Curate, connect, and discover
That shit makes me wish I was a medieval knight wounded in the heat of battle, finally home and (scandalously) falling to my knees before my beloved. I crumble before her, dire wounds needing tending, as I refuse any aid or touch but hers. I kneel, wounded and in agony as if I have naught but a scratch, if only to have a chance to press gentle kisses to her hand as she mercifully lays her countenance upon me and softly agrees to tend me, only for it to be revealed that I, a woman, have been masquerading as a long dead, distant relative, so that I might be able to serve king and country as a knight in order to earn enough valor and glory to be worthy of being in the presence of my beloved. That I might be worthy to breathe the same air that she does, that I might kneel on the same ground her feet have walked upon. As I know that it is unspeakable that I might love her and she might love me, but I’d do anything to be worthy of her, even if it means I must resign myself to loving her from afar, yearning and needing until my last bloody breaths are rended from my chest at the swords-end of a swordsman much greater than I. And as I sputter out my last breaths, my mind can’t help but drift to her, her soft ethereal presence calming me in my last, torturous moments and my dying thoughts can’t help but pledge fealty to her, in this life and this world, and in every other; resigned to love her in whatever form I may from now until eternity.
wound tending is everything. unparalleled intimacy. let me care for you. let me touch the skin around your open flesh. let me stain my hands with your blood. let me get close and breathe in the same air as you and stare into your eyes for a few seconds too long. let me make you think of me every time you see the bandage, or scar