Bittersweet - A Short Story

I curled into his arms with a bittersweet comfort. Bitter because I knew I wouldn’t be in his arms forever. Sweet because I was there in that moment, inhaling every single part of him. He was just perfect to me. I couldn’t let him go. As always, I had to. 

He smelled of peppermint and rose, because that’s the scent I left on him after spending all night with him, our bodies passionately intertwined. I ruined his scent in the most perfect way. 

There was a beautiful way the sunlight hit his auburn hair as it glistened through the billowing drapes. The morning light reflected against his skin, resulting in a beautiful glimmer that almost blinded me. I couldn’t let him go. I could never escape his arms. The moment I did would mean that I would lose my daylight. Everything would be dark again. 

I watched him breathe. I knew his breaths like the back of my hand. Steady. Soft. Yet present. I had to make sure he was alive. He made me feel so alive. I could never lose him. Every anxious thought that entered my mind caused me to move closer towards his chest and deeper into his arms. He moved deeper into my heart.

His eyes fluttered open, and they were so beautifully emerald. I softly pressed my hand to his cheek, the warmth of his skin so pure. God, he was a ghostly beauty. So perfect, yet I couldn’t tell if he was truly there. He was like a whisper in the wind. Here, but then gone. 

“Good morning, my darling,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with sleep. I pushed my head back softly to get a good look at his face. He took an equally good look at mine. He tightened his hold around me, probably feeling the same pain knowing that we soon have to part again. I could melt at his mere touch. I could know his hands blind. I do. 

Our lips touched. Soft, ripened with love. Matched perfectly against one another with a passionate embrace that rivaled his hold around me. This was heaven. Leaving him would be hell. 

“Good morning, my love,” I replied softly, not as strongly leavened with sleep. We remained in silence, our hearts simply beating in sync together. I couldn’t bear to let him go. I never wanted him to let me go. I knew that if we moved out of that bed then it would all be over. 

There was a method to this madness. We knew that this was our only option if we truly wanted to be together. A relationship like this was never going to work between us if it was public. Not as long as my husband was involved. 

I ran to his home when things became treacherous in the palace. He was my safe haven, where I knew that no one else could disturb our peace. We prayed they would, at least. Chambermaids and butlers kept our secrets like an oath, knowing that lives were at stake. We didn’t care if we were minor gossip among our staff. As long as it never reached my husband (and it never did), we were safe.

Our only time together was at nights, when I said that I would be tending to business with my handmaidens. My husband certainly never questioned it. He never cared enough about me to question it. 

I knew that infidelity was a serious crime in our land, especially if a child was produced. And a child was produced. We loved our daughter, but we could hardly raise her. Not together. Our only time together was spent at nights, escaping my husband—the king—and praying for a miracle that we would one day be able to escape together, with our beautiful daughter in tow. 

My husband did not care for the daughter that he thought was his. She was an heir to the throne in his eyes, and nothing more. 

Oh, but my love. He cared for her in secret, when the king wouldn’t even care for her in public. She knew this man as her true father, and I was so grateful that this was the secret life we had built together. It wasn’t perfect. It was bittersweet bliss, until we had to return. The king could never become too suspicious of my behavior. For five years we kept this affair, and he never suspected a thing. Perhaps he didn’t care. Or perhaps he knew, and was punishing me through my fear of discovery. If they ever discovered us…we would not be exiled. 

A queen’s affair would result in death. The heir would be stripped of their title. The king would remarry, like there was never any other wife in the first place. I would be nonexistent in his life, having made no impression in the first place. 

Yet I didn’t care if I made no impression in the king’s life. I made one in my beloved’s. I knew that he would tear apart the earth if something happened to me. I knew he would burn that palace to the ground. I knew that he would tear the king apart limb by limb if he ever harmed me. My beloved promised it. He swore. I knew his oath was something serious. He knew mine was as well. 

I didn’t care for the ring on my hand, forced upon me through his purchasing of me. It meant nothing to me. And though my beloved might never have been able to give me a ring, it meant all the more to me that he simply loved me. Our infidelity meant more to me than any disillusioned marriage. We didn’t love each other. But my beloved loved me, and I loved him. 

Yes. I would stay in his arms for just a little while longer, content that for just one moment he could be unequivocally mine, and I could be his. No one would strip us of that. Because while my beloved might burn the world down over me, the world must be reminded of this. 

I would do it for my beloved as well. 

Originally created for Fiction Writing, ENG 321 class