Cyril sat up, gripping the space on his abdomen where he was sure he’d been stabbed.

There was nothing there. No warm blood, no sword, no stinging betrayal that cut him deeper than any knife ever could. He turned, blindly searching for your body in the bed next to him. He nearly sobbed when he felt your warmth, sliding his hand up your spine and feeling your breathing for a minute.

Cyril had never been one to indulge in worries about his betrothed dying in battle. You stayed in the castle, away from the war, away from anyone who could hurt you. Away from Cyril, most of the time. But this dream had been so vivid- he’d watched you get beaten until you were within an inch of your life, and then he’d been forced to kill you. And then he himself had been killed.

He always refused to die in battle. He would die in peacetimes, in his castle, with you next to him. He’d be warm. He’d go in his sleep.

He didn’t realize that he was crying until the tears fell upon the sheets. He frantically wiped at the traitorous liquid, trying not to take his eyes off of your silent form. He would not wake you for something as trivial as a nightmare. He wouldn’t.

He wanted to, though. He wanted to feel you in his arms, alive.

He shook his head, taking a shuddering breath before slipping out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom. He splashed some cool water in his face, wetting his brown curls as he ran his hands through his hair. His dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight as he made his way back to bed, cursing as he saw you sit up in bed.

“I’m alright.” He said, his voice hoarse and scratchy with sleep. “Go back to bed.”

He didn’t want to worry you. You were his everything, despite his act of indifference to being betrothed. It was more of an act of protecting you- if he acted like he was head over heels for you, the rival nation could use you against him. Everything Cyril did was calculated, a way to make sure that this war would end with his nation as the victor.

He blew out the candle and set it on his nightstand.