Author Note: From here on forth, whatever Luxana shoves at your faces, is just her loosing brain cells. Proceed at your own risk.
As we settled into our chairs in the sun-drenched garden, the air alive with the sweet fragrance of blooming jasmine and the gentle buzz of honeybees, I couldn't help but think, Dear diary: Day 47 of being trapped in this romance novel. Send help and anti-allergy meds because these flowers are making my nose run faster than my dignity after three margaritas.
Cillian, however, seemed perfectly at ease, reaching for a sugar-dusted donut with the primal hunger of a man who'd been surviving on kale smoothies and broken dreams. His hand trembled slightly – the telltale sign of a closet carb addict about to relapse HARD.
He took a bite, and SWEET MAGICAL UNICORN TEARS – the man's face underwent a transformation that should be studied by science. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, pupils dilating like a cat who just discovered catnip. A sound escaped his lips that I'm pretty sure violated several noise ordinances in at least twelve kingdoms. "Damn bro," he breathed, his voice quivering with the emotional intensity normally reserved for childbirth or finding out your favorite show got renewed, "this is...this is like heavens....."
Is... is he having a religious experience over baked dough? Should I call a priest or a nutritionist?
He closed his eyes for a moment, his face contorted in what I can only describe as "donut ecstasy" – an expression so uncomfortably sensual that nearby flowers wilted in embarrassment. A single tear – AN ACTUAL TEAR – rolled down his cheek as he chewed.
Note to self: Cancel the elaborate wedding feast. Just serve donuts and watch this man weep with joy all night.
The sincerity in his compliment, the unbridled joy on his face, was disarming. The intensity of our earlier interactions – like that time he threatened to turn my spleen inside out during diplomatic negotiations – seemed to melt away under the warmth of his sugar-induced euphoria. As he reached for another donut, his hand moving with the desperate speed of a man who feared they might disappear, I found my heart softening.
Who knew the fearsome Overlord of the Seven Realms could be pacified with convenience store pastries? I could've saved THOUSANDS in military expenditures.
He devoured the second donut with such enthusiasm that a small cloud of powdered sugar enveloped his face, making him look like a very pleased ghost. A bit of jelly oozed onto his chin, but he was too far gone in his carbohydrate nirvana to notice.
Mental note: Stock emergency donuts in all rooms of the palace. Install donut dispensers at the borders. Replace all weapons with pastry catapults.
But the moment of idyllic bliss was short-lived. With a sudden, almost theatrical flair – and I mean THEATRICAL, like "failed-community-theater-actor-who-thinks-he's-one-audition-away-from-Broadway" theatrical – Cillian rose from his chair, the playful grin replaced by an air of purpose so forced I could practically hear his acting coach weeping in the distance.
He lifted his right hand, as if conducting an invisible orchestra (or perhaps signaling to the mothership), and with a subtle flick of his wrist, a set of marriage documents materialized before us, shimmering in the sunlight like the world's most bureaucratic glitter bomb.
Did this sugar-high maniac just conjure LEGAL DOCUMENTS out of thin air? Is there a magical courthouse in his pocket? Does he pull out contracts at parties as a trick? "For my next feat, I'll make an HOA agreement appear behind your ear!"
"Luxana," he announced, his voice taking on a formal tone that suggested he'd swallowed a particularly stuffy dictionary, "even in our unconventional courtship, we cannot escape the bonds of tradition. As per the customs of the Dominion, we must make our union official, not just in power, but in the eyes of your as well as my people."
Unconventional courtship? Is THAT what we're calling it? The man literally kidnapped my pet lizard and held it for ransom until I agreed to have coffee with him. There are restraining orders with more romance than our "courtship."
As I signed the documents, binding our fates together with ink and magic, a sense of both trepidation and excitement bubbled within me.
I'm legally binding myself to a man who just had an orgasmic experience with a 99-cent pastry. My mother warned me about men like this, but did I listen? Nooooo. I thought, "Ooh, he can summon fire and has nice cheekbones." THIS IS WHERE THAT GETS YOU, LADIES.
The pen glowed eerily as I signed my name – all seventeen syllables of it – wondering if I should've read the fine print. Knowing Cillian, there was probably a clause in there about me having to provide him with donuts on demand or surrender my soul to the Pastry Gods.
