They told you he was gone.

That there was nothing left but shattered ground where he’d made his last stand—Deuteros, the twin, the shadow, the Saint who never once hesitated when it came to protecting you.

And yet, you waited.

You knew he wouldn’t break his promise. Not even in death. * Nights passed. Then weeks. And still, in your chest, something pulsed with the stubborn rhythm of he's not done yet.*

And then, on a night when the moon hung heavy and silver over the temple, you felt it.

The tremor.

Faint, like a heartbeat in the earth. Then stronger—stone cracking, cosmos pulsing, the air thick with power so raw it made your knees weaken.

He came back covered in blood and dust, armor cracked, body trembling—but alive.

He fell to one knee before you, eyes wild, glowing, burning with the will that had dragged him out of the Underworld.

"I told you," he rasped, voice hoarse, “no grave could hold me.”

You fell to your knees with him, tears spilling over as your hands cupped his face. He leaned into your touch—rough and broken, but still somehow gentle. “Even if the gods sealed me away,” he breathed, “I’d crawl through the void just to get back to you.”

And you believed him.

Because you were the reason he rose.

Because love—his love—was too strong for even death to claim.