corrupting it to shame. How can one be happy when they should be failing beneath the weight of fault? It bathed in quiet, gentle moments, dirtying them with whispers of unworthiness blame. And so now, the leech began to engorge with his happiness and wallow in the soft moment shared between the King and his lover.

Even the lean of her silken warmth against his embrace, and the soft whisper of her hot breath against his neck could not satisfy guilt’s greed. The desirous pressure of her lips against his neck cause a pulse through the base of barrel—but it was a sensation that only fed his guilt. How could he spend time desiring, wanting, and taking his lover when their son was missing? How could he waste any time not looking for him, even if he had sent the Laurelin to search?

So black-rimmed ears tilted back, pulling away from Rexanna just as she pulled her head away from his neck. His chest, twitching beneath her teasing and nipping lips, still pulled away as his darkening gaze turned away from her bright, joyous cerulean. It, instead, found and remained on a particularly bright blue feather that dextrous paws had woven amongst needles.

He remained still, despite her gentle whisper and nudge to look at the view from the mouth of the cave—though the corner of his vision was not immune to the vibrant colors that leapt across her bright gold coat. He blinked, body flinching against the heat that raged through his veins as she said, “I love you, Tembovu.” A hard sigh pushed out his nostrils, wanting to embrace this moment—he had waited for this moment since he buried the corpses of Mara and Faxr.

But his guilt would not let him.

So anger stirred in his chest—an emotion he never wanted to bring into this new home Rexanna created for them. But here it was, arriving on the very day she had created this home. His lips pursed, ears tilting even further back, as his gaze moved from the bright blue feather to the jagged edges of freshly cut roots along the walls.

“Do you thi—” his low rumble, unexpectedly hoarse, was cut off by the sheer amount of emotions pounding and constricting his chest. Anger, guilt, fear. So silence stretched for a long, painful moment before he tried again, “Do you think he’s alive?” The word was a broken whisper, the King’s defenses stripped bare as the true depth of his demons were exposed.

Only then did his navy gaze flicker back to Rexanna’s, pained and raw; free to be a father, rather than a King.