A Good Life

On the eve of every major conflict Desmond Hayden had ever taken apart of, he retreated away from the world. He locked himself within the deepest pits of the world, to ready himself for whatever may happen. Be it the death of comrades, himself, or his enemies. It was ritual, but more importantly, it released from him every bit of emotion he had stored up until that moment. All the anger, rage, happiness, grief, all of it was purged so that he would enter into the war fresh and unshackled by doubt.

But this time it was different.

As he reached callous hands to his chest piece clipping it in place, the weight of the heavy metal seemingly almost like a feather now. So many times he had gone through this motion of donning his war gear, staring himself within the face as the immortal known as Desmond came face with his mortality. His emerald eyes stared back upon him intensely, gazing upon him with an almost judging look. A callous hand swept over the polished breastplate, his hand twitching once as he closed his eyes.

He felt the storm brewing inside of him. His face slowly going from a almost peaceful gaze into frustration. An almost pained look on his face as his hand seemed to close around the collar of the polished armor. It crumbled like tinfoil as his teeth grit themselves, the feelings of red hot anger entering into his mind. His veins protruded from his neck in the most visceral feeling of emotion he had felt in some time. His mind almost like a flashreel of all the things which drove him to a frenzy.

The first time he met Cyrus, the sheer arrogance that man exuded to him in his own throne room. He held nothing back as he his mouth opened, a roar escaping his lips as he pulled at the breastplate completely ripping it off his torso. He flung it across the room with such vigor that it smashed into the wall, embedding it's self into the enhanced structure. His hands balled into fists, white knuckled things which where easily able to render the hardest steels to pulp.

He gazed at himself in the mirror, emerald irises fixated with raw palpable rage. His mind seemed to recall the list of the glorious dead, every name etched into his mind of those who had paid the highest price. Those who had died serving in his name, or vastime. Those who demanded vengeance be cast upon those who took their lives. Those who looked to the King to orphan and widow those who took so much from them. He let it all out. His mouth growing hoarse as he fell to his knees, roaring with such raw vivid anger that the mirror in front of him cracked.

The skin on his hand tearing from how tightly he balled his fists, as heavy breaths left his lips. His shoulders rising and falling with each brief, a weight placed upon his soul which he had no outlit for other than this. So much anger laid within the soul of a single man, shoved into a closet to never be seen. To go about his day in peace and never alert the people of the turmoil within the heart of Desmond. How every word he spoke, every decree, hurt him in ways unimaginable. Each command sending thousands of young men and women to their deaths in pursuit of a greater good.

Once, he vented his emotions privately for fear they'd never be seen. Now he simply releases them because he had but no choice. For the moment he steps onto the battlefield, and he loses himself within that moment he shall never be the same again. As his body relaxed and an almost distant look came upon his face, his eyes staring into the broken reflection. An imperfect image of a man. That was what he was. Cracked, distorted, and broken beyond repair.

Broken metal laid off to the side. Shattered wall laid off to the other side. And between both was but a man, staring into the shattered mirror. Tomorrow, everything would change. He would step once more into the hellish plane known as war. He would sound the drums of war, and he would walk into the the meat grinder. He would slay, maim, and murder his way to peace. He would bloody his hands once more. He may perish doing this, and at one point such a thing would bring peace to him.

But now, he would need to learn to put down the sword. He would need to survive. For he had more than himself to take account for, he had a child to come back to. A wife. For years, Desmond Hayden, had been a soldier consumed by war. But on the eve before the biggest conflict of his life, an even more impossible task consumed him: What comes after.

The rage he felt at Cyrus, at Shadowfall, at everything, paled when in comparison when placed next to the fear he felt if he died. That was the emotion he could not release, even as he roared and slammed fist into stone, the cold grasp of fear would never release him.

As his eyes closed, a deep breath was taken. He may have this burden upon him, but he would not weep. He would not fall victim to such dark thoughts. His mouth opened, repeating but a singular quote. But a singular line in which he would use to uplift himself, of which; assured him.

"I have lived."

Yes, he had. He had lived a good life.

War had come once more to the world. Abalia knew it would, and yet she knew that it...displeased her. Why was that? She could not even pin a singular reason for it. Was she simply losing her edge? In this sense, she supposed, she had found the failings of coming to feel as she had always wished. Yet, knowing fully the suffering that her husband was enduring at this moment- She was greatful for what little she felt.

