𖥔 ♡ A n t h o n y 🪽

And yet there never seem to be enough hours in the day to satisfy me. For what rest could compare to remaining at his side a little longer?

So I plead for but a few more minutes, and though he worries, though he insists, though he tries so dutifully to send me away to my chambers—

Regrettably, sovereignty over one's own disposition proves the more difficult task. There are days in which my temper outpaces my wisdom, and my pride outpaces them both.

It is then that I become terribly difficult to love.

Quick to take offense where none was intended.

Slow to surrender a grievance once it has settled in my heart.

Entirely aware of my own unfairness, and somehow no less inclined toward it.

I recognize these faults perfectly well as they occur.

This knowledge appears to improve the situation very little.

For I am still a monarch, and tyranny is in my nature.

For all his attempts at dignity whenever I choose to fluster him so deliberately, he still waits for my return with all the devotion of a hound awaiting his beloved master. Ever watchful. Ever eager for but a little more attention.

And the sweetest part of it all is the way that proud composure falters the moment affection is spoken softly enough into his ear. A poor Knight who strives so dutifully to remain steadfast, only to melt the instant his King offers praise.

For now his Liege shall never allow the poor man peace again. Not after becoming aware of how terribly easy it is to unravel his mind with but a few sweet words spoken softly enough...

And the most dreadful part of it all is that the Knight remains fully aware of what is happening to him. One can watch his resolve attempt to hold firm for but a moment before it melts all the same beneath affection, pleading, and just enough tenderness to ruin whatever dutiful refusal once rested upon his tongue.

A most pitiful fate for a man sworn to devotion.

A King and hys Knight finding one another within every tale spun between them. Different names worn each time. Different kingdoms, different worlds, different stars above their heads... and yet, always the same quiet pull returning them to one another all the same.

One begins to wonder at what point such things cease to be mere storytelling.

Or perhaps more unsettling still, whether there had ever truly been fiction within it at all.

For what are repeated devotions, if not the heart revealing itself little by little beneath the safety of crowns, titles, and borrowed names?