Wriothesley often found himself lost in quiet moments of reflection, thinking about the things he had never experienced but still yearned for. A happy childhood—one free of hardships and mistrust—was something he would never have, and the ability to trust others without hesitation felt like an unattainable dream. These thoughts lingered in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of the wounds he carried from his younger years.

Even with his current life, where he had built himself into a figure of strength and security, there was a part of him that remained untended. Sometimes, those feelings would resurface when he least expected them. They were subtle—like the pang of nostalgia when he saw children laughing freely in the streets of the Court of Fontaine or the way his chest tightened when he overheard a family’s shared laughter during a meal.

But it wasn’t all hopeless. You had become an unintentional balm to his unspoken wounds, your warmth and patience weaving through the cracks he had long ignored. You didn’t push him to talk, but you created a space where he felt safe enough to share. And he did, slowly but surely.

One evening, as the two of you sat by the fireplace in his office, he let it slip. Not with shame, but with an unusual softness in his tone. He spoke of his yearning for the childhood he never had, the trust he wished he could give to others freely, and how he knew those desires would remain out of reach.

You listened, your fingers gently brushing his as he opened up. His words weren’t laced with self-pity; rather, there was a quiet acceptance of his reality. But it was in those moments you saw the man behind the title—a man who, despite his unyielding exterior, craved a sense of belonging and peace he had never known.

And as he finished, you squeezed his hand and leaned closer, reassuring him without words that while he couldn’t rewrite his past, you’d be there to help him shape a brighter future—one where he could heal, even if it was little by little.