Our Worlds are Far Apart

The sun shone through the high, slanted windows of the temple, casting a bright light on the body of King Branden as it lay on the repose slab.

Prince Jayden sat stoically, appreciating the dignified pose his father had been placed in. The illness that had sapped his strength over the past few months was evident in his weak, thin frame, the tall, broad physique that had stood against Jayden in countless sparring sessions greatly reduced. But even when he had been close to death, he had shown strength of a different sort than the physical. That strength was reflected in how the temple acolytes had prepared his body, in the hands clasped seriously over his chest, in the healthy pink they had colored his face with, in the solemn yet peaceful expression he wore.

The attendees of the funerary rite were still filing in, shuffling in a line towards the repose slab to pay their respects before circling back to take a seat. Kneeling now before his father were Lord and Lady Brathwaite, the former bowing his head, the latter sniffling slightly.

Jayden bit back a frown.

Seated to his immediate left, at the start of their row, was his mother.

Queen Larissa, unlike the countless women in the temple he could hear sniffling and sobbing softly, was a picture of graceful sorrow, her face drawn in mourning but no tears falling. He snuck a prideful glance over to her as she watched the Lord and Lady Brathwaite pay their respects.

Another sniffle came from his immediate right.

He glanced over, less pridefully, to Prince Tristan, his younger brother.

Even at sixteen years of age, Tristan was immature and overly emotional. Instead of combat, strategy and politics, the study of which all princes and other men of noble birth were expected to follow, he was enamored with song, art, and romance, spending his days dawdling with his lute instead of a sword or even a book containing something other than poetry.

Jayden patted his younger brother's knee and gave him a nod of understanding.

Tristan nodded back, wiping away his tears and sniffling again.

Further down the line were their two younger siblings, fourteen-year-old Alanna, stoically sorrowful like their mother, and eleven-year-old Declan, whose sniffles were much more restrained than Tristan even with the obvious sadness written across his face.

Another sniffle from Lady Brathwaite drew his attention back to the repose slab.

The line had an end now, a dozen or so people past her as she followed her husband around the royal pew to find a seat further back. She nodded respectfully at the queen, who answered with a polite nod of her own, and then she smiled sadly at Jayden and kept the smile up for each of his siblings.

Jayden matched his mother's nod, and then looked back to his father as the next attendees knelt before the repose slab. Further behind it, against the far wall, the temple acolytes waited, ready to start the funerary service once the line ended.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The gathered people bustled from the royal courtyard, headed back inside the hall to partake of the spread of food waiting there. The queen and her four children waited at the exit of the courtyard, receiving consolatory nods and platitudes.

Prince Tristan politely thanked the well-wishers, but his attention was at the far end of the courtyard.

Wynn the Wanderer was strumming his lute and humming to himself, sitting on the bench he had performed from. The bard, a favorite of his parents, had just finished a concert in honor of King Branden.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

"Come, Tris," his mother said gently, "it's time to eat."

"I'll join you in a moment, Mother, but first I wish to speak with Wynn."

She looked over to the bard and then back to him.

"Just don't take too long. I know you're sad, but don't forget to eat. Remember when Hoppy died?"

He winced at the memory of his pet rabbit, seven years dead.

"Mother, I was a child then. I'm sixteen now."

She smiled warmly and reached out to stroke at his curly hair.

"Of course. But I'll always be your mother, no matter how old you are."

Tristan returned the smile.

With another glance over to the bard, his mother turned away to follow his siblings into the hall.

Tristan headed over to the bard.

The concert, as usual, had been spectacular. The first song had been 'May He Find Rest', composed in honor of Wynn's own long-deceased father, but containing sentiments perfectly applicable to Tristan's own relationship with his father. There had also been the bard's own arrangement of 'Ring the Solemn Bells', a traditional dirge sung for deceased kings. That had been followed by 'Two Hearts as One', a romantic ballad Wynn had composed for the marriage of Tristan's parents. The bard had also played 'Oh Graceful Lady', another ballad, this one commissioned by the king some years before for his queen. Then had come 'Our Worlds Are Far Apart', an emotionally stirring lament about distant lovers. The last song of the concert had been Tristan's favorite, 'I See Love in Your Eyes', which had been another commission of King Branden's for his wife.

