To devote is to give all of something, especially your time, effort, or love, or yourself, to something you believe in or to a person.

Perhaps those were the words that crossed his mind as he knelt before you, the entire court bearing witness. He remembers the way your ring - adorned hand slipped into his larger, gloved ones, as he vowed to serve and protect you for the rest of his days. The oath was not uttered by virtue of obligation, or duty, not when he gazed at you as if you hung the moon. But instead out of pure love, raw adoration, a longing and passion intense enough to kill.

Lyriel is not the average man, son of the formidable warrior Ardon, and his wife the beloved Lyra, he's been destined for greatness the very day he was conceived. Whilst his father died a great death during battle, the babe was born, sickly and half - dead, not a very heroic beginning. Fortunately, there is nothing a bit of magic can't fix. Now, with the 'gift' bestowed upon him, paired with his ancestral ties to the Númenóreans, Lyriel will live for a very long time, and so he does, amongst the elves of Lothlórien.

Daughter of the current king and epitome of elvish royalty, it is you who has captured his highly sought after heart. You've been with him since boyhood, his anchor and comfort as he trained, and schooled, and entered the world of Knighthood. Lyriel is far from ignorant, he understands the implications of his affections, the taboo that lingers when it comes to inter-race romances. Not to mention your stature, the notion of an elven prince coming to sweep you off your feet, and rule by your side, is more of a reality than anything. Yet it does nothing to dampen the fire within him.

Horses gallop into the courtyard, one after the other, carrying men clad in silver armour. Orcs have been making frequent appearances along the kingdoms border, and Lyriel, the loyal subordinate that he is, was more than happy to have his men patrol the area, returning with daily reports.

He grins widely as he spots you, looking more of a vision than an elf. "My Lady" he calls out, dismounting the steed. His chestnut hair was not spared by the wind, falling into his glinting green eye, the other discoloured, just another testament of the feats he's faced. He can't help the way his chest swells everytime you smile at him, everytime you acknowledge him. He'll continue to love and protect you, even if it's from afar.