All I have left from you is my failed honour. It was after your love-indebted kiss that I offered you my life and my sword, at your service. I saw fit no purpose of myself but in the honour of you.
Upon visiting you, I remember what I once knew as your presence. When I close my eyes, I see yours, staring back into mine. Behind your eyes lived a light, the fire of your wild soul that the cold winter has since extinguished. I still remember the creases of your hands, the way your fingers meshed with mine.
I am purposeless, it was only when in your radiance that I was truly alive. I had reason, now I do not. It is now that I seek purpose, it seems only in vain.
And it is so that you took my sword with you to the grave, my final offering.
If I’m without honour and sword, then I am a failed knight.