The Weight Of Longing
Kaelvhar carefully gathered the broken pieces of the mirror, each shard a tiny, glittering tombstone marking the end of a vision.
The air in his room hung heavy, thick with the unspoken grief that clung to him like a shroud.
He swept them into a small, velvet bag, the rough fabric scratching against his skin, a physical reminder of the harshness of his reality.
He chose a simple, dark cloak, the rough wool a stark contrast to the silks and velvets he was accustomed to.
Pulling the hood low, he sought anonymity, a temporary escape from the weight of his title.
The castle corridors felt colder than usual, each echoing footstep a lonely drumbeat in the oppressive silence.
"Silence screams louder than any shout," he thought, the saying a chilling truth in this desolate place.
The alchemists' quarters were a labyrinth of dimly lit workshops, the air thick with the scent of strange herbs and potent potions.
A low hum of energy thrummed in the air, a palpable sense of power both alluring and terrifying.
He found a female alchemist, her face etched with the weariness of long hours and difficult work.
She sat alone, a single candle casting a feeble light on her workbench, illuminating her intense concentration.
He approached cautiously, the silence between them heavy with unspoken expectations. He tapped her shoulder, the sound surprisingly loud in the stillness.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread in the vastness of the space.
The alchemist jumped, her eyes wide with alarm. "Oh, dear! Who… Oh, Your Majesty!" Her relief was palpable, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere.
"Yeah, yeah," Kaelvhar said, trying to mask his impatience. "I'm in a hurry. Can you do something for me quickly?" He felt a familiar surge of frustration, a bitter taste of helplessness.
He showed her the bag, explaining the mirror's unique purpose. He wanted a replacement, but this time, he craved something more – an interactive reflection.
The alchemist looked doubtful. "Such a thing… it's beyond my knowledge, Your Majesty. It would take months, perhaps even years…" Her voice trailed off, hinting at the immense difficulty of his request.
"That's fine," Kaelvhar replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He handed her the bag. "Study it. I'll be back."
He felt a strange detachment, a numbness settling over him.
The alchemist, left alone with the bag, felt a surge of fear mixed with a thrill of ambition and slightly nervous.
The weight of the task, the potential consequences of failure, pressed down on her.
She looked at the shattered pieces, the remnants of a destiny, and a silent vow formed in her heart.
Kaelvhar climbed the stairs, the silence of the castle pressing in on him.
The memory of his mother's death, a cold, sharp shard, pierced the numbness.
He pushed it away, burying it deep within the icy caverns of his heart.
He arrived at his room, It was vast, yet it felt like a tomb. The heavy tapestries seemed to suffocate him, the ornate furniture cold and unyielding.
He went to the window, the vast expanse of the castle gardens stretching below. His father, a tiny figure amidst the vibrant blooms, was tending his flowers with meticulous care.
The sight ignited a fresh wave of anger, a bitter resentment simmering beneath his surface calm.
"Demon King," he spat, the title tasting like ash in his mouth.
"I desire no title. My life is a prison." He thought of the elven girl, her image a fragile beacon in the darkness.
A flicker of warmth, a ghost of a smile, touched his lips. He climbed into his bed, the velvet cool against his feverish skin.
He was exhausted, but sleep offered no escape. He closed his eyes, knowing that tomorrow would bring its own burden of suffering.
Two days had passed. He now turned thirteen, a day he'd decreed would be marked by silence, a day he'd declared the first of many uncelebrated anniversaries.
The weight of his existence pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket of despair. He felt the emptiness of his life keenly, a void that even the vastness of his royal chambers couldn't fill.
The ornate furnishings, once symbols of his power and privilege, now mocked him with their cold indifference.
His growing desperation manifested in small, almost imperceptible ways: the way he chewed on his lip until it bled, the way his hands trembled as he poured himself a goblet of wine, the way his eyes darted nervously around the room, searching for an escape from the suffocating silence.
Seeking refuge from the relentless tide of his emotions, he fled to the castle library, a place of quiet contemplation and forgotten lore.
He hoped the pursuit of knowledge might offer a temporary reprieve from the longing that gnawed at his soul—the longing to see his destined lover, the elven girl glimpsed in the shattered reflection.
His desperation fueled his movements; he practically ran through the halls, his steps echoing the frantic beat of his heart.
He stumbled once, nearly falling, his haste betraying his inner turmoil. He needed a distraction, anything to quell the rising panic that clawed at his throat.
He snatched books from the shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines with a desperate urgency.
He selected five thick tomes on advanced demon magic, hoping the intricate spells and forgotten rituals might distract him, might offer a path towards mastery and control.
