Wherever Thorns May Grow

I'd like to preface this by declaring I know nothing of love. The word is as foreign as the enemies I've fought and given that I'm a mere 18 year old, having lived a life around the prospect of military service, the labors of passion are far seated from my personal junction. What I do know of it has been taught to me by my fellow officers through the use of quips and quotes that should, supposedly, educate me all I need on the subject. Phrases such as "Love is like war, easy to begin, hard to end." and "It is impossible to love and be wise" paint this portrait where I imagined love to be the highest state of suffering, where a man becomes accepting of his fate and resigned to live his days at the constant nag of another. Up until this point, it held the appearance of Pascal's Wager: no matter how terrible it was, life without it was undeniably worse. Then I saw her. Her first name, Contessa, was a contradiction to her gentle nature, a moniker generally reserved for the elite and the haughty. Born to a typical upper-lower class family, she was offered as a gift to keep her family's land from being claimed. Her beauty, however, defied her status. More than any gold could purchase, or deal that could be struck, it resonated to the very core of a man. There was something so natural, as if a deity had taken its finest ingredients, scarcity matched to their status, and molded this symbol of what man desires most. Heroes from across the land gathered, an event itself that remains a scarce spectacle, to lay claim to her as a bride.
In my youth I had heard tales of this majestic wonder. The conflict that came, all for her hand. What motivates heroes, figures who rest in the bosom of combat, who have dedicated themselves to the conflict to wage a metaphysical war.....for a woman? What purpose did they serve other than procreation? To my militant mind, any woman would suffice to act as a genetic vessel, and I found it silly to hold a woman above any other, nonetheless be willing to fight for her hand.
Now I see my own naivete. I see it in the way she cups the coffee she offers me, as if elegance occurred to her naturally. Even after several years of marriage to him, her poise and demeanor are still that of a humble farm girl, content to the simpler aspects of life rather than that of privilege. Her smile was remarkable, capable of healing any wound inflicted by the harsh mistresses of the land, offering respite to the battle weary, and to those such as myself, hope: hope that we may be so lucky as to be delivered one such as her.
i felt to be a child among men in presence, barely capable of audibility which forsakes the potential conversation that could ensue. Instead I admired, albeit meekly, from the shadows of his lavish house. Of course I say his house because, as with all the best life has to offer,it belongs to him, just as she does.
You can see it in her eyes, the glint whenever his name is mentioned and, most of all, when he arrives home from our sojourns. Her eyes evoke far more than any words could surmise. She looks at him as if she couldn't possible have existed without him, his mere presence making her whole again. That is when I realized what love is and for the first moment I felt something other than admiration for him: despair. No longer did I hold hope that one day she would forsake everything and depart with me to a place far from battle, a simpler life built on the foundation of our mutual adoration, because, as with all good things, her heart belonged to him and therefore could never be mine.