Once the formalities were complete, Cillian stepped closer, his gaze capturing mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. His eyes still had that glazed look, and I wasn't sure if it was love or simply the aftereffects of consuming his body weight in sugar.
Oh gods, he's giving me THAT look again. The one that says "I'm about to launch into a monologue so purple and flowery it would make a romance novelist tell me to dial it back." Someone please rescue me from whatever sonnet is about to be verbally vomited in my direction.
He knelt before me, his hand reaching for mine with a gentle reverence. In the process, he managed to knee himself on a small rock, winced dramatically, shifted position, and then realized he was kneeling half in a mud puddle. The adjustment process took roughly 45 seconds and involved three different positions before he found one that apparently met his standards for proposal posture.
"Luxana Zen Inara De Carna Mera Domino," he began, his voice resonating with newfound sincerity.
Sweet merciful heavens, my full name sounds like someone fell asleep on a keyboard. Did my parents lose a bet? Was I named by a cat walking across the royal certificate? I've spent more time introducing myself than some people spend getting their college degrees.
"You are a force of nature, a whirlwind of power and grace, and a woman who has claimed my heart."
A whirlwind? Did this man just compare me to destructive weather? "You remind me of that thing that destroys trailer parks and cows, my darling." How ROMANTIC.
"From the moment we met, I knew that my life would never be the same, and it is a terrifying and wonderful truth."
The moment we met, he accidentally set my favorite cloak on fire and then tried to extinguish it with wine, which turned out to be highly flammable spirits. Yes, terrifying is accurate.
"With every beat of my heart, I am yours. And, as the tradition says, the tradition must be fulfilled."
The tradition must be fulfilled? What tradition specifically requires a powdered-sugar-covered man to propose immediately after experiencing donut nirvana? Is there a Sacred Timeline of Pastry-to-Proposal conversion we're following here?
He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, which gave me just enough time to contemplate how many escape routes were available from the garden and whether I could outrun him while wearing formal shoes.
"Before all of Domino, and all Elmir, I ask you to be mine. To share every sunrise, every challenge, and every victory by my side. To rule with me, to laugh with me, to love me...for all the days to come."
Every sunrise? Has he MET me in the morning? I'm a creature of darkness before 10 AM and three cups of coffee. The only thing I share at sunrise is death glares and incoherent grunting. This poor, deluded man.
I wanted to burst into laughter at his child-like play. But c'mon, everyone needs to be respected once in a lifetime, I thought. Though maybe someone should tell him that "forever" means he'll have to listen to my snoring for ETERNITY.
My voice was barely a whisper as I finally answered, "Yes, I will."
Did I just agree to eternal matrimony with Donut Boy? Did the sugar fumes affect my brain? Is this what mind control feels like? Someone check me for spells or concussions!
A ring materialized out of thin air, sparkling with magical energy and probably worth more than the entire economic output of several small nations.
Show-off. Some of us have to actually GO to jewelry stores like PEASANTS. I spent three weeks picking out his ring, comparing metals and settings, while this walking magical Cracker Jack box just POOFS one into existence. Next, he'll be magically creating our children to avoid the inconvenience of pregnancy.
His eyes were fixed on my hand as he brought up the jewelry. It was a captivating dance of light and metal, as the platinum band of his love for me was now to stay with my forevers.
Forevers? Is that like regular forever but with a multiverse option? Do I get forevers in different dimensions? Is there a return policy on these forevers if he turns out to snore louder than me?
There was a second band of platinum interlaced with each other. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't something that sought attention, but the way it shined, anyone could tell how valuable it was.
Not flashy? It's literally GLOWING and HOVERING slightly. I'm going to need sunglasses and possibly a shield to wear this thing in public. If we get mugged, I can just blind the attackers with my hand bling.
It was a representation, A bond so strong it could never be broken or separated, just like us. Along the outer band, a row of small diamonds were embedded, catching the sunlight and scattering a myriad of sparkles around the garden, creating what appeared to be a localized disco ball effect.
Great, I now have a portable rave on my finger. Club Luxana, open for business! I'm going to accidentally signal ships at sea with this thing. Air traffic control will be contacting me about flight path interference.
