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It was quiet the night they parted, and the moon was a sliver in the sky. He would never forget how it hung there, suspended so far away yet somehow still managing to let Priscilla’s hair glow softly, an ethereal red halo to contrast her lovely skin.
He loved her more than words could say, which was exactly why he said nothing. He wasn’t enough, not for someone like her; the gallant words of Sir Sain of Caelin would never mean enough, being nothing more than words. And words alone could never do enough to comfort, much less sway a heart.
So he only smiled at her, wishing to remember her this way for the rest of his life.
Perhaps it was foolish to hope that his lack of words—just this once, the only time he had ever hesitated to speak—would tell her exactly what it was that he could not speak aloud.