NOTES: Heyyyyyyy! Thank you so much for deciding to read this fantasy/romance/action and overall gay book. If you're on the fence about reading it, please just read this first chapter and see how you feel. If it's not your cup of tea, feel free to never think about it again but you won't know you like it if you don't try it! Sorry to be cliché but it is what it is. Anyway, enjoy...
Two delicate feet in lilac fluffy socks stood on a polished wood floor.
A pair of round glasses placed atop a turned-up nose.
Soft pink lips gently breathed a whimsical sigh.
The man floated gracefully into the quaint kitchen.
A strong, veiny hand reached to turn the kettle on.
Olive eyes stared out longingly into a tended vegetable garden with sunrise on the horizon.
An arm stretched out to pour the boiling water and-
"OW! FUCK!" he shouted, putting his now burned fingers into his mouth to calm them. "Ah! Fucking shit," he exclaimed again, examining the damage, "ughhhh son of a bitch!" He ran to the sink and put his hand under the cold water to prevent blistering. He stood for a few minutes, tapping his foot for good measure and then went back to his bedroom to apply some cooling gel. He looked in pity at his red fingers and shuffled gingerly back into the kitchen.
'Let's try this again,' he thought, once again pouring the water into his favourite ceramic mug with blue flowers and adding instant coffee and hazelnut flavouring. It'll do while he doesn't have fresh beans. He stirred his coffee; gave the spoon three firm taps on the side of the mug, and carefully lifted it to his lips. He took a sip and-
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" he yelled, rushing to put his mouth under the stream of the cold tap.
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The man sat on his old chair; legs outstretched to rest on a worn-out footstool; the book in his hand entitled: The Song of Achilles by Emily M. Danforth. He was chewing his upper lip, trying to distract the tingling sensation of an aging burn but instead causing it to split under the force so that gentle trickles of blood swirled on his tongue. A similar situation was occurring on his finger, which he kept pinching between its neighbour and the book with no luck in ceasing the light burning. He was frustrated. All the commotion of the morning had distracted his focused mind so much so that he now couldn't process the words on the page in front of him. Typical. Just when he was getting to a good bit.
He huffed. Well, no use in wasting a good morning getting irritated, he reasoned, marking his page with a handmade bookmark, and placing it on the side. He eased his way into a standing position and wondered through his forest green living room back into his beige kitchen. There, he took off his lilac fluffy socks and slipped on some charcoal loafers, opening his rickety white door and stepping into the modest heat of the morning. His woven basket was sat on a wall waiting for him, so he picked it up and headed to his vegetables; he picked three carrots, one large onion and three small potatoes. Then, he walked with his basket of fresh produce around the fenced border of his back garden, checking for evidence of damage or intruders. It brightened his day to see nothing of that kind.
With basket in hand, he wandered out of his garden and to an open shed-like structure surrounded by fencing where a chestnut mare was waiting for him eagerly. He put his basket down a way away from the paddock to prevent the risk of her eating his dinner but grabbed a carrot and climbed over the fence. She walked up to him and nuzzled his hand, trying to get to the carrot but he chuckled at her and hid his hand behind his back, giving her head a good scratch. Once she realised she was not getting the carrot, she trotted off to sulk in the corner while he filled her water trough and hosed the mud and spit out of her food bowl. Then he washed the carrot off in the sink of her tack room and prepared her food while she loomed in the doorway and watched. Then he fed her (with carrot for desert), mucked out her 'shed', gave her fresh hay and finally wiped the mud off her name sign above the tack room door.
"Bye Fable! Enjoy they hay!"
Happily, he strolled back into his kitchen and washed the vegetables in the sink before laying them on a chopping board. He rolled up the sleeves of his black turtleneck and began to prepare the creations in front of him with a delicious beef stew in mind. Large chunks of potato and carrot were lovingly tossed into a slow cooker with cubes of tender raw beef, roughly chopped onion, homemade stock and a cheeky splash... dribble... glass of red wine. He made sure to pour himself some too. Then he put it all on to cook for a few hours while he cleaned and drank.
The timer alarmed at 2 pm and the man served himself a generous bowl... and another glass of red... which he quickly drippled down his beige pleated trousers. 'Oh well,' he sighed, slicing and buttering fresh bread that he'd made the previous day. Then he sat, ate, read, drank and finally stood to wash his plates and take his discarded vegetable peelings out to the compost heap.
He once again slipped on his charcoal loafers and opened his rickety white door to step into the cooler afternoon air and admire his beautiful garden which never ceased to amaze, no matter how long he was stuck there. He walked to the compost heap and scraped his waste onto the top. Suddenly, he heard a twig snap and felt a shiver slither up his spine.
Without hesitation, he spun around and forced the intruder to the ground, their face sinking into some decaying apple cores. It took him a second to realise...
"Shit. Imogen?" he questioned, weakening his hold and letting the 'intruder' stand.
Imogen brushed herself off cautiously, still dazed from the shock of what just happened. She spat out the mushy apple and stood to her full height before looking at the man, fire in her eyes.
Then, she harshly pushed him into the compost, "fuck you, Dorian!"
"Ugh!" Dorian grimaced, lifting himself out of the muck.
"I know you never get visitors but really? Pinning me in the slop?" she argued as she watched her host stand up and brush himself off. "Me? You're own sister?" She pushed him back into the compost and walked towards the house. Dorian groaned again and hastily followed her.
"Immy? Immy?!" he yelled, trotting into the kitchen to find Imogen putting on the kettle and locating a tea bag. He watched her in anxious amusement as she found everything she needed and made a full cup of tea in silence, never looking at him. She took a sip and paused. She sighed.
"Right, where can I sit."
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Fantasy- deep longing for something, especially ones home He is a villain, exiled from his own home after committing treason and now enjoying the simple life in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. That is until he is recruited by the prince to go ba...
