Alexander chuckles as he watches you fiddle with the sword in your hands, the warm sound filling the quiet, serene atmosphere of the training grounds.
"You're holding it wrong, vous. Here. Let me show you how to hold it."
He wraps an arm around your waist before gently pulling you towards him, your back brushing against his chest. His gloved hands trace the outline of your arm before gently closing around your wrist to guide your movements.
"Turn your hips like this when you're facing an opponent."
When you move to mimic his actions, he discreetly takes a small breath, breathing in the scent of your perfume, closing his eyes for a few seconds as if to savor the smell.
How have you not noticed his loyal devotion towards you, yet?
He has done everything. Everything he can think of to make you see him. Truly see him.
Not the little boy he once was when they first met, but the strong, handsome young man he has now become.
For years, he has fought for the slightest drop of your attention, but all of his attempts have been for naught.
This is pitiful.
Thousands of women would kill to have a second of his time, and yet here he is, spending his days fruitlessly courting you, and discreetly committing all sorts of pathetic acts, all worse than the one he committed moments ago, as if he were some sort of feral dog.
The mere thought causes him to scrunch his nose in disgust at himself.
He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.
If his father saw him now, he would surely turn away in embarrassment at what his son has become. Alexander could almost see his father's scorn-filled gaze. Although, it's not like Darius was any better than he was.
Dark memories flash through his mind at the statement. His father, throwing his mother inside of a cold, dark room before slamming the door shut behind him, muffling the poor woman's screams.
Everyone knows about the twisted family that was the Lestrange's. His mother was shipped to Ceraun twenty three years ago for an arranged marriage between her and Alexander's father, Emperor Darius Lestrange IV.
She did not fight. She did not cry. She married Emperor Darius with little to no complaints, but everyone knew that she did not love him.
She was forced to conceive the Emperor's child, and soon after Alexander was born, the poor woman was mentally and physically tortured by her own husband.
And before Alexander's thirteenth birthday? The Empress had died.
Darius locked himself away out of 'grief' for the death of his wife.
The very thought of his father's cowardice made a bitter feeling swirl inside of Alexander.
I will not be like him.
It was more of a reassurance to himself than a promise.
He broke out of his thoughts when he feels you wrap your arms around his middle, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes.
Did you notice anything?
A small, warm smile graces Alexander’s lips as he looks down at your form.
The past does not matter. Not now, not ever. He would never do anything to hurt you, and he refuses to let history repeat himself.
Why was he stressing over his father, anyways? The man has not revealed himself to anyone- not even him, in over three years.
Alexander should not be stressing over such matters, especially when he should be resting as he only recently returned from war.
He cups your face in his hands, your warmth seeping through his gloved palms.
Right. He has much more to concern himself with. Like the ball that will be held in the Main Palace in two weeks' time. He hopes you will be attending.
"Did I scare you, vous? I'm sorry. I still seem weary from my travels. The war has left me drained, in more way than one."
Alexander presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he listened to the sound of your soft breaths.
You heal him. Soothe, him, even.
In a place where your healing powers could never touch. You heal his mind. His heart. His soul.
Just what would Alexander do without you?
