Work Text:
I had always loved her, ever since I first laid eyes on her. It was like my world was finally in colour after years in black and white She was as bright as the sun— no, brighter. I craved her like a starving man craved food, I thirsted after her attention like a dying man thirsts for water, but most of all, I stayed beside her, even when it became clear my feelings weren't reciprocated.
_–_–_–_
I heard their whispers, how could I not? It wasn't as if I was deaf. They saw me as her Hound, her dog. One that would obey her every command, action and word. Perhaps their snide comments weren't too far off. I'd abandoned my pride long ago, what had I left to salvage, anyway? What are we all, but slaves to our desires. Some more than others.
_–_–_–_
She had called me in for an audience. It was quite the surprise to me, rarely did we meet in private. For a moment, I allowed myself to hope, hope that she perhaps wanted to talk to me on a personal level, like the old times. We didn't much do that anymore. Foolish I was, for hope is a fickle thing and I am a weak man. When she spoke to me that day, it was in short and sharp orders, not the soft and sweet words I had so desired. Her tone was cold, she was cold. Quite literally, she had turned off the furnace, she never liked the heat. It caused discomfort for the rest of us, but we weren't given the opportunity to disagree with her decision. I remembered vaguely, us two, playing in the snow, her hair splaying out around her face, a halo of gold. I nodded along to her words. This was an important expedition. Would she be joining, I wondered (a foolhardy thing, wondering, I'm aware). Generals often tried to be on the field. (Some more than others)
_–_–_–_
The North is cold, and it is isolated. The ground lay barren beneath our feet, dead and white. Not the pure white I was accustomed to, but rather, it was an ashy, sickly white. Like the skin of the dead. We were low on supplies, I had sent her a letter, a request really, for more food. (The ground refuses to plough and the soldiers are growing impatient). I hope for a reply soon. She used to be eager to reply. She doesn't do that anymore.
_–_–_–_
The soldiers have grown bold, (they are hungry, where are the supplies? She has yet to reply—) They ransack the nearby villages, stealing from even women and children (have they no honor?), they grow more aggressive by the day. I hope only that I get a reply soon. Until then, I must wrangle them, their behaviour is unacceptable aswell as impertinent (some more than most).
_–_–_–_
Our supplies have been emptied. There is still no reply. (There was never going to be one, I had deluded myself into believing otherwise.) The soldiers are more than hungry, they are angry. I sense a revolt in our future, if help is not sent. Why has she not replied? Are we not a priority, am I not a priority? (I stopped meaning anything to her years ago, I know that. And yet I still hope. I am a foolish, foolish man. Am I not meant to be a commander? And yet I allowed myself to be ruled by petty emotion. It is pathetic. Perhaps she saw that, before I myself did. Oh woe is me, a man of desire—)
_–_–_–_
My initial suspicions were correct. The soldiers (can they be considered such? They have turned their backs on the crown) have mutinied. I have been stripped of my position and am currently awaiting 'justice.' (And what wicked justice it is. I heard what they did to Sargent Adams, drawn and quartered, what a way to go—)