She is my queen. This I know, of this I must remind myself, lately.

I have sharpened my blade on her name; for her sake I have become the finest swordsman in the land. No one shall stand against me, and no harm shall befall her. This have I pledged: my loyalty and my steel are hers. Save the Queen.

But you--

I kneel before you, as you lie sleeping on your mother's throne, lost in that evil slumber. They may think it is merely reverence, the familiar careful gesture of honoring the princess. But I am not sure my legs will hold me; I find myself unsteady. Your face is so still, not even a breath trembling on your lips.

It is for you that I stay. I suppose it is a weakness that I have never said so, my princess, that I wait until such time as this to think on it. It is your name I shout in victory on the battlefield. You move my blood, my muscles dance with the cadence of your approval. My sword may bear your mother's title, but the heart that beats behind it is solely yours.

For her sake I would bleed.

For your sake I would die.

This a gentler woman might call love. I fear I know nothing of such tenderness, my lady. My edges are steel, and my fingers are callused with the weight of my sword. But you do not turn from the touch of my fingertips as I brush the hair from your face, and I might imagine that none of that mattered.

I do not remember the last time I was inspired to pray.

All my strength will not avail me here, in the face of such magic, no clever turn or swiftness of hand might rouse you from that horrible sleep. And I know the one responsible. For him it is only a game, to run his pale fingers through your hair, to whisper a careless word and send your heart to dreaming.

When I find myself face to face with him again, I will show him no mercy, this time.

You are so still, beneath my unshaking hands. Like a sleeping doll, as if just a tilt of your porcelain head could lift those dark eyelashes-- as if it were not foul magic weighting your eyelids, resting heavy underneath your heart to keep you in that darkness.

No children's stories, my lady, no prince to wake you.

Only I, your faithful general, my fingers wrapped around the hilt of a useless blade, closing my eyes to summon whatever healing I can, hoping it might, perhaps, be enough. Not thinking of the quiet of your smile, or the sleepy laugh I have heard so many times before, the sight of you fresh woken from a dream. Not imagining the way you might squeeze my arm in gratitude, no matter the propriety of gesture and touch, and the feeling of your fingers on my skin--

Whispering, so that no one else might hear my treasonous thoughts: save not the queen, but the princess.