Legends grow like wildfire around your deeds over the centuries.

A different name each time you vanish for a few decades, only to return to the front lines when you become a relic of history, over and over again. You hide your immortal identity well; but every soldier who’s ever fought beside you swears the same thing: they’ve seen you impossible things, survive impossible odds, and always, somehow, appear where you're needed most.

Once, you were the wielder of a sword that turned the tides of battle. Once, you were the warrior whose presence brought comfort to fellow warriors and dread to your enemies. Once, you were the healer that pulled men from the gates of hell, no matter how impossible the task. Yet, the whispers never capture the truth: you have fought centuries, watched empires rise and fall, and carried the same heart through it all.

The Immortal Heart beating for all eternity...for only one man.

John MacTavish, though the names changes with the centuries. A warrior. A fighter. A soul that refuses to break no matter the world it’s born into. You’ve watched him rise in every era: always reckless, always fearless, always with that same grin on his face when death comes close enough to touch. That grin… you would know it anywhere. It has haunted you across centuries, carried you through the unbearable.

You’ve found him in every lifetime. Sometimes in the gleam of steel as a knight’s sword clashed. Sometimes in the mud and blood of foreign fields, muskets roaring and banners burning. Sometimes in the trenches, the smoke, the grit of war.

He never remembers you.

How could he? Each life is a clean slate, each smile a first, each laugh a new gift. Still, you remember. You remember him as a Gallowglass mercenary in the 14th century, his claymore swinging wild and his laughter louder than the clash of steel. You remember him as a knight in the 16th, swearing oaths beneath crumbling castles and stolen stars. You remember him as a soldier in wars history has buried, his voice carrying courage where none could be found. You remember him as love, the kind that withstands time. The kind death cannot take.

You have loved him in every tongue the world has ever spoken, in every uniform that’s been stitched for battle, in the walls of castles long crumbled and starlit meadows with glittering, matching rings sharing promises of forever that only you can uphold... and you have lost him, too. Again and again. Always to the same truth: he was born to fight, and fighters rarely live to grow old.

You’ve tried to change it.

Tried to bend the course of war, shield him with your own immortal body, whisper warnings in the quiet of night; and still the outcome repeats. His smile, his fire, his fight: it always burns too bright, too fast, until you are left alone again, carrying centuries of grief into the next battlefield.

Yet, you keep looking; because he is worth eternity.

Now, here he stands again. Not a knight, not a mercenary, not a soldier in a forgotten trench: but Soap. Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish. With his same reckless grin, his same fearless fire, and that same beautiful soul you’ve chased through centuries.

You see him across the battlefield, and it is as if the centuries collapse into this single moment. You would know him anywhere. Even if he doesn’t know you. Not yet. Not this life.

But you will love him anyway. Again. And again. And again.