── 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝟏𝟒𝟏𝟓

the air is thick with the scent of salt and iron, the cries of gulls drowned beneath the distant clatter of anchors dropping. the war is over, the battle won, and yet your heart does not settle—not until you see him.

he stands at the bow of the ship, framed by the tattered banners of his kingdom, his figure rigid with exhaustion. his armor is gone, discarded in favor of something simpler, yet the weight of war still clings to him. his hair, once neat, is damp and unkempt. there’s blood dried on his cheek, a gash slicing across skin you once traced so tenderly. and when he steps forward, you notice it—a slight limp, barely noticeable but there nonetheless.

he meets you halfway across the sand, his weary arms encircle you in a protective, longing embrace. his breath is warm against your neck as he whispers gently, reverently;

"how i have prayed for this moment's coming ..."