“Elves and Fantasy” is a new corner on my blog with brand new stories. These stories are written in the form of diaries and letters that lean towards fantasy fiction. This short story from the collection talks about an elven woman in love with someone his father considers to be of an inferior race. It has a few parts to it so be sure to subscribe to be notified when the next story drops.
I use the help of AI for punctuation (I do change some things) and the help of Grammarly to do my own edits, while they don’t replace editors I do have to make do with free-to-use tools currently.
Short Story – Rendezvous pt. I (Margot) – Fantasy Fiction
Tomorrow, I am going to see Rorik behind the stables. I think it is time that we finally do it. I know, I know! Women should wait until united in wedlock, but Gods know who my father is going to present to me this time. Besides, if I were to be expecting, it would make me unfit for any future suitors that he pulls out of his sleeve. Rorik told me that according to the town council, if I were to fall with a child, he would have to marry me. It is the law.
For the longest time, I have dreamed about the day I would be appropriately wedded to him. Am I mad to believe that this is our only way to be together? This must be the only way for us. After all, our hearts are tied together with the reddest of strings, and we wouldn’t have to mingle in secrecy anymore.
Gods know it hurts me so that I cannot stroll the gardens with him beside me.
If my virginity and honor must be the price to pay for our love to be free, so be it. Besides, I have been thinking about it a lot as of late, and I get tingles all over my skin at the mere thought. Even now, my heart skips a beat when I think of our little rendezvous.
Besides, I have been entertaining the thought of my father’s face when he finds out that his daughter, purest of elven blood, has fallen for the dwarf that polishes his shoes. He calls them foul creatures. How could he treat them with such disgust and little respect? I find myself most fascinated with their culture.
My Gods, isn’t love bizarre? I could have fallen for a high elf, and everyone would have cheered upon our union.
Out of all the men in the world, he presented Leoric the Conjurer to me this morning. He is old, and he is ugly and vile! I told him I would rather leap from my bedroom window or be mauled to death by wolves than have him touch me. My father was most displeased by my manners, but it got the wrinkly oaf off of my back.
You can’t expect me to be fooled by the golden rings with glistening emeralds on any man’s fingers. The bloody elf is a sorcerer, the ebony staff betraying that he dabbles in necromancy.
I heard they lock up their wives and drink their blood until there is nothing left. Stories tell that the blood of a virgin is the primary source of their foul magic. He can’t expect me to marry that appalling excuse for a high elf.
Our rendezvous with Rorik must come to fruition. I can not take my father any longer. He is killing me with a suitor after suitor. My heart has made its decision. We can not tarry any longer. Tonight, as soon as the lights go out, I will sneak through my bedroom window and gift my purity to Rorik. It must be done.
Oh, diary, must I wear the emerald dress, or should I wear the rose? I cannot decide. I want to look my best for the occasion. Oh, should I wear a stain on my lips too? My Gods, why am I such a bundle of nerves over this? The book I stole from my mother’s shelf described it as a higher level of joy and love. It must be poetic. It surely will be.