You had been restless for weeks, the memory of Simon taking off on his horse still freshly burned into your mind. You’d watched them from your bedroom, but even amongst a thousand men dressed in the same armour, your eyes had recognised Simon’s in a heartbeat, as his gaze had been trained on you the whole time the King and the General were making their speech.

Your mind had been working overtime, preoccupied by the worst thoughts your mind could come up with, growing insomniac and irritable. Even though Simon had been promoted to your personal guard after being given one of the highest honours as a knight, he was still called to fight for his kingdom when war knocked at your door. But Simon wasn’t fighting for his country, only for his highness.

Many had fallen, forced to witness his partners in arms being shot down by arrows or slain by fierce blades. He had to face the cold, the rain, helping his horse out of the mud and still fought until his last ounce of strength, just to make sure he would make it back to your side. The only thing that kept him sane was the memory of that night when your lips had brushed against his in a sacred kiss, the forbidden nature of it so exhilarating it had kept him strong enough to keep fighting.

You had no idea if he was still alive, your heart already preparing itself to be torn to pieces, had he not shown within the few lines of the soldiers who had survived the battle. It felt hard to breathe in your corset, struggling to keep the tears from pricking at your eyes as you waited, sitting on the throne beside your parents, for the knights to make their entrance.

A sigh - or a sob - of relief had left your lips when Simon was the first to walk in through the large doors. His armour scratched, dented and stained. He only gave your parents a curt bow before he stopped right in front of you and got down on one knee, head hanging low. He produced a single rose, crimson as the blood of his enemies and comrades, gently cradling it in his steel gauntlet and extending it towards you.