Unworthy
. . . fanfiction inspired by Final Fantasy VIII. Standard disclaimers apply.

He is golden and beautiful, molten metal and liquid flame, touched with untamed arrogance and the heat of raw power beneath his skin. Hard, green flecked gold eyes, once upon a time a dream-clouded hazel, now burn clear and bright as fireworks, frightening in the clarity and intensity of their gaze. Flesh stretched taunt and smooth over high bone-planes of his face, the shine of blonde hair turned something ethereal in the light, a pale white-gold alloy, the harsh lines and angles of him defined and distinct. He glows, he radiates, and oh, I weep at the sight of him.

He is my Choosen.

He is my Knight.

It is for me that he shoulders the weight of his gunblade, for me he carries the crimson cross symbols on both armsleeves. So perfectly still he stands, his face towards me, the distance between us measures less than five paces, but something keeps me from reaching out, and even though I long to touch him, I cannot.

Then, with a sudden burst of light, the aura that has been steadily glowing around him erupts into a pair of burning wings, in an instant I see him framed by sleek, fiery light-feathers, and he turns to look, truly look at me. The gold in his eyes is alight, flames flickering in his irises, as he searches me, the heat of his gaze searing the spaces in my heart, empty parts of me the wind echoes through. In that eternity of a second I feel the surge of the bond that will bind him in my service, ripping, melting and fusing. And we are merging, mind to mind, thought to thought, the sound of the wind and the flame blending into one roaring us.

I scream, and the light climaxes in a blinding flare, before dying out with a soft hissing crackle.

When it fades, I find him on his knees at my feet, Hyperion falling with a clatter to the ground, light-wings dissipated, but traces of golden aura still remain in the air, and all I can do is drop to my knees as well in a daze.

"My lady," he breathes, bowing his head, "I am not worthy."

My arms are thrown out on their own accord, wrapping themselves around his neck, and I am sobbing, with my face buried in the grey fabric of his coat, and after a moment's shock, he brings his arms up to soothe my head and circle my back.

"My lady? What is wrong?"

Oh don't you see? Even as concern seeps into my thoughts through our linked minds, it does nothing to comfort me. Bound in my service, sworn in knighthood, yet I question your love?

It is I who am not worthy.

Not worthy of you.