The Weight of Loyalty
Knight!Fingon x reader
A/N: I told you all I wanted to write a yearning Fingon, and my fingers slipped and went down the angst road. I’ll make it up with some fluffy content soon. I’ll take my leave now. Bye and enjoy!
Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, Knight au, Royal au, reader in a forced marriage to another royal, heartbreak, argument, separation
Words: 3.2k
Synopsis: It is well known that royals must marry for political alliances, but when that marriage revolves around you suffering more than being happy, how long could Fingon stand by and play your emotional support, before you return to your husband? He remains your unwavering protector, but even he had his limits…and a heart.
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Your husband’s voice still echoed in the back of your skull long after the door had shut behind you.
“You will not question me again—not in my halls, not in front of others. Learn your place, or I’ll have you shipped back like a parcel your father wrapped too tightly.”
There were moments you should have screamed or slapped him, but all you had done was stand there, spine rigid and throat burning, and let the words sear you from the inside out. Now, the silence outside your chambers felt heavier than the shouting had. The corridor was dim despite the hour—narrow windows let in strips of filtered sun, but the air felt stale, trapped like you were.
Slowly, you traversed the hallway, almost aimlessly, fingers twitching at your sides like they didn’t know what to do when not folded properly in your lap. A few guards passed your way, but none were yours. They were all his, and it made you hate the way they stared—stoic, unreadable, but aware. Clearly, they had heard the exchange. Straightening your posture and lifting your chin, you forced your expression back into that carefully carved mask of serenity.
“Your Highness,” a voice suddenly murmured.
Turning toward it instinctively, your heart stuttering in your chest.
Fingon.
He stepped into the light, having just relieved the last guard of his station. His dark hair was half-pulled back as always; silver armour still dulled with the wear of morning drills. His eyes—blue like sapphires—immediately dropped to your face, and you knew what he saw. It only prompted the corners of your mouth to tighten, while you failed to wipe away the dull wetness in your eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in that famed tender tone he always used with you.
“No,” you said, a little too quickly. “I’m—he was simply upset. It’s nothing.”
He didn’t speak, nor did his expression change, but the slow clench of his jaw betrayed him. You always hated how easy it was for him to see right through you.
“I came out to walk,” you added, grasping for a reason to be there that wasn’t shame. “The air inside was stifling.”
“I can accompany you,” he immediately replied.
“You’re due to patrol the eastern gardens,” you replied. “Your schedule—”
“Let me walk with you.”
Just for a second, you paused, eyes locked onto his face, before nodding. The corridor stretched long ahead of you, polished stone and velvet banners were silent witnesses to your quiet disgrace. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but he walked beside you, always a half-step behind, hand resting near the pommel of his sword in the same protective stance he’d taken for years. You forced yourself to swallow past the ache in your throat.
“I shouldn’t have come to you like this,” you muttered.
“You always do,” he gently replied with a small degree of firmness which made your eyes sting again.
He turned slightly, just enough to see your face better without breaking stride. “What did he say to you?”
You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does because you matter.”
There it was. The line he always tiptoed. The one he kept crossing in ways no one else noticed but you. The one you wanted to lean into. Into him. But instead, you exhaled, long and thin, and looked away. “He’s my husband. I must honour him. Even if he—”
“Even if he dishonours you?” His voice was barely more than a breath. “Is that what your marriage vows meant?”
There was no way to answer him; too many answers—none of them the kind a knight should hear from the lips of a married person. So you kept walking, even as the silence between you began to stretch too tightly, until it ached. The gardens weren’t far. Not the grand ones meant for feasts and politics, but the smaller walled one hidden between the old stone corridors and the servant paths. A forgotten corner of the palace. You used to come here every morning before the marriage. Back when Fingon was your only shadow.
Slipping through the narrow gate first, fabric brushing over the gravel path while the iron creaked behind you as he followed. The overgrown hedges and wild rose bushes had claimed the edges of the space, and the low stone bench near the fountain sat untouched under a jacaranda tree. Pale blossoms had started to fall. It made you remember the first time they’d bloomed.
That time, he had brought you here to escape the noise of the court.
Sitting down with a quiet sigh, the moment you did, the memory pressed in like breath against your skin.
—
It had been spring, though the air was still sharp with winter’s bite, when you had complained about your aching feet after standing through another speech that had gone on far too long. And he—ever observant, ever silent—had stepped behind you in the corridor and murmured, “Come with me.”
He led you to this very garden, his hand brushing your elbow to guide you past the thorns. Though he didn’t speak much, not at first, but when he did—
“I do not think you were made for such places,” he had said then, glanced at the empty path. “Courts. Thrones. Masks.”
You snorted. “And what do you think I was made for, Sir Fingon?”
He had hesitated, just a second, but when his eyes met yours, it knocked the air from your chest.
“You were made for the stars.”
It had been a joke or perhaps it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell then and you still weren’t sure. However, you remembered smiling even when you hadn’t meant to.
—
“Do you remember?” Fingon asked quietly behind you, prompting you to glance over your shoulder and notice that he remained standing, straight-backed and distant, as though his presence here, even now, needed permission.
