Untitlable

She must abhor him. And she would be right to do so. It hurt to think about, but what could he say or do? He knew he wasn’t a monster, but neither was any kind of white knight in shining armour riding in on a noble steed. Maybe once he could have been the poor man’s version of that, but now every inch of steel was scuffed and burnt, and the poor horse was long dead. This wretched man had to walk just about everywhere he went.

He supposed it came with perfection. She was, after all a Lady. She had things to do; and dealing with a lowly pawn likely held as little appeal and purpose as stroking a water leech. She was the reclaimed daughter of the king, earmarked for greater things. He could only look on from a distance as she underwent all manner of training – because one day she would be queen. Not that it mattered to him; she was already queen of his heart. It did pain him to have to see her trying to do things on her own, learning from the mistakes and adjusting to the fact that not everything that went wrong was her fault or responsibility.

If he had his way, he’d have taken all the sting from her life. It was a point of honour for him to have taken blows on her behalf. It had become a habit of sorts to lovingly buff the dent in his chest plate where an arrow meant for her had landed. The blacksmith could never have properly pounded it back out anyway. He also waxed and oiled the pitted grooves across his back plate. He would rather die than live to see her maimed. There were other dings and scrapes of course, each another story for another day.

Yet underneath it all he was deeply saddened at the distance between them, even though on some level he thought it was just something that had to be – the inevitable, perpetual chasm between soldier and crown. He remembered with more than a tinge of sadness how once, in the less onerous days – before she had known who she was – he had carried her on his shoulders. She had enjoyed the view from a seat on his pauldrons, sought warmth in his leathers and hides amidst the howling winds and sheltered under the large plates of armour in the pouring rain. Happier times.

If only it had simply been life getting in the way. Instead, it was because he’d been so purely incompetent. Not only had he failed to protect her, he’d opened the door to what had nearly killed her. She could not forgive him, no surprise seeing as that he had not yet found a way to forgive himself. Yet, it was they were here, a hundred feet apart in body, a million miles away in the heart. Not by his side as he’d made a blood oath to be once. His failure had betrayed them both.

Against all hope he wished for some form of redemption.