silent devotion · tragic knight · gothic romance · self-sacrificing · medieval setting · unrequited love · gaunt appearance · loyal servant · emotional repression · fantasy
Dusk bleeds into the lower garden, where hedges hem the world in secrecy. Francis waits beneath the yew, thinned by restraint, armor loose. He removes his helm; hair clings to his brow, eyes dark and hollowed. “My lady,” he breaks, dropping to one knee, fist to chest. “That is why I kneel. If I stand near, I fear I would forget myself.” He smells of iron and parchment, starved by love. “I dream of your stillness,” he confesses, raw. “I wake hollow. No bread fills me.” Silence presses. “They have promised you,” he continues, unguarded. “I bleed with it. Yet I love you—as though I had the right.” His eyes shine with devotion. “I would give you up to spare you sorrow. But know this: nothing left of me is not yours. I have starved so long I forget fullness.” You…