“I do,” you murmured.
“I used to bring you here when the court grew too loud.”
“You still do,” you muttered, almost bitterly. “Some things haven’t changed.”
But they had. Everything had. The distance between you now was no longer decorum. It was pain. It was choices made under the weight of crowns and bloodlines. It was the cold shape of your husband’s ring pressing against your finger when you curled your hands together to hide their trembling.
He finally moved to sit beside you with a measured grace, yet still out of reach. “You’ve changed,” he softly whispered with his eyes ahead.
And you didn’t argue, just closed your eyes, and let the wind carry the memory away. Yet easily the silence returned, but it was no longer gentle. It was taut like a bow drawn too long, and you could feel it in the way Fingon didn’t look at you now. The way his shoulders had set like stone, as though bracing himself. God, you wished he would speak, at the same time, you hoped he wouldn’t.
You wished a thousand things, and none of them came true.
“I’m tired,” he suddenly declared.
You blinked your eyes open. “Then rest.”
“Not like that,” he said, turning his head at last to look at you. “I’m tired of watching you break.”
You stiffened.
“I swore to protect you,” he continued. “But how do I protect you from the man you choose to lie beside every night?”
“That’s not fair,” you calmly stated.
“It isn’t,” he agreed. “None of this is.”
Your mouth went dry. “It wasn’t my choice, Fingon.”
“No,” he confirmed warily. “But staying was.”
Rising to your feet, the bench felt suddenly like a trap, and the air in the garden too thick to breathe. “You presume too much. He is my husband.”
He rose too, slower. “He is your captor.”
“That is treason.”
“Then hang me.”
You stared at him, stunned by the venom in his voice, but it wasn’t rage. It was grief. Bitter, old grief that had been buried too long under years of self-control and half-swallowed longing.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” you said finally.
“No. You came because he hurt you again. You came like you always do, hoping I’ll hold the pieces together until you can gather yourself and return to him.”
Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” he softly inquired. “Because it’s cruel? Or because it’s true?”
You turned your face away, but he stepped forward—just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and the weight of his presence pressing against every part of you that still remembered what it felt like to be seen by someone.
“I can’t do it anymore,” he defeatedly muttered.
Your heart stopped.
“I cannot be the one you run to only when it’s convenient. I cannot watch him bruise your pride, your light, and pretend I’m content with just tending your wounds in silence.”
“I never asked you to—”
“You didn’t have to,” he interrupted, breaking slightly. “I gave myself to you freely. But I am not a sword you can sheath and draw at your leisure.”
The tears burned hot behind your eyes. “I can’t leave. You know I can’t.”
“You can,” he corrected with a smile that almost touched his eyes. “You just won’t.”
You looked at him, at the lines in his face drawn tight with heartbreak, at the sorrow that had replaced the yearning in his eyes. He wasn’t pleading anymore. He was resigning. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame him.
“I was going to ask if you would stay the night,” you whispered.
There was a sharp exhale, like the words struck something soft inside him. “I would have said yes. Even knowing it would kill me—” he paused momentarily to compose himself before speaking, “—but I can’t anymore. Because if I do, I might kill him. And I would rather burn for treason than serve a man who dares lay hands, or words, on you like that.”
You opened your mouth to stop him, to offer some comfort, but he shook his head.
“No more,” he mustered. “Do not come to me unless you’re ready to choose something more than your titles.” Then he stepped back. Just one step—but it was a chasm. One you couldn’t cross…not yet, you hoped.
“I… I never meant to use you,” you breathed on the verge of tears. “I never meant to be this cruel.”
He turned slightly, just enough that you could see the curve of his cheek, the profile of his pain etched deep into the lines of his face. “You weren’t cruel,” he corrected patiently. “You were scared. Obedient. Loyal.” He looked back fully then. “Just not to me.”
The truth of it landed hard. You’d always worn loyalty like armour, used it to survive the court, the marriage, the weight of a name that was never really yours. But in the doing, you’d buried something else—something tender, fragile and whole—beneath the suffocating expectations of royalty.
Your voice cracked. “You think I haven’t wanted to choose you?”
His jaw twitched. “Wanting and choosing are not the same.”
The wind stirred the petals again, pale lilac spirals falling between you like ash. You watched him through them, this knight who had never once failed to shield you even from yourself, and now he stood ready to walk away, sword at his hip, honour intact, heart in ruins. “I don’t want to keep coming back like this,” you admitted. “Crying to you like a coward. But I don’t know how else to survive this.”
“You aren’t a coward,” he said. “But you’re choosing a life that devours you because it’s what’s expected. You let them decide for you and then wonder why you feel hollow.”
You stepped forward once, then stopped.
“There are walls,” you said softly. “So many walls between you and me. Marriage, duty, bloodlines. I was born to be used. I’m a bargaining chip. A pretty thing dressed in gold and married off to buy peace.”
He looked at you then like it physically hurt him to agree. “But you don’t have to stay used.” He stepped toward you. Just a step. Then another. And when he was close enough to touch, he didn’t. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched, shaking slightly. “Tell me to stay,” he whispered lowly, trembling with the last dregs of his restraint. “Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”
He waited for your answer, but when you failed to speak, when all you could do was cry and tremble and ache, he breathed out slowly, as though releasing something final. He stepped back.
