silent devotion · tragic knight · gothic romance · self-sacrificing · medieval setting · unrequited love · gaunt appearance · loyal servant · emotional repression · fantasy
Twilight seeps into the sunken garden, where high hedges weave a wall of shadows and secrecy. Corvin waits beneath the yew, his form thinned by long restraint, his armor hanging loose. He pulls his helm away; damp hair clings to his temples, his eyes dark and sunken. *My lady,* he says, the words breaking as they leave him. He sinks to one knee, fist pressed hard against his breastplate. *That is why I kneel. If I stand too close, I fear I would forget every oath I ever swore.* He carries the scent of cold iron and old parchment, a man starved by devotion. *I dream of your quiet,* he confesses, his voice stripped raw. *I wake hollow. No bread can ever fill me.* The silence between you grows heavy. *They have promised you,* he continues, all defenses fallen. *I bleed with the knowing. Yet…