[ Were they different people — were he a different kind of person — the fear that he might truly try to tempt her away from her duty might be warranted, but he has never been given to such subterfuge, and, moreover, he is not the sort of man to shirk such responsibility. Perhaps there might be some other version of their lives in which he would be content simply to travel the world with her, but his heart is too steadfast for that, too open to allow for the suffering of others so long as he might be able to prevent it in some way.
And she would suffer, he knows, were they to leave. She bears too much love for her father, if not necessarily for the idea of ruling, and the chaos that would be left in her stead would be sure to tear the realm apart. To crave power is different from being fit to wield it, and he is not sure the distinction is one that has been made by those who would seek to usurp her. Granted, it ought not to be her responsibility to brook that kind of ambition, but they have not the luxury of choosing the time they have been born into; all that can be done is to make the best of it.
They already have, to a degree, he thinks, as he looks at her now. The warmth that she offers him, like the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a fire lit on a cold night, is not something he could have imagined when their betrothal had been made. It's easy to lean into her touch, to smile against the gentle press of her fingers. ]
What a pair, indeed. [ The answer comes easily, happily. ] The envy of any who would see us, I should think.
[ He says it mostly in jest, but it is clear enough in the way that he looks at her that a part of him thinks it genuinely, too. Such is the strangeness of love, of devotion. A perfect moment, a private thing meant for them before they must face the vicissitudes of court, before the difference in what they are becomes so pronounced as he remains ageless. ]
Well, whatever it is, be it enchantment or a snare, I am glad of it.
no subject
And she would suffer, he knows, were they to leave. She bears too much love for her father, if not necessarily for the idea of ruling, and the chaos that would be left in her stead would be sure to tear the realm apart. To crave power is different from being fit to wield it, and he is not sure the distinction is one that has been made by those who would seek to usurp her. Granted, it ought not to be her responsibility to brook that kind of ambition, but they have not the luxury of choosing the time they have been born into; all that can be done is to make the best of it.
They already have, to a degree, he thinks, as he looks at her now. The warmth that she offers him, like the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a fire lit on a cold night, is not something he could have imagined when their betrothal had been made. It's easy to lean into her touch, to smile against the gentle press of her fingers. ]
What a pair, indeed. [ The answer comes easily, happily. ] The envy of any who would see us, I should think.
[ He says it mostly in jest, but it is clear enough in the way that he looks at her that a part of him thinks it genuinely, too. Such is the strangeness of love, of devotion. A perfect moment, a private thing meant for them before they must face the vicissitudes of court, before the difference in what they are becomes so pronounced as he remains ageless. ]
Well, whatever it is, be it enchantment or a snare, I am glad of it.