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Sinking to the knee, bowing her head in respect, Jean Gunnhildr does not feel ashamed.
Pride — the trait of her family name and it is humbly silent as Jean's lips touch the gloved knuckles — sparks of electricity even through the fabric leave a ghostly trace on her lips. She silently vows to remember even such a fleeting touch, vows to keep it, vows to remember it in the midst of the hottest battles. She promises aloud to be always to Her Majesty's side, whispers this promise into her knuckles, not daring to look up — afraid to betray all the awe that — like a spark — creeps into her steely gaze. She's afraid to give herself away.
But her Queen — oh, she knows. Knows about everything, because it is not for nothing that she bears the title of the Witch of Purple Rose.
A chuckle. Jean feels her heart stop for a moment, only to go into a frenzied rhythm afterwards, because... the Queen's hand slips from her grasp. For one simple gesture. Her face is lifted by the chin. And Jean suffocates. She is suffocated by the electric storm that rages in her chest, because in Lisa's eyes — a trembling adoration, in her eyes (which is rare) there is a glimpse of smile.
And her lips turn into a smug, cat-like grin.
«My loyal knight... do you swear to be crowned one day? With me?»
Jean swallows. And proudly, and firmly, she whispers an oath to her Queen.