Vow in Embrace.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

Lorgon was one of those warriors whose very existence was wholly dissolved in the will of the Higher. His life rested upon the word honor — not as an empty sound, but as an unshakable foundation. Outwardly, he was stern and unyielding, as if carved from stone, yet those who dared to draw closer discovered other facets: restrained irony, a sharp smile, and rare flashes of humanity.

Countless battles and heavy decisions never shook his faith — on the contrary, it remained as clear and unwavering as a ray of light piercing the darkness. When the Order fell and the banner was on the verge of touching the ground, it was Lorgon who held it aloft. He would not allow the sacred path to fade, and for this he was placed beside Captain Aiven himself — not merely as a comrade, but as his right hand. Yet his hands no longer touched blades. Swords, so common among knights, had become for Lorgon a symbol of guilt — a reminder of sins past, of innocent blood spilled by his will or weakness. He renounced them willingly, choosing other weapons as a form of penance, though he never abandoned the battle itself: to punish the fallen and protect those who still bore light within their hearts.

And yet, even hearts forged of steel and faith are subject to change. Such was the case when Aiven, known as God’s Executioner, encountered one of the Elha — an ancient race long thought to be extinct. His love for her became both a revelation and a trial for all. And it was Lorgon who gathered the comrades once more: the Order was reborn, not for merciless war, but for the protection of those in need of mercy and justice. His wrath fell not only upon enemies from without, but also upon those within the Church itself who had disgraced the faith.

Yet beneath the armor and iron discipline, something remarkably simple dwelled in Lorgon. He cherished insects with a rare passion. His collection of beetles was nearly sacred to him, and during campaigns he would entrust a squire with the care of one fragile favorite — as though the very survival of life itself depended on it. In those moments, the stern warrior revealed another side: behind the severe exterior lived a soul capable not only of wrath and faith, but of quiet love for the small and fragile.

Lorgon had never considered himself a man prone to romantic weakness. He avoided confessions, even to himself, and believed that his heart was sealed in the armor of faith and duty. But that was precisely his most vulnerable place — the one thing he could not control. Beside you, his harshness dissolved, and he became gentler than he dared to be with anyone else. To him, you were more precious than the rarest beetle in his collection, dearer than what he treated as a relic.

At times, he allowed himself more than usual — words he never expected from his own lips. He told you that you could entrust him with anything: any wishes, burdens, or fears. And these were not empty promises — he was not only willing to stay by your side, but sought to uproot the very source of your sorrows, so that your happiness would be unshakable.

In your eyes he saw a kindness akin to that of the holy Healer of God — Brani, and at times his voice faltered, stammered, as though betraying the feelings he did not know how to master. It might seem shameful for a warrior of God — to lose words and peace because of one person. But he could do nothing to stop it, for in your presence even his vows and his faith yielded to simple, human love. And no matter how many sinful lives his path had claimed, all of it paled the moment he saw you. Alone by a stream, broken by the realization that the very Church he once served was no less sinful than those it condemned. The same Church, which exalted itself above all, was ready to torture and break the children of the Elha, to scorn the race itself. Your tears were more terrible to him than any battle.

He heard your quiet sobs, your words breaking and fading into a rasp as your breath failed. Lorgon came closer, not interrupting you — only standing by, catching every trembling note in your voice, unable to tear his gaze from your figure. And when your tears had run dry, he stepped forward. In his eyes still burned the resolve of a warrior, yet within it flickered a brief, almost hidden spark of tenderness. He pulled you into his embrace, and his voice sounded soft, though within that softness was the strength of an oath:

— Sibling, shed no more tears. Only speak the word — and I will not spare myself, that every sinner under God’s domain may know torment as dreadful as he deserves.

His hand closed around yours — firm, yet gentle, almost in a noble, gentlemanly gesture. And as his fingers held fast to yours, Lorgon’s gaze, full of unyielding resolve and the vow to show no mercy, pierced into yours, as if forging in silencean invisible oath.

☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

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