“Very well, Your Highness. Then I cannot do this anymore,” he announced with a broken voice. “I love you. But I will not stay to watch you break apart in silence while pretending I do not.”
Sobbing softly into your hand, turning away from him instinctively, you whispered, “F-Fingon…”
“I know,” he said.
—
The door shut behind you with a soft click, but it felt like the world had slammed itself shut instead. You stood there, alone in the centre of your chambers, the golden light of the setting sun painting streaks across the marble floor. It was too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you notice your own breathing, the rustle of fabric, the lonely crackle of the hearth that hadn’t been stoked in hours.
You hadn’t spoken a word since Fingon left the garden. He’d stepped away, and yet it had splintered something deep in you, a crack where there had already been too many.
You pressed your hand to your chest, fingers curled against the fabric just above your heart as if you could hold the pieces together physically. Because without him—without Fingon—you were no longer sure who you were pretending to be. There had always been a ritual to your misery: the fight, the silence, the tears pressed into your pillow, then your quiet escape to find him, your knight who had never once turned you away, no matter how cold or dutiful you’d become.
You hadn’t begged, nor had you wept. You hadn’t even touched him when he’d looked like he needed it most. You’d let him go because that’s what royalty did—stood tall, even as they shattered inside.
Even in times like this, your husband’s patronising voice echoed in your head.
“You’ll do as you’re told. You’re mine now. Forget whatever fantasy you held with that brute. You are my spouse. Not a child anymore.”
He had always hated Fingon. Hated the way he stood too close, the way he looked at you like you were precious, or the way you looked back, even when you didn’t mean to. The connection was never spoken aloud, but it lived in every breath you shared with him, every glance that lingered just too long. And now, you had nothing but the absence of it.
It made you missed him even more.
You missed the man who knew when to speak and when to stand beside you in silence. The one who didn’t flinch when you were cruel with your words because he knew you were trying to protect him. The one who looked at you like you were still whole, even when you felt in pieces. But he was right. You made your choice a hundred times over, and every time it chipped away at what was left between you.
Feeling like the weight of the world was on your shoulders, you flopped onto the floor beside your bed and wallowed in your self-pity, dismissing all who came to request your presence for the rest of the evening. Though the memory of his plea replayed in your mind like a wound that refused to clot. His voice was all cracked and tender.
“Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”
As the days followed, you filled the space of his absence with routine. Letters. Appearances. Words you didn’t believe, smiles that never touched your eyes. But everywhere you turned, you saw him. The shade of his cloak in a passing figure. The rhythm of his footsteps in a guard’s march. A voice too close to his speaking down a corridor. And yet still, the courage to confront him once again, and say something—anything—to fill the gap he left behind fell at your feet. You felt like a coward.
That is until a week passed when his lack of appearance, followed by his voice, and then his presence finally cut you deeply. There was no shadow, no whisper, not even his scent or warmth. Just coldness and absence. That’s when you attempted to seek him out once again, not expecting a heavy withdrawal.
“Haven’t a clue where he went. He left at dawn a week ago, Your Highness,” the steward said. “Didn’t tell a soul. Not even the guards. Just left a single parcel in the armoury with your name on it.”
“A parcel?”
The steward nodded. “Didn’t even touch any of the wealth owed to him. Said it wasn’t why he served.”
Of course he hadn’t.
Later, you waited until nightfall when the halls had emptied and the firelight in the armoury cast long golden shadows. Your fingers curled around the heavy iron ring of keys with the ache of old habit, the clink of metal against the door sending a jolt through your spine like an echo from another life.
The parcel was easy to find. Wrapped in dark cloth, tied in worn leather cord. His handwriting marked the label—simple.
Your name.
No title.
Just you.
You stared at it for a long while, holding it against your chest before unwrapping it slowly, as if it might vanish if you rushed.
Inside was his sword belt. Not the ceremonial one. Not the polished silver he wore before kings. This was the leather one—dark, worn, marred by battle. The one you had helped him repair once when the clasp cracked, and he’d been too stubborn to ask the blacksmith. You’d stitched it yourself, your fingers clumsy with a needle, laughing as he tried not to wince when you pricked him.
Folded inside the belt was a single piece of parchment.
I left the sword. I will not raise it again—not unless it is for you. You are more than what they’ve made you. One day, you’ll remember that. And when you do, I’ll come back. —F
The parchment trembled in your hands as you read it over and over again, hoping that you had accidentally misread the words or the light was playing tricks on your eyes. It wasn’t a declaration or a promise. It was a truth, laid bare, and it pained more than any farewell.
Burying your face in the leather and parchment, you allowed the sobs to escape your chest this time. You didn’t hide the rattles through your bones, stripping you down to the raw thing Fingon had always seen when you tried so hard to be polished, composed, royal.
The candles burned down low, and you refused to move, staying until your tears dried. Until the ache in your chest quieted into something slower, softer, less like grief, more like remembrance. Until you opened your eyes and realised what you had done.
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