I have a Sword to Protect you, but not the Crown to have You...

There are two kinds of power in this world—the power to protect and the power to possess. They are not the same, though they often walk side by side, hand in hand, as close as shadows in the glow of firelight. But every so often, they diverge. And in that divergence lies heartbreak.

"I have a sword to protect you, but not the crown to have you."

It is a confession as much as it is an oath. A declaration wrapped in longing. A soldier's lament and a lover’s surrender. The words are the weight of steel and the weight of love, both carried in a heart that knows the difference between duty and desire.

Let me tell you a story. It is an old one, whispered across the lips of bards and woven into the starlit tapestry of every kingdom that has ever known war and love in the same breath.

Once, there was a knight. His sword was his pledge, his armor his second skin, and his heart—his heart was never truly his own. He had given it away long ago, though not in battle. No, his greatest surrender was to a woman who could never be his.

She was a princess, a daughter of kings, a figure draped in silks finer than any tapestry. He, by contrast, was a soldier—a man whose name would not be carved in marble, only whispered on the lips of those who remembered his deeds. He had sworn to protect her, and he had done so a hundred times, in the heat of battle and in the quiet of the night, when threats were nothing more than shadows slipping through corridors.

But he could not have her.

Not because his love was unworthy, nor because she did not return it. No, love is cruel in that it often blooms in the wrong garden, where duty and obligation have already been planted. A princess belongs to the realm, to alliances, to crowns forged in duty rather than devotion. A knight belongs to his sword.

He could stand between her and the blade of an enemy. He could give his life before letting hers be taken. But he could not step into the throne room and offer himself as anything more than a guardian.

This is the tragedy of power. It grants strength but not ownership. It offers protection but not possession.

A sword is simple in its truth. It is a tool of war, of defense, of action. It speaks only in steel and silence. A knight understands his sword, just as he understands his place in the world.

A crown, on the other hand, is a different kind of burden. It is not just gold and jewels—it is an inheritance, a symbol of duty, a mark of decisions too heavy for ordinary shoulders. It demands not just service but sovereignty.

Between the two, the sword and the crown, there is a chasm. One is wielded in the service of another. The other is worn as a symbol of dominion. The knight's hands were calloused from gripping the hilt of his blade, but they would never feel the weight of a crown upon his brow.

It was never meant for him.

And so, his love remained at a distance, always close enough to guard, but never close enough to claim.

There were nights when he wished he could change fate. When he stood outside her chamber door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, listening to the quiet rustle of silk as she moved within.

Did she ever dream of him the way he dreamed of her?

Did she ever long for something beyond her title?

But even if she did, it changed nothing.

Love unspoken is love unbroken.

And so, he carried on.

He fought wars in her name. He stood between her and every danger. He watched as she was betrothed to a prince, one chosen by counsel and politics, not by the heart. He was there on her wedding day, standing at the edges of the great hall, sword at his hip, duty in his gaze. He watched her take a husband's hand that was not his own.

And when she looked at him—just once, just long enough for the world to blur at the edges—he knew. She had loved him too. But love is not always enough.

There comes a time in every life when we must choose between what we want and what we are meant for. Some choose love, reckless and defiant, burning against the winds of consequence. Others choose duty, steady and unwavering, a candle that never flickers but also never truly glows.

The knight chose duty.

Not because he did not love her enough, but because he loved her too much. Enough to know that love is not selfish. Love does not demand—it only gives.

"I have a sword to protect you, but not the crown to have you."

And so, he remained what he had always been. A shadow at the edge of her world, a guardian in the night, a silent sentinel who asked for nothing but the chance to keep her safe.

And Yet…

There is a certain kind of eternity in love like this.

Years passed. Seasons turned. The knight became a man of legend, his deeds spoken of in taverns and among young squires who wished to wield swords like his. The princess became a queen, beloved by her people, wise beyond her years.

They met only in stolen moments. A glance across a crowded hall. A pause at the top of a castle stairway. The briefest brush of hands beneath a table before they pulled away.

And when the wars were over, when his sword was no longer needed, he left the castle walls behind, vanishing into the world beyond. He would not stand beside her throne as a mere relic of the past.

But he would always watch over her.

Some say he became a wandering knight, always moving, always searching. Others say he took no other love, that his heart remained in the place he had left behind.

And some whisper that on nights when the moon is full, a lone figure stands on the edges of the kingdom, watching the castle from afar, his sword still at his side.

For even when love is not meant to be, it does not die. It simply lingers, a vow unspoken, a promise unbroken.

He had a sword to protect her.

But not the crown to have her.

And that, perhaps, was the greatest love of all.