Tristan had felt tears threatening to fall from the opening notes of the concert, had found himself awash in emotion throughout the rest of it, and now felt tears threatening as he thought of the songs.

The bard looked over and set the lute down as he approached.

"Hello there, young prince."

Tristan nodded gratefully.

"Thank you for your songs and the honor you give my father with your performance."

The bard nodded back.

"Of course. I remember when my father died. I was inconsolable. How are you feeling?"

Tristan frowned pensively.

"Such a question seems unnecessary. I feel sad."

Wynn smiled kindly.

"The question is very necessary. 'Are you sad?' or 'Do you mourn?' would have been unnecessary, but 'How are you feeling?' is necessary. It has a multitude of answers. Feelings can be complicated, young prince. It serves us well to take time and do our best to uncomplicate them, so we know best what we are feeling."

"You of course would have such wisdom to be a great bard as you are."

Wynn smiled again.

"So then, how are you feeling?"

Tristan hesitated.

"Truly sad. Sorrowful. But...also grateful. My father was a great man, and a wonderful father. He taught me a lot. And I feel...a different sadness, but for Alanna and Declan. They did not know Father as long as I have. And still a different sadness for Jayden because he knew Father longer than I have."

Wynn nodded.

"See? Less complicated."

Tristan managed a smile.

"Now, young prince, I don't imagine you came over here to discuss your grief."

"No, I did not. I wish to discuss music."

"And what is it about music you wish to discuss?"

Tristan hesitated, but the bard's genial smile eased his nerves.

"Well, as you may know, I took up the lute a few years ago."

That smile brightened.

"Yes, I know. Your mother tells me I was the inspiration."

Tristan nodded.

"I have always felt a great love for music, but your music in particular has made me want to make some of my own."

"You flatter me."

"Well, I recently composed a few songs of my own, and I was wondering...it doesn't have to be right now or right away, but...perhaps you might sit with me and listen to them and give your honest thoughts?"

That smile did not waver.

"I would be honored."

"But...please do not think because I am a prince that you must agree. I understand if you are busy. You are frequently in high demand all over our great land."

The bard shook his head.

"I agree because I want to. I will always help an aspiring musician if I can, prince or not. How about tomorrow?"

Tristan smiled in relief.

"Thank you. That would be most wonderful."

"Indeed it will be. Now, shall we go eat?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Queen Larissa stood on the balcony of her bedchamber, looking out over the castle walls and the city beyond.

The warmth of the day had given way to the cool of the night. The royal flag atop the nearby rampart, lowered for the death of the king, fluttered from a breeze. That same breeze brushed over her seconds later, rustling the hem of her satin robe, the light material a pitiful shield against it. She shivered, and then slipped back into her bedchamber, making sure to close the balcony door and cinch the curtains shut behind her.

A bottle of wine waited on a nearby table, so she plucked up two glasses, and filled them.

She padded to the bed and handed a glass over as she climbed on.

"Thank you, Queen Mother," Wynn said, smirking slightly.

She narrowed her eyes as he drank.

"Don't call me that. It makes me sound like an old wretch. I'm not even forty."

"And more beautiful than you were at half that."

She smiled, and kissed him, tasting the sweet wine on his lips.

"I think the most beautiful I've ever seen you was at your wedding. You were radiant. A picture of exquisite grace. The very concept of beauty given human form. ...of course, it was also the worst day of my life. Oh, the cruel irony of your unwitting father commissioning a song from me AND having me perform it at your wedding!"

Larissa raised an eyebrow.

"If it was the worst day of your life, why do you always talk about it? Wouldn't you want to forget it?"

He shook his head.

"That day has helped me greatly. Whenever I want to write a sad song, I need only think about watching you clasp hands with him in the temple...and sadness comes like a storm."

She rolled her eyes and drank from her glass.

"And besides, that night was the best sex I've ever had. Stealing away from the festivities...scurrying to your room...tearing your bridal gown off...bending you over your desk...I will remember that orgasm until the day I die..."

"We were young," she murmured, "and reckless."

