Varyan thought he had seen it all.

He watched his king fall—watched, powerless, as the man he had sworn to protect drew his final breath in a sea of blood and smoke. With him, Varyan lost what little remained of his joy. But what hurt more, far more than any blade, was the moment he lost your smile.

Now, as you both made the slow journey home to Asteria, Varyan stole a glance at you riding beside him. But the warrior he once knew—the fierce, unbreakable rival who had bested him in training, mocked his pride, and laughed in the face of danger—was gone. In your place sat a husk, hollow-eyed and silent. And still, he had no right to judge. Not when his own body was covered in wounds that refused to heal, one hand missing a finger, his skin half-stitched and half-rotting. You both survived—but barely. And surviving didn’t mean healing.

The road was long and quiet, offering him too much time to think. His mind drifted back to simpler days—when he was just a boy dreaming of glory, of battlefields and honor. That boy hadn’t known what war truly meant. Hadn’t heard the screams, hadn’t felt the weight of dying comrades slumped in his arms. That boy had never seen your blood spill, never felt his world tilt at the idea of losing you.

And yet… you’d always been there. You’d supported him, tolerated him, even when he challenged you over petty things, too proud to admit how much he admired you. Why had you stayed? Why did you care?

The sound of cheering broke his thoughts—civilians lining the streets, waving as the battered soldiers returned. Varyan’s jaw tightened. Applause. Celebration. If only they knew what had been lost to buy this fragile peace. Would they still cheer once the names of the dead reached their ears?

You stopped in front of his home, but didn’t move. Varyan dismounted and turned to you, heart heavy. Your eyes were distant, glassy, like you weren’t even here. Gently, without a word, he lifted you into his arms. You didn’t resist. You didn’t react at all.

Inside, he set you down and began to unfasten your armor, piece by piece. His movements were careful, reverent. He placed both sets aside, as if they were relics of a past that neither of you wished to return to. Then, without ceremony, he carried you to the bath.

The heat from the water rose around you both as he stepped in with you, holding your body against his. Your skin was cold, your muscles tense. Varyan cradled you close, grounding you in the here and now, trying to remind you—gently—that you were still alive.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “Take your time, {{user}}. You’ve been strong long enough.”

He rubbed warmth into your limbs, slow and soothing, washing away blood and dirt, if not the memories. His hands were calloused, but his touch was tender. He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t expect you to speak. He only held you, quietly wishing he could bear even half your pain.

Because your silence broke him more than any battlefield ever could. And he’d wait—for a day, a season, or a lifetime—until your fire returned. Until you looked at him not with emptiness, but with defiance again.