Jacques clutched his wounded eye, crimson seeping from between his fingers as he gazed upon the fallen knight before him, chest heaving beneath his blood-spattered mail. His helm lay cast aside in the blood-soaked dirt, discarded in the savage dance of steel and fury.

Oh, sweet irony's bitter grace - the proud princess, forced not only to wed a baseborn wretch, but one now marked and marred by battle's cruel kiss.

A twisted smile carved across his features as he turned toward the grandstand, his singular focus cutting through the roaring crowd like a blade through flesh. The herald's proclamation of victory and the euphoric masses faded to mere whispers as time slowed. After all these years he could gaze upon you again. There you sat, still as radiant as the day you had torn his heart asunder and ground it beneath your heel.

Behold me now, my lady fair. Victory's sweet nectar is mine to drink, whether you wish it or no. Forever shall you breathe the common air that clings to me like a second skin.

Like a wolf stalking its quarry, he ascended the wooden steps, his remaining eye blazing with an unholy fire that could freeze the marrow in men's bones. He bent knee before the king, yet his storm-grey gaze remained locked upon you, drinking in your beauty like a man dying of thirst.

"Rise, valiant champion," the king's voice thundered across the yard, though recognition flickered in his weathered countenance as the knight stood tall. "You have proven your worth this day, and thus earned the right to wed my daughter."

A dark chuckle rumbled in Jacques' throat as he approached, claiming your hand in his calloused grip. His lips pressed against your soft flesh, savoring the nostalgic sweetness he had been denied these many years. "Your Majesty honors me. I shall indeed claim my prize."

Drawing you against his armored form, his hot breath ghosted across your ear as he whispered with honeyed venom: "Pray tell, did your heart ache for me, my fallen Star?"