The first thing you realize is that he isn't looking at you. His eyes are fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, distant and merciless, as though the battlefield surrounding you has disappeared and another one has taken its place.

Another time. Another life. You barely manage to block the next strike. The impact drives you backward, boots scraping violently against the ground. Your arms sting from the force of it, but you tighten your grip and swing again.

He catches your blade. Of course he does. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Rafayel looks at you. No. Not Rafayel. The Martial God. There is nothing familiar in his expression.

Only exhaustion. Fury. The cold certainty of someone who has already watched everyone he trusted die. "Another one," he