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The prince was crying on his account, he realised.
The young heir to the throne, blinking away unworthy tears and repeating his simple plea for friendship...
It could have softened any heart, ought to have, but something made the older boy hold aloof.
Not pride alone, not even a dislike for his "suitor"...
He was afraid that on once giving in, he would be lost; looking back, he could put the feeling into better words than his childish, uncertain self.
He'd known, already, that whatever drew the prince to him was a fatal bond, that if the knot between their souls were allowed to tighten it would become one he never escaped.
And, still, he'd let his guard down at the last, worn down not by those pleading tears but by the time they had been kept back for his sake...
He stood in front of the prince again, the little boy who'd long outpaced him in height and would, Lord willing, go on to leave him behind in years.
That boy's eyes were still the same, large and dark and completely incapable of pretence.
Large, and dark, and once more full of tears.
It was a good cause to die for, a good face to see in one's last moments...
He wasn't lying about being content with that death.
And yet, part of Rodrigo still wondered, would it be ending thus had he never blurred loyalty into love?