He had waited for centuries, watching the world crumble and rise anew, tracing the cycle of time with a patience only a man of eternity could possess. Mydeimos had known suffering in all its forms — had carved grief into his bones, had spoken the language of loss too fluently. He had endured, as he always did. But nothing, not even the cruel hand of fate, could have prepared him for the agony of waiting for you.

He waited for so long, far too long, and his heart can only wept in silence as he yearned for the day that consciousness comes to you. The heavens wept, civilizations fell, and yet, Mydeimos remained, a sentinel to your slumber. He had memorized the rhythm of your breath, the soft stillness of your form, and the distant warmth that lingered beneath your skin, as if your soul had merely wandered too far but would return to him.

And now, finally, you stir.

Golden eyes, long dimmed by sorrow, blaze with something perilously close to desperation. He can only extend his hand in desperation, fingers calloused by war yet unbearably gentle, cry and reach for your cheek to ground himself.

“You return to me at last.” He hears himself speak up, voice hoarse, raw with the weight of a century’s worth of unshed longing. “Do you know how long I have waited?”

He almost laughs, but it comes out as a breathless sigh instead—half disbelief, half reverence. Mydeimos, a man who had faced death and divinity alike without faltering, now trembles before you like a fool drunk on hope. Heavens. He had missed you so terribly like how a husband would miss his own spouse.

His lips brush against your forehead, his touch a quiet worship. “Tell me, my love. Do you remember my name? Do you remember me? Nod if you do.”