In case you still had doubts I don't own them.

Watching, Wanting, Wondering

I hate her already. My most beloved lord has returned after a long absence, calf-eyed and mooning over her. They say he will marry her, that it is a good match, her and him. I despise her and I have never seen her.

Nor has he ever seen me. Not the way I would wish him to. To him I am simply, there. I fade into the walls in his eyes it seems. But I see him, even in my sleep. He speaks to me in my dreams, long conversations sometimes, but mostly short ones that he interrupts to kiss me. I wonder what he tastes like.

It shames me to say but I have watched him for so long. He never seems to notice my scrutiny, many ladies of the court watch his every move when he is here. When he is not they gossip about him, speak longingly of smiles that seemingly came their way, words that may have been meant for their ears. I doubt any of the moments they obsess over have been etched into his memory the way they have been carved into theirs. He always seems in a hurry, his walk is measured, almost patient looking, but all too soon he has passed by, gone to the next room, the next ride, the next duty.

They watch him, those women, but they do not spy like I do, creeping along hallways hoping for a glimpse, a moment that I can carve into my own memory. He hates spies, he hates those that obsess over someone that cannot be theirs. He would hate me if he knew. I have dozens of excuses that I have practiced in case I am caught. I do not wish for him to hate me. I prefer the indifference that I receive.

He is tall, my would be beloved. Tall in many ways. I have rarely seen any taller than he, but even if they are he can make them believe he is the taller. I have seen him argue with a man who at first looked down on him, by the end of the argument the taller man was smaller and looked up at him. He can have a bad temper if he is provoked and he was often goaded for a time. But I don not think he would ever truly strike in anger, not a woman in any case. He is smarter than that.

I hate and envy her, this woman he courts. I will only ever have brief glances of him and guess at what he would say to someone he loves. I have overheard words he has said to his sister, but it is not the same love that I wish I had. His lady will hear words in her ear, see him smile at her. She will be able to ask him about the scars that pattern his bare back. I wonder about them. They don't make him any less handsome to me, the jagged lines and marks that no one is meant to have seen. There would be a tale for each one, even if they are hazy rememberings. Memories that are mostly dulled, or perhaps sharpened by the pain that accompanied them. I do not know if he would tell them to her, but he would never tell them to me. I recall when he returned to recover from injury, can guess which are the ones that nearly cost him his life, but he has scars that I will never see.

I love his hands, hands that have used a sword too well and on rare occasions not well enough. I have seen those hands pressed to an open cut on his brow, blood on his fingertips. He has held cups and moved chairs, tossed back papers in annoyance, thrown objects in frustration. But I have seen him offer comfort with those hands, a hand on a shoulder, on a feverish forehead. Once he offered me a hand to stand when I slipped on a stair. His hand was on mine so briefly, but I remember so well. It was snowing that day so we both wore gloves, I wish it had been summer. I want to feel his bare skin.

AN: Read and review if you have time. No pressure... Okay there is pressure, please?