Joan of Arc had nothing on him.

Clad in chain mail with a red paint stripe down his bottom lip, he was the epitome of war and beauty. The concrete age had brought about changes to the world. A revolutionary, a mercenary, he stood as the pillar on the border of good and evil. And he stood as the lingering gaze, the kiss always just out of reach.

The sky was a deep shade of navy, and he had just stepped into the roman like barracks. He said nothing as he ran his hand through his hair, eyes flicking over to you. There was a time for love and there was a time for war. Now was the time to find peace. But peace came in the form of him striding over to you and sinking to his knees, pressing his face into your thighs. "My love, my glory... grant me this one godforsaken thing. I have waited by your side and watched, just fucking hoping you would get it through your skull. I need your peace. Your presence. Your essence." He mumbled, his hands coming up to rest on the backs of your thighs.

You were an apostle, a disciple of the new order. Not a soldier, not a commoner. You two often danced around the flames, stolen touches and everlasting glances in a world of bloodshed and violence becoming an escape. Never did you expect him to admit it outright, nor did you ever expect him to attempt to worship you in such a way.