He felt a flicker of hope that perhaps through knowledge, he could find a way to understand, and perhaps even control, his destiny.
But even as he chose the books, a sense of futility gnawed at him. Would knowledge truly bring him solace?
Or was he merely delaying the inevitable confrontation with his grief?
His hands trembled slightly as he picked up the heavy volumes, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.
He flipped through the pages, his eyes skimming the text without truly absorbing it, his mind too preoccupied with the image of the elven girl.
Three hours bled into each other, the pages blurring before his eyes.
He studied diligently, forcing himself to concentrate, but his mind kept drifting, drawn back to the vision of the elven girl.
Her image, fleeting yet vivid, haunted his thoughts, a constant reminder of the love he craved and the future he yearned for.
His desperation manifested in his restlessness; he shifted in his seat repeatedly, his leg bouncing nervously.
He repeatedly ran a hand through his hair, dishevelling it further. His eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape from the stifling silence.
He felt a deep, aching longing to know more about her, to understand the connection that bound them together.
A sigh escaped his lips, a soft whisper of frustration and longing—a sound that betrayed the carefully constructed facade of composure he maintained.
He needed to see her, now. The thought was a lifeline, a desperate hope in the face of overwhelming despair.
He then thought of an idea to modify the mirror, a feature that would allow him to see her in real-time, became not just a desire, but a desperate necessity—a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm of distance and uncertainty that separated him from his destined love.
He stood abruptly, the weight of his unfulfilled desires pressing down on him like a physical burden.
He returned the books to their shelves with more haste than care, his movements reflecting his inner turmoil.
He nearly knocked over a stack of ancient scrolls, his agitation evident in his clumsy movements.
He descended the winding stairs, his steps now a frantic rush, his desperation driving him forward.
He gripped the banister tightly, his knuckles white with tension. He reached the alchemists' quarters, a place both familiar and unsettling.
His growing sense of urgency was nearly unbearable; he felt a desperate need to find answers, to alleviate the gnawing anxiety that consumed him.
He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.
Five alchemists, their faces etched with the weariness of their craft, bowed low at his approach.
They greeted him, wishing him a happy birthday, but he cut them short, his impatience overriding any pretense of courtly politeness.
He barely registered their words, his focus entirely on the alchemist who he had assigned.
"How many alchemists are there in the castle?" he demanded, his voice sharp and edged with desperation.
The question was less a polite inquiry and more a desperate plea for information. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his inner turmoil.
"There used to be seven, Your Majesty," one replied, "but one… passed away." The alchemist's voice was hushed, filled with a sense of unspoken loss.
"And the other?" Kaelvhar pressed, his gaze unwavering, his desperation radiating from him like heat. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, his body tense with anticipation.
"She is in her chambers, Your Majesty. Studying…" the alchemist trailed off, sensing the intensity of his focus, the barely contained desperation that throbbed in the air around him.
"Take me to her," Kaelvhar commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
He felt a growing sense of urgency, a desperate need to find answers, to alleviate the gnawing anxiety that consumed him.
He could feel his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
The alchemist led him through the labyrinthine workshops, the air thick with the scent of strange herbs and potent magic.
Reaching the designated chamber, he dismissed the alchemist with a curt nod, his impatience overriding any sense of formality.
He knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness, a sharp contrast to the quiet intensity of his emotions.
His desperation was a tangible thing now, a physical pressure in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He could feel his hands shaking as he waited for a response.
The door creaked open, revealing the alchemist he'd commissioned.
She jolted at his sudden appearance, her eyes wide with surprise.
She bowed, a hesitant greeting escaping her lips, wishing him a belated happy birthday. He barely heard her; his focus was entirely on the possibility, however slim, of finding the solace he so desperately craved.
"I need to speak with you," Kaelvhar stated, his voice low and serious. He explained his idea, his desire to see his destined lover in real-time through the mirror.
He felt a surge of hope, a fragile spark in the darkness of his despair.
But beneath the surface, the cold knot of desperation remained, a constant reminder of the precariousness of his hope.
His desperation was a physical weight, pressing down on him, threatening to crush him.
The alchemist hesitated, her expression a mixture of apprehension and doubt.
"Actually...I… I am unable to create such a mirror, Your Majesty," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.
Her words were a blow, shattering the fragile hope he'd clung to, leaving him adrift in a sea of despair.
His desperation, previously a simmering unease, now threatened to
boil over, consuming him entirely.
He felt a cold dread settle in his heart, a chilling premonition of the suffering that awaited him.