Live to Serve

Steve had seen plenty of weird things while driving the highway home after picking up an extra weekend shift, but nothing prepared him for her.

At first, she just looked lost. A pale woman in strange, shapeless clothes, standing too close to the shoulder, too still for comfort. Beige. That was the only word that came to mind. Beige hair, beige skin, beige tunic. Like someone had drained the color out of her with a sponge. His first thought was to call the police. Or maybe offer help. Or maybe just keep driving.

Then she turned.

And just like that, Steve knew.

She wasn't a woman.

She was the woman.

The most important woman in the universe.

An empress. A goddess. A queen of queens. His queen.

The steering wheel nearly slipped from his hands. He pulled over, stumbling out of the car, half-bowing without knowing why. Words came out of his mouth before his brain could catch them: "Your Highness," he panted, "please—please allow me to drive for you!"

She had looked at him with beige eyes that sliced him up like a Christmas ham. They'd spoken, but it wasn't the words that were the important thing. It was his obedience.

That was all. And that was everything.

Now, with dawn pushing through the slit in the hotel curtains, Steve sat upright in the armchair near the window. His back ached. His eyes burned. But he didn't dare move.

On the bed, the woman—Elorae—slept on her side. Still and silent, her hands curled gently beneath her cheek like a sleeping angel in a dream someone else was lucky enough to have. The hotel room was massive—the most expensive suite he could find on short notice. Two thousand a night, maybe more. He hadn't looked. What were dollars to a man in the presence of divinity?

He'd carried her bags—well, she hadn't had any, but he'd wished she had. He would've loved the chance to carry something for her. She'd gazed at the city skyline like it was sorcery. Elevators astonished her. Running water made her giggle. The minibar nearly made her weep. And when she saw the television glow to life with swirling color, she had whispered, almost reverently, "So much… light."

Steve had wanted to cry.

He'd only slept in short, guilty stretches, and only when his body gave out. Three times his head had slumped against the back of the chair, and three times he had startled awake in a panic, thinking she'd needed something and he hadn't been ready. Once, he dreamed of his wife. Once, of his two daughters. They were laughing, or crying—he couldn't remember. But each time he awoke, drenched in guilt and awe, it didn't matter.

Elorae was here.

He knew he would have to deal with them eventually—his family. Say goodbye. Or explain. Maybe Elorae could help. Surely they would understand if she was the one who told them. Surely they would see her the way he saw her. They had to. Who wouldn't?

It was morning now. Sunday. The traffic below was a murmur, a hush beneath glass. Sunlight reached timid fingers into the room, painting soft gold along the sheets where her bare arm lay. He could see it rising and falling slowly.

She had said she was looking for someone. That she'd traveled far. That she was tired.

He would help her find him. Of course he would.

He would drive her, protect her, carry her if needed. Lay down his life if asked.

He had never been happier.