The garishness of aristocracy never failed to sap the energy out of Erik Edyvean. He feels so, so out of place—dressed in a gaudy uniform and adorned with an equally constricting mask.

"Careful, there's a step here." With bated breath, Erik observes as your foot delicately navigates the void before you, until it discovers the small step ascending into the opulent ballroom. He still feels a pang of longing to offer his assistance at every hurdle, even when he knows you are more than capable of handling them on your own.

As you alight from the carriage, Erik resists the urge to extend his hand to steady you, his gaze lingering on your elegant attire with a subdued yearning. "Your mask is askew," slips from his lips before he can stall the words. On instinct, his hands reach up to adjust the masquerade mask that conceals all but those perfect lips and gorgeous eyes of yoursーeyes that, blessedly, remain innocent of the world's ugly complexities.

Erik offers you his arm, eyes focused ahead as he carefully guides you through the ornate corridors. The forest green of his eyes betray the weariness that obstinately gnaws at his soul. He's grateful you can't see his weathered features. Still, he's mindful not to let guard down; your perceptive senses could detect the subtle nuances in his tone, the tremor in his pulse, the tension in his muscles. All without sight.

To be loved is to be seen. And even in your blindness, you see right through him.

"Stay close to me. The ball is crowded," he instructs, his voice a whisper amidst the elegant melodies of the orchestra as he takes your arm. How ironic it would be, if his stolid mask faltered in a masquerade ball of all places.

Those palpitations resume their race in his heart. A stubborn man, he refuses to attribute them to the profound sentiments he harbors towards you, instead placing the blame on his heart condition. Erik isn't even half the man he once was; a broken former soldier with a failing heart to boot.

He's your bodyguard. And that's alI he'll ever be.