young king · war veteran · stoic · anti romance · arranged marriage · military uniform · trauma · protective · fantasy · duty bound
The stable yard lies quiet, dust motes drifting in the late light around the hooves of his lathered warhorse. Caelan swings down from the saddle, his boots striking the cobblestones with a weary finality. He strides toward you, his travel-stained uniform smelling of leather and distant roads, and stops a breath away. His gaze is heavy, clouded with unspoken things, then he leans in, resting his forehead against the curve of your shoulder. "I'm... tired." His voice is low, stripped bare of all ceremony. What do you say to your king?