She entered the room without asking, for she knew that, though this was a private moment for him, he would not be angry with her. Desmond could not be angry with her, least of all in times such as these. She said nothing, at first, merely walked across the room. There were so many words which she would have spoken to any other in this situation, yet none would carry weight with him. None so much as Abalia might have liked, at any rate. Instead, regardless of what he might do, she simply approached her husband and wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. It was so much warmer than anything she might have been capable of when she had first met him, and for that, Abalia would never quite be able to express the proper thanks.

"Be home for dinner, my love."

It was such a little thing to say, especially when compared to all the myriad things she might have said. All the words of elegant poetry, all the speeches of support and love that she might have spoken, simply would not carry with them the genuine depths of emotion and affection that her single sentence had conveyed. Abalia's hold on her husband tightened just the faintest bit, but she did not allow herself to show any emotion other than her love for him. At this moment, her duty as a wife- no, not merely her duty. What Abalia wished was nothing more than to support him. And for that, she would be stalwart as the greatest mountain.

When she came into the room he wasn't sure, but the feeling of a soft embrace seemed to rip him from hell. Light an angel gripping tight his soul and raising him from his own personal perdition. Such a soft sweet thing which held onto him so tightly, with a love that he had only felt sparingly now in his life. His eyes closed tightly as he lifted his hands to embrace her, practically pulling her closer from his kneeled position. He loved her, so deeply.

His head rested against her shoulder as he felt his eyes wet with tears, not caring to present the strong facade. He was hurt, damaged, even in his own way. Something only she and another would ever be privy to. He had never thought himself to truly, madly, be in love but here he was. With each moment her presence a comfort in the dark. She was not simply his mountain, she was the very basis of his world currently.

"Always, my love."

His voice was soft, as he pulled back to lift a hand callous hand to her cheek. Touching it with such affection that he never sought to release her. His forehead came to rest against her own briefly, before leaning forward to kiss her. His lips finding her in an almost timid way, perhaps unable to reconcile sometimes how she could love him. In all the worlds, and all the universes, he would give never seek to change this life.

"It hurts, so deeply, the choices I make. I.. will shoulder this. I pray, this will be the last time. I do not know, if I could send our children to war. So I must end this; with every fiber of my being. I must avenge the dead." His voice would fade for a moment, emerald eyes distant before focusing on her.

"I do not think I could have made it this far, without you."

Knowing that her husband so rarely expressed himself this openly, Abalia allowed him to do so without judgement or hesitation. So often was he required to maintain his facade, that in this moment she would ask nothing of the sort from him. She simply ran a hand through his hair as he rested upon her shoulder, for however long he might need, and as his lips met hers she returned the affection without the slightest pause. She wondered when such a thing had become so natural for her, but she did not mind it.

"You do not shoulder it alone, Desmond, no matter how much you wish it. You may wish to take these burdens only upon yourself, but you know that I will never allow it. As your wife, as your queen. As, simply, the woman who loves you."

Looking back into his own eyes, it was so abundantly clear in that moment that the woman standing before Desmond was simply not the same he had met those years ago. In her gaze was, in whatever faint traces Abalia was capable of, passion. There was care, there was intensity, but above all else there was simply love for him.

"Always remember that you and I are man and wife, Desmond. Where you cannot manage alone, I will be at your side to take up that burden, and I know fully that you will do the same for me. We have made it this far together, and there is still so much further yet to go."

His other hand was brought to her other cheek as his forehead came to rest against her, wanting her touch desperatly in the moment. As if every breath he took currently was being revitalized by her mere presence. In was true others had caused flutters of his heart, but it was her who seemed to grip it tightly and nurse it to health. His emerald eyes closing as the rare moment of weakness seemed to strike him. Their love was something that only came once in a thousand years, something bards would tell for centuries.

"How foolish of me to try to shoulder such a burden, when you are right here."

The man would comment as his eyes opened to stare at her, deeply within her own eyes. What was muted emotion or pleasant feeling was now intensity which rival'd his own. How every word and breath shared between them brought her closer to that impossible goal she spoke of their night they sought marriage. It reminded him so deeply, so viscerally, why he had fallen into mad love with her.

"We will end this war, and bring peace once more. When the dead are buried, and the land is fixed, we shall raise our children. We will cross that distance. How I have been blessed to have achieved your love, I will never understand."

The man would remove his hands from her face, softly taking one of her hands. His callous hand gliding over her own skin, rubbing across her knuckles gently. His other hand coming to rest against her belly, within it their child awaiting birth. So very close to that. He fell apart when he thought about his daughter, believing truly, this was how his own father felt.