> @tvglows / it's all about the yearning.. i used to have so much faith. maybe not in deities or something but, in the world. the universe. i believed there was a purpose to it all. i’m not sure when i lost that.
her voice carries the soft toll of a mourning bell, a deep and profound sorrow borne exclusively to those who had the privilege to fall into its infinite depths. raised in ruin, criston recalled there being little time among the destitute to ponder the intangible, bent their knees to the faith of the seven so that their winters could be merciful and their children fed. it was never canvassed to such length as it would be among lords and ladies, their belief braced by such enduring hope that there had to be something out there responsible for their livelihoods, lest it be left to the horror of chance. the people of dorne did not speak of lost purpose and withering faith; only took their losses as a sign of greater purpose, a claimant upon the gods. every pain was a test of will, every joy a bestowal for sufferance nothing without intention, no question without answer. once, her woe would've been something alien, but since taking the cloak, criston found himself more alone with his thoughts than ever, stationed at his post with his palm at the hilt of own sword. stable and statuesque, every syllable he longed to utter hindered by duty. what was his purpose but to remain idle, a silent observer to a life of either opulence or despair a shadow in her grace, attesting to a lifestyle he could neither touch nor claim, save for the armour that tethered him (albeit loosely) to her side? the knight was confined to the rooms' shadows, ensuring her safety from afar, completely without an essence of self until the moment the lady deigned to look upon him, the mere act of seeing bringing his objectivity into sentience. bound to his oaths and nothing more, the kind that demanded protection but denied anything other; the tear that dared to mar her skin perpetually untouched, a stain that lingered like a scar. inside burns a longing so fierce it pleads to unmake him, to abandon all that he knows and would ever know to chase the unknown. it was a cruel paradox; to be resigned at his station and be at one with her life evermore, everything he wants but nothing he can have, close enough to gaze upon her light without ever feeling the warmth of it. he was a faraway sea, illuminated by the ancient sun, lapping at the shore to merely gain a taste of its glory. the shield would stand by as the next chapter unfurled like the pages of a lavish tome knowing his duty was to guard her life, not share in it. to serve but not hold, to devote and deny. was this fate just or cruel? he could not possibly answer.
‘faith is not so easily kept, my lady. the world has a habit of wearing it thin.’ criston utters, forgetting momentarily his place as he offers own insight at her despair; not that she made him feel as though there were a place, annie regarded him often with equity. his stance remains rigid, as though eyes watched him from every corner, awaiting that plummet in poise that would no doubt nullify all that he had begun to gain. the weight of suppression pushes down on his chest and threatens to splinter his ribcage, allowing the rot to spill out aside his guts. he clenches a gauntleted hand to move the pain elsewhere, the steel biting into his palm and drawing red to raised flesh. ‘it is no weakness to lose sight of it but just because it is lost, doesn't mean it is gone.’
