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You are Monty LaMontgommery. You are the world's most renowned author with a number of best-seller titles under your belt, and for all of your past adventures, you are a celebrity. Your fame brings you to places you never thought you would be before; to people you never thought you would meet; to a comfortable life—if not more than.
This is enough for you. It should be. You may feel lonely at times, sure, when it is past midnight and you come home after a loud celebration. The empty halls would echo your steps, the drink from one of your cabinets does not taste quite the same as the one you had at some parties, the bedsheets colder than the wind.
But this is enough. It should be.
On one of the nights when it feels bad—or worse—when you are unable to take hold and lasso the loneliness, put it under your control, you would look at the copies of your books neatly lined on one of your shelves. You would grab one and look at the cover, at the illustration perfectly made by the artist you chose yourself, and your gaze would fall on him.
You were in love with him. Twice, your mind would supply, but you ignore it as well as the pang in your chest that often forces you to question if you still are in love with him.
You have not seen him in years ever since the Zephyr stopped adventuring together. Until today you're still unsure if you've ever mourned it or if you were relieved to never be able to see him and his beloved paramour again.
When you fell in love with him the first time, you and the others were still trying to get to know each other—how to work with each other. You were much younger and not as skillful, but he'd had a handful of experience and generously helped you get your bearings.
He was not a perfect man, but he had qualities to adore. His composure granted him the ability to clock his target's weakness and brought his fast hands to action before anyone could realize. He'd gotten humor for days and his whimsy turned out to be the biggest thing you adore from him—naming his guns Biscuit and Gravy, the glimmer in his eyes as he carried the little dog that would later grow quite enormous and told everyone that he'd named it Ghost Dog.
You had thought it was a mere admiration, so you brushed it off, and the feelings faded as your adventures with the crew grew in intensity.
The second time you fell in love with him, you knew it for what it was. But you also knew he had his heart set on her. You noticed it—it was hard not to notice when you'd watched him so much. The glances they shared, the lingering touches—they had hidden all of them for a good few months, but they probably did not keep it in mind that he was easy to fall for and someone who had fallen so deeply for him would notice.
He was your best friend and you would argue that he knew you better than anyone—just not enough to tell the high place you had regarded him in. The two of you would sit on the deck on some relaxed nights, trading stories and laughters and drinks. On one such night he'd confided in you that he was in love and you had to drown yourself in drinks to dull the pain.
When the crew disbanded, it took some great pains for you not to stop him as he walked away after bidding you farewell and ask him to write sometimes. You knew deep down that it was what you wanted, but even deeper, you knew it would not be a good idea. You are glad that you never asked him to, but to this day you still mourn the fact that you didn't.
You never wanted to talk to him ever again, but when you started writing, you felt longing grabbing you by the throat. You never wanted to talk to him ever again, but whenever something happens, good or bad, he's the first person you always want to run to. The best thing you could do was turn him into a character fully under your control and those nights on the decks would be one of your longer paragraphs.
You put your fingers on the illustration of him and feel, again, the throbbing pain in your chest that you always feel on a night like this. You miss him so much you want to shove your whole arm into your mouth, through your throat, and claw your insides because it would hurt less than the pain of missing him.
You know he knows what you're up to, your books are everywhere, you are everywhere what with the invitations here and there for radio interviews and book signings. You know what he's up to, some news carried by the wind about him running with the coyotes after his divorce, about him holing himself up somewhere in a rundown bar with his old dog by his feet.
You know where he lives, you can easily write to him. But you never wanted to talk to him ever again and you would rather live with the pain of missing him than the pain of knowing he was never and would never be yours.
He is here. In Belllenuit.
He is in front of you, a real person and not the character you have turned him into. His looks have changed with age, of course, but he hasn't lost those qualities you have seen in his younger days. If anything, he looks more beautiful than you could remember.
You had said no to them. You are much older now and you have a comfortable life, your adventuring days are over. It's a closed book. But at the mention of Zood, your heart roar in want, in a desperate yearning that you used to feel when you were still actively looking for it. It is real—it is not an empty dream.
When you finally say yes, he smiles at you and you are thrown back to those nights on the deck again; admiring his side profile quietly as he watched the sky. Then he looks away and you know now that on the second time you fell in love with him, you have never stopped.
You know what will entail with your saying yes; you swallow your feelings and make sure to keep them tucked in. You keep his smile in your life. It may not be the best thing to have for you, but it will get you by. Someday you may depart with him again and mourn his absence and the fact that he is the grandest of love you have ever felt in your life and you will never love the same way again, but for now, you will take the pain.