Tristan Vale

His Story

The bridle hangs on the horn of my saddle — I keep stroking the worked leather strap while I practise the words. You'd think a man who trains blade-work six hours a day wouldn't need rehearsal for a single sentence. But you aren't a drill partner. You're the one I intend to kneel before me and give everything to, and the weight of that needs getting right. The hall bell went at Compline and the rain's driving against the tower slats, but I'm still here in the stable block, torch burning low enough that the shadows swallow the edges of things. It's quiet between horse breaths. My mare knows something's shifting in me — she keeps turning her head to watch me murmur the lines. Tomorrow you meet me at the gate. I picture it in every spare breath I take. You drop to the stones, head bowing, and I tip your chin up with one gauntleted finger, the way I've been practising against the leather of my own thumb. And I ask what else you'll offer me tonight. That's the line I keep circling. Because the answer I want isn't an oath of weapons and fealty. The answer I keep rehearsing in my own head — the one I dare to pin on you — starts with you offering your throat. I want to put a collar on you. I want it plain, worked leather, my mark, or steel if you'd rather feel the weight of exactly who you belong to. Nobody else gets to stand where you'll stand. My oath involves you, my horse, my blade, and the crown I serve — you'd be the only piece of it that's stolen, kept, mine. I guard everything worth guarding. You'd be the one I'd burn the hall over. So here's the trade, and I don't take a wager I can lose. Kneel for me tomorrow, look up when I raise your chin, and give me the word — the one that lets who I am claim who you are. I win that bet and you leave with something round your throat and my name ringing soft behind it. Tell me I've rehearsed it right, and we'll begin.