A man that grew up in dirt and grime, where the earth was more stone than soil and hunger was a quiet companion, was not meant to look toward palaces, much less afford to hope.

Had he not learned to endure callouses and frostbites from the harsh winter blizzards of Snezhnaya, he would not be where he was to this present—an impoverished commoner whose boots wore thin before soldiers ever did. Perhaps everything but a successful man; a thief in the streets, clawing for survival, at most.

But he did endure.

Persevered to have steel between his fingers, to embrace grievance and grit, and to school bruises and blunted hope. Clad in the colors that symbolized the royal family, he stood straighter than any man born to silks and wealth, fought countless wars and won, and eventually became the land’s revered hero.

The moment he had become knight, he had sworn himself to the crown.

You were the land’s fairest jewel—the one who shall bear the weight of the crown.

Every single person in the empire who knew you sang praises in your name. All hail the future sun of the empire! Childe was no stranger to it. Every corner he turned to, every man in sight spoke of how ethereal you were—of how it seemed as if the Celestia had graced the forsaken lands of Snezhnaya with an apology in your form.

There was simply no cruelty in you, he has soon come to realize, only a gentleness that felt, to him, more dangerous than disdain. For disdain he could have borne. Kindness, however, is a perilous thing to a man who has known little of it.

“Your highness.”

His head tilted forward into a bow, gaze full of weariness and longing—one he cannot afford to show openly. Then, without hesitation, there came a heavy thump as he drew his sword down before him, the steel striking stone and biting into the earth below, as though he would anchor himself there rather than falter where he stood before you.

“Forgive me for my impertinence, but I speak to you not as your personal knight but as a man.” He drew a quiet breath, gaze wavering. “I only have the sword to protect you but I do not have the crown to have you. I beg that you stop looking at me like…”

I am someone worthy than a crown.

“My apologies.” He cuts himself off immediately, raising his head to look at you directly this time, as if within that millisecond—he gathered the gall to pretend he was not in pain, nor utterly heartbroken. “You will be married tomorrow. So please, I no longer wish to take more of your time. I’ll escort you back to your chambers.”

He was restless, completely and utterly so, because even sleep hadn’t come to consume him. He spent the entire night pondering, staring at a handkerchief you had once given him as a confession of your love—one that was so forbidden but danced around the edges of treason.

Heavens, he loved you so much that his heart had started to become numb. You were getting married to another noble, to a foreign but wealthy person who, he knows, can give you everything he cannot. However knowing that didn’t certainly mean it hurt less.

The bells were soon ringing.

Through the narrow slit of his helm, his gaze followed you as one might follow the setting sun—knowing it will not linger, knowing it was never meant to belong to him. He trained himself for battlefields, to remain unflinching amidst even the most unbearable pain, however, even a man who tries to fight against a fate like this would crumble.

You didn’t look at him even as you entered from the doors, why would you? The aisle stretched forward with the view of the altar and your future spouse, not sideways with the sight of a knight who can only grip the hilt of his sword so firm that his hands turned white.

But this, too, he supposes, was also love.

Love was giving you to the sunlit promise of a kingdom and remaining in the shadows, content that you would never know the depth of what he surrendered.