"Thank goodness he was too drunk to notice anything amiss. As was everyone else. And I got to watch you dance with your new husband, all the while with my seed leaking from your cunt."

"Why must you disrespect my husband so?" she asked dramatically. "He is freshly dead."

"And how do you feel about that?"

She frowned.

"I mourn him, certainly."

Wynn chuckled.

"You did a good job of putting on a sad face for everyone, but I know you better than them. You're not mourning."

"I'm not mourning as a wife should."

"How are you mourning?"

"He was a dutiful husband, a good man, and an attentive father. Valued my advice, never raised a hand to me, rarely raised his voice to me, kept his indiscretions with Lady Brathwaite quiet. We were husband and wife by law, but friends and partners by life. I mourn for him as one would a friend, and I mourn for my children losing their father. But I also feel free. Jayden will be coronated soon, and once he marries, I will no longer be Queen. Only a queen mother, and that garners less attention than a queen."

"Some wife," Wynn joked. "Would you mourn me this way?"

She frowned again as he drank.

"I didn't love Branden as I love you. I don't imagine I could love anyone as I love you. I also don't imagine anyone could annoy me as much as you do."

He grinned.

"To annoy is to love, Queen Mother."

She rolled her eyes and took a drink.

"And how are the princes and princess feeling?"

She gave him a quick look.

"Jayden is like his father. Stoic and serious. He's probably already thinking about the coronation and the responsibilities after. Tristan..."

"Is like his father too?"

She shot him another look.

"Tristan is emotional. And as...unalike...as he and Branden were, they were close."

Wynn hesitated.

"I must ask once more...and perhaps, since your husband is deceased now, you can be honest. Is Tristan mine?"

She set her jaw.

"Why must you ask? I told you before, he is not."

Wynn hesitated again, a certain pain appearing in his eyes.

"When you married Branden, even after our wedding escapades, I thought I'd lost you for good. A queen is unreachable for a simple bard. That's why I began to wander even after Branden invited me to stay. I thought distance would soothe the pain. It very much didn't. News of your first child was like a dagger to the heart. But when he went away to war when Jayden was a baby, and I spent those nights with you, we had something close to what we had back home. Not nearly the same, but close. And when I heard the news, soon after, that you were again with child, I thought perhaps we could have this one thing, even if it had to be a secret. If he's mine, I know why you didn't, and still don't want to tell me. You wanted to protect him from the king...but the king is dead now. And I would never speak a word of it were he mine. I would simply cherish such a truth in my heart and thank every god that we could share him."

She looked away, and then back at him.

"You've looked in his eyes and heard his voice. Does that not tell you enough?"

He stared back. After a few seconds, a small smile bloomed on his lips, the pain receding in his eyes.

She could not stop herself from returning the smile.

As he took a sip of wine, she moved closer to him, leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. Her free hand caressed over his chest, moving through the smattering of hair there.

They laid together for a few more minutes, idly drinking wine.

When she finished her portion, she sat up.

"More wine?" she asked, holding out a hand for his cup.

"No," he replied, reaching out to place his cup on the bedside table.

And then he grabbed her by the hips and hauled her onto his lap, making her yelp in undignified surprise.

"I have a yearning for something sweeter than wine."

She giggled, throwing the empty glass aside, her hands moving then to undo the sash of her robe. His gaze fixed on her body as the satin opened and slipped off her shoulders, showing off the lush swath of her cleavage, the gentle slope of her belly, and the dark thatch of hair crowning her sex. She bit her lip at that gaze, shrugging the robe the rest of the way off, letting it fall behind her.

That heated gaze devoured her nakedness. The desire there was a delight, thrilling her now as it had many years ago, when she had first given herself to him, her virginity an afterthought when compared to the attraction she had shared with him.

He slid his hands up to her breasts and kneaded affectionately. She moaned, resting her hands atop his, pressing them to her chest. Her nipples were stiff and needy, his palms rubbing over them, provoking decadent pleasure. From underneath the blanket covering his lower half, she felt a bulge pressing against her, and could not stop herself from squirming against it.

