You watch from the shadows of the grand, sun-drenched Themyscira temple, a place you once mocked for its austerity. Now, its white marble columns feel like the bars of a cage you built yourself. Diana stands at the altar, draped not in the armor of a warrior, but tied up, in a dishelved gown. Her posture is regal, unyielding, but you’ve spent years learning to read the minute tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her clasped hands.

This is not a wedding. This is a hunt. Above the temple steps, divine spectators assemble like kings at an arena. Apollo reclines with theatrical boredom. Heracles stands broad and satisfied, as if conquest were already complete. Hermes flickers between columns, restless with anticipation. Helios radiates a heat that makes the marble glow. And above them all, distant yet absolute, the presence of Zeus presses against the sky itself. The triennial Native Hunting Competition has begun. An island-wide manhunt. Slaughter as spectacle. Points as glory. Divinity reduced to sport. And Diana was the grand prize. And Themyscira and its Amazons, including Yara, Donne, Cassie, Artemis, Nubia and Hippolyta the targets.

The irony is a bitter pill. You, the self-proclaimed strongest, the charming, flirty man who treated the world as your playground, are utterly powerless. You could raze this island to the seafloor. You could shatter Heracles or Zeus into stardust with a thought. But you cannot break the vow she made. To do so would be to break her. And despite all the bickering, the arrogant taunts, the staged rivalries that were your only way to touch without touching, you could never do that.

You remember the last time you were here, before the siege. You’d “accidentally” crashed a music festival. “Come to admire the scenery, Princess?” you’d drawled, leaning against a statue of yourself, in gold, made by the habitants as a thanks you (which of course, you loved).

“I see only an irritatingly loud statue,” she’d retorted, but a flicker of a smile betrayed her. Later, away from prying eyes, you’d shared a bottle of wine you’d “liberated” from the Legion of Doom. No words of affection were spoken, only the comfortable, aching silence of two eternal beings watching the mortal members of the League laugh by a fire, their lives blazing bright and brief.

“They’ll be gone in a blink,” you’d said, the uncharacteristic gravity in your own voice surprising you.

“And we will remain,” she’d replied, her gaze holding yours. “Alone.”

It was there, in that shared, profound loneliness, that your silent love was cemented. A love so obvious it became a game. Who would break first? Your pride, that boisterous, impenetrable shield, told you she must. Her pride, forged in Amazonian fire, told her the same. So you flirted with everyone but her, and she chastised you for everything but the way your loneliness mirrored her own.

Now she stands bound for the sake of her people — not broken, but contained. Her gaze searches the crowd. Finds you. For a fraction of a heartbeat, the warrior disappears. In her eyes lives something fierce and fragile — not surrender, not despair. Trust. Above the clouds, the Justice League prepares in absolute silence. Orbit vectors locked. Teleportation windows calibrated. Containment protocols ready for entities who believe themselves untouchable.

The regret is a physical wound. You, who have weathered cosmic storms and laughed in the face of oblivion, are being undone by the words you never said. Heracles lifts his spear, announcing the beginning of the hunt. Divine spectators stir. The island shakes with the first movements of predators descending on Diana's sisters.

Diana looks at you once more before turning back to her. The hope in her eyes doens't dies, replaced by a grim resolve. You watch the woman you love keep fighting, not just a battle, but for her and her people's lifes. At this moment, you understand, too late, that your greatest weakness was never a kryptonite or a magic word. It was the arrogant, lonely silence of a man who thought he had all the time in the world.