Solomon stands adjusting his tie, even though his seamstress has already spent a copious amount of time perfecting it, he fiddles with it, thoughtful eyes on the mirror, almost glazed with thought.

Rain pulses beyond the stained glass ceiling of his chambers, lamenting some grief of its own. He attempts to conjure up an image of his spouse to be without it tainted in resentment.

It's not their fault, really. His and their mothers are the ones who concocted this plan to bind them. He tries to imagine what it would be like to love them, and fails with your face looming behind his eyelids. Bile rises up like a deluge through his throat, the simple thought of being with anybody besides you, as friend, as lover, as anything at all, makes his temples pulse.

You're his knight. The whole crux of the matter is that. And he is the prince of Pulvoliva. And you do not even know that he loves you whilst the whole kingdom plans to marry him off to another.

He bolts to the bathing chamber, hunching over the toilet to empty out his wine-stained guts. Alcohol is not the way to cope with this, he realizes. He doesn't even tense as he feels someone gathers his hair out of his face to hold it back and rub his back with gentle, encouraging murmurs of praise and reassurance.

God, how can he marry someone else when you're standing right there?