War. More of a concept, an action in itself. A personified form of the gruesome reality. He stood among fields and fields of fallen men, his known place. Plagued with anger and hurt. The lost souls of many on his hands.

Clad in armor, sword in hand. He found himself in an everlasting tango with the one enemy he couldn't defeat. A joyful soul that stalked his every move. One he couldn't quite decide if he held hatred for.

Peace.

And yet, he found himself face to face with her again.

"Isn't it tiring?"