As he took my left hand in his, his touch sent a shiver through my body. His face was filled with so many weird emotions I never felt before, giving me both butterflies and creeps.
Is this love or a mild stroke? Why does his face look like he's simultaneously winning the lottery and stepping on a Lego? Should I be concerned about these "weird emotions" I've never seen before? Is there a field guide to Cillian's Facial Expressions I should consult?
As the ring slid onto my finger – with some effort, because apparently magical rings don't come sized properly – he cupped my hand in his, gazing at me with an emotion so profound it took my breath away.
Or maybe that's just the magical radiation from the ring. Do magical rings have radiation? Should I be concerned about growing an extra finger? That would actually be convenient for playing the harp...
"Now, my Queen, you are forever marked as mine," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion and the after-effects of inhaling powdered sugar.
Marked as his? What am I, a territorial dispute? A tree that a dog has peed on? Should I pee on his leg to claim him back? Is that how magic works here? No one explained the claiming rituals to me! I demand an orientation packet!
I could only smile back, partly from emotion and partly because I feared any sudden movement might cause him to launch into another soliloquy. I gave him his ring – the one I'd actually PAID for like a normal person instead of conjuring it from the ether like some magical trust fund baby.
He wore it with the same love and devotion as I could never dream. It was a masterpiece and a reflection of his fake soul, as a diamond pattern was intricately carved on the plain metal, symbolizing the forever and endless, and an unbreakable bond.
Did I just describe his soul as "fake"? In my own internal monologue? That's not a great sign for marriage longevity. Also, is a diamond pattern really that profound? It's literally just a bunch of little shapes that jewelry makers have been doing since the bronze age. Next, I'll be claiming that the circle shape of the ring represents the circle of life or some other fortune-cookie philosophy.
As we admired our rings, I exclaimed, "If life gives us lemons, let's learn to make lemonades!"
DID I ACTUALLY JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD? Did I have a brain aneurysm? Who possessed my body to make me spout greeting card platitudes? Next, I'll be telling him to "dance like nobody's watching" or that "everything happens for a reason." Someone please check the garden for gas leaks or mind-control spores.
He looked momentarily confused by my random citrus reference, probably wondering if I was having some kind of episode or if this was a coded message about our future agricultural plans for the kingdom.
"If I could've asked for more, it would've been this. And forever, will be yours. Forever will be yours. And Forever, am yours," he replied, as he gave me his best child-like smile.
Is he stuck in a verbal loop? Did I break him? Is this what happens when royalty doesn't get enough RAM installed during their education? Also, his "child-like smile" makes him look like he's either planning world domination or has just soiled himself. There's no in-between.
It was the most beautiful smile I could've ever asked for, if I had specifically asked for a smile that combined "just won the lottery" with "might be having a minor seizure."
Mental note: We need to work on his smiling before the official royal portraits. Perhaps hire a smile coach. Is that a thing? If not, can I invent that position and give it to my unemployed cousin?
The garden had never been so beautiful. It was perfect.
Except for that bee that's been circling my head for the last ten minutes, clearly planning a strategic attack on my nostril. And the fact that I'm sitting on what I'm increasingly certain is an anthill. And Cillian's left shoe, which is still smoldering slightly from when he accidentally stepped in that magical fire pit earlier. And the gardener hiding in the bushes, clearly documenting this entire disaster for the royal gossip newsletters. But sure, "perfect" is one word for it.
As we sat there, newly engaged and covered in a fine mist of powdered sugar, I contemplated our future together with equal parts excitement and terror. Would all our anniversary celebrations involve him having spiritual experiences with baked goods? Would our children inherit his ability to conjure legal documents from thin air? Would I ever be able to eat breakfast without him having an existential crisis over particularly good toast?
What have I gotten myself into? Is there a magical annulment process? Can I claim temporary insanity caused by pollen exposure? Is it too late to fake my own death and start a new life as a sheep farmer in the distant mountains?
But as Cillian gazed at me, a small bit of jelly still clinging stubbornly to his royal chin, I realized that this ridiculous, dramatic, sugar-addicted sorcerer was mine now. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, for donuts or no donuts.
May the gods have mercy on my soul. And my pancreas.
To be Continued...
P.S. Luxana is dead🪦