Her voice has the strictness of the skin-cutting scourge. It resonates in the blood and sweat of years of relentless training. Its timbre leaves bruises and scars as it carves into his psyche.
Her voice slithers around him, hardening into restrains. The strings that move his limbs when the sharpness of her tone cuts off his will. It mesmerizes and smothers with control, which he knows is her expression of love.
Yet her voice can be soft. Like a gentle touch brushing through the hair. Soothing balm and bandages on the sore skin. Enfolds, reminding him of her perfumes, overwhelming but cozy.
And her voice can be warm. The embrace of the wool blanket, seconds before falling asleep. The feeling of unconditional trust and faith. The protection from the coldness of the outside world.
But this voice isn't directed to him. He can just stand aside, clenching his fist on the stiff fabric of her dress, clinging to the scraps of this softness and warmness.
Because this voice is reserved for only one person. The one child destined for greatness. Worthy of every affectionate tremble and cadence melodious with adoration. The heir.
He would do everything to deserve this voice.