He looks at her like wants to kiss her and forget that she’s the
princess and forget that she’s betrothed. He wants to kiss her and show
her exactly how much he loves her, intimately, slowly, wholly, but he
can’t. And he’s holding himself from saying the words because it can
never be. He doesn’t say it back because it won’t make a difference.
Better to hold his tongue than break his heart.
So he stares at her. Traces the way her mouth says the word and
cherishes it. He memorizes how her voice sounds like, the way she looked
at him when she said that. He remembers, adores it, revels in it and
then he lets it go.
Because he’s nothing but a glaive. And she’s the princess. The world’s
Oracle. The future’s bride to be. The queen.
And he never says the words back.