BONA FIDE ...!
NOTE ... does this make sense idk I'll edit when I'm alive again
CHARACTER(S) ... dikke
WARNINGS ... religious imagery, insecurity and self deprecation, fucking Shakespearecore English
EXTRA ... gn!reader, "dove" and "deare" used as terms of endearment
Your lover was bona fide.
Honourable Chancellor Dikke, the Supreme Chief of the Special Court; she was justice, kissed upon the soul by the blessings of Themis herself. She had an identity, and it was pure morality.
Who were you to love such a concept you lacked so fervently? What was your heart in the hands of something so grand? Unvirtuous amour had no value to the light of principle — that, you knew well.
So why was it that she embraced you in the eye of the Lord and his children? Why didn't she hide the sin of your shameful affections? Why did she lay with you, brush her lips against your skin, love your mortal existence without fearing His wrath?
"Fie!" Cried she upon your admission of unworthiness, voice akin to thunder. "Speak not of thyself in such terms. Hark, deare: humility be a virtue, but hatred of oneself bringeth naught but misfortune."
Even her holy words carried a purpose. The law accentuated every letter she pronounced with meaning, speech carrying the same power as her words.
And despite her passionate voice, which often reached far into the minor crevices of your body and filled you to the brim, her hands were gentle. The gentle hands of a loyal servant of the Lord, pulling the sinner out of its miserable life of aimlessness, giving it a purpose as the Lord had given her.
Still, the sinner, that is, you, found no purpose, no talent to gift to Him. Instead, you clung to the woman, the vessel of your saviour, and fed off of her love, her strength.
"I'm so sorry, Dikke," you lamented sorrowfully, grasping at the hem of her robes with your sinful hands. "I love you. I love you, and I don't know what to do, Dikke. I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this. Please forgive me."
She hadn't the faintest clue what you meant; after all, the two of you had been, say, courting for a long while. "Speak clearly. Thou discourseth in riddles."
You weeped pitifully at her feet. It was where you belonged, really. It was impossible to put into words, and thus, you didn't.
"Soft now, enough of this. Stand." Her bleeding sword's belly kissed the pike of your shoulder with a comforting weight.
Dikke wasn't a gentle woman. Any average human was soft. Sweet on their lover and doting on their father. But she was anything but average; she fancied you, wooed you with a stony gaze and a single rose. She never once minced her words to fit the shape of her love, filling it instead with chivalry and verity to cleanse your corrupt heart.
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself, said the Great Commandment, and it rang true in the ears of your beloved.
"I am not the Father; wherefore dost thou treatest me as an idol? By the Holy Lord's decree, I bear mortal sin just as thou dost." Her voice rang low, stony hand lowering like an angel from the heavens to greet your cheek. "Love be not a sin, sweet (#)."
Her words licked at your soul like a flame, momentarily engulfing your awareness of her rare physical affection. "From someone like me, even love can become a sin. My heart—"
"Thy heart corrupteth naught. I am not the Lord, nor an angel, and thou art not the devil. We stand as equal in His eye."
White enamel dug into the subtle rose of her lip as she lowered herself onto one knee, letting her pride melt to nothing, scorched by the embers of her love.
Justice itself kneeled before you — no, not justice, but your beloved.
For the first time, you met the steel eyes of your lover, and not those of justice. It was beautiful, lustrous, but most importantly... it was human.
"Stand, sweet (#), for thou shalt not abandon dignity, nor self respect, under the guise of humility." She offered you a hand, eyes growing soft.
A lovely rose dusted her cheeks like a summer breeze as she brought you to your feet, sword long abandoned at her own as she presented you with a single flower, stripped of thorns, and the very same as the one she had offered in order to court you.
Perhaps you didn't understand yet. Values? Morals? It was all maddeningly complex. But for now, you knew one thing for sure.
Your lover — your mortal lover — was bona fide.
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