He strode through a nearly-ruined world, with the heroes standing proud in front of him. His helm, the brilliant gold tarnished by his failure, shone weakly in the setting sun. In front of him, of course, you stood. Your armour gleamed in the light and you looked every inch the warrior you told him you were on that fateful day eons ago. A single drop of his blood rolled down his face, and as it hit the floor, he knelt before you. Your hand, dirt-streaked, cradled his defeated face; your calloused fingers stroked over his sharp cheekbones. He dipped his head down. As he weeped, you kneeled with him, embracing his otherworldly form in your fragile arms. He may have lost the war, but he hadn’t lost you. Not yet.