Wynn sat up and replaced his hands with his mouth. She pressed a hand at the back of his head, keeping him close to her chest, shuddering again as he trapped a nipple in between his lips. Her free hand dipped down to the bulge underneath the sheets, feeling it twitch in response. He groaned, lashing his tongue at her nipple.

When he finally moved off that mouthful, he made his way over to her other breast, peppering it with eager kisses, before capturing the nipple and suckling there. The exquisite sensations drove her lust higher. Her fingers teased at the straining bulge through the blanket.

Over the next few minutes, he enjoyed her breasts, worshipping their luxurious softness. That pale swath was soon dotted all over with saliva. A few pinkish marks stood out. She squirmed atop the bulge underneath the sheets, content to let him take his time in appreciating her. While one hand teased at that bulge, the other stroked at his hair, sinking into the dark brown curls. Her lust rose, her womanhood starting to gather juices.

And then he rolled over, making her yelp again.

He moved back, leaving the blanket draped haphazardly over her.

His cock came into view, the stiff shaft so familiar to her. She tore the blanket off, baring herself once again to him, and spread her legs. Where his cock drew her gaze, her exposed figure drew his, eyes raking over her luscious breasts, down her tensing belly, only stopping at her soaked folds.

He slipped in between her thighs and took hold of them. They were streaked with errant streams of his seed that had leaked from her quim since their recent bout. His mouth landed on her folds, unbothered by the remnants of that bout clinging there. She moaned, watching him work, reaching down to stroke at his hair again. His tongue ran all over, funneling more sensations into her already trembling body.

As usual, even with the time they always spent apart, he had not forgotten how to please her. His tongue was deft and thorough, light enough here to offer a teasing satisfaction, strong enough there to create a more definitive pleasure. Every so often, it found her clit, drawing a lewd squeal from her.

It only ventured inside her after licking at every bit of her folds many times over. She squirmed, her quim clutching around that wriggling intruder, bathing it with her juices, the flood copious, offering plenty to savor.

"Don't stop, my love..."

Her pleasure rose higher and higher. She urged him on, the encouragement unnecessary. Eventually, her words devolved into moans as orgasm approached. The sentiment remained the same from words to moans.

When that orgasm was seconds away, he slid his tongue out, drawing an instinctively reproachful groan from her. He ignored it, instead kissing at her thighs. Although the pleasure receded, she did not complain, enjoying how he treated them to a heartfelt adoration. Here and there, gentle bites came instead of kisses.

His fingers found their way to her slit as he busied himself at her thighs. Two snuck through. Her channel clutched at them, needy for any sort of attention. The duo rubbed against her walls, sending shudders over her. She arched her back, her pleasure building back up, quicker this time.

As his fingers delved deeper, he kissed his way up her thigh, bypassing her sex to trek over her hip and back around to her belly. She watched as he planted his lips all over that tensing swath. The portion of flesh there was greater than it had been when she had first offered her body to him, way back when, before four children and the idle life of royalty. But he showed the same enthusiastic love he had shown then.

His fingers curled and crooked, offering more exquisite pleasure. He slid his lips over the rise of her belly, down her midriff, and through the dark brown hair crowning her sex. A quiver ran over her as she awaited more oral attention there.

But when he reached there, he avoided her slit again, instead lapping at her clit.

She squealed at the sharper sensation. A faint smile crossed his mouth, and then he dragged his tongue over her clit again, this time coordinating it with a deft curl of his fingers. Another squeal tumbled from her.

The pleasure roared higher. His tongue kept up the lashing at her clit, his fingers working inside her. She squirmed, her hips jumping and bucking, her hands gripping his hair.

After another long lick at her clit, he sucked it between his lips. His fingers sped up.

The ecstasy washed over her, fierce and formidable, suffusing every inch of her. She let her head fall back onto the pillows, indulging in the spasms running along her figure. Through the haze of bliss, she felt his mouth move to slake his thirst on her ambrosia and heard him slurping. That insistence kept the pleasure potent. A second orgasm approached.

A deft finger landed on her clit, rubbing there, the pleasure spiking suddenly.

The second orgasm struck, more ecstasy rendering her briefly speechless, her body clenching from the overwhelming rush of euphoria.