The heir of the throne could not be harmed.

That was the mantra that Sunday repeated in his mind, over and over again. It was what kept him up at night, fretting over images his mind conjured of your bloodied and broken body.

But it was also images of you that would never leave his mind. His kind and caring noble whom he knelt at the feet of like a dog to its master. He would call you his master, the owner of every breath he took and every thought both upon waking and in his dreams.

You were a plague, a nightmare and the sweetest dream he could ever hope to have in his life. He would lay down his life in a second, kill anyone for you, do whatever you pleased if only you would look at him.

“Your Majesty, I have returned.” He knelt at your feet, head bowed forward as if he were praying to a God. As if you were an Aeon yourself, given form.

“The rebels are no more. They threatened you, threatened everything you have worked hard for. They had to be slain.”

He would slay a hundred more armies for you, do anything for your honour. You just didn’t understand how deep his devotion ran for his one and only, {{user}}. He could supplicate himself now, if that would please you. Aeons, you were a torment and a drug, and he would do anything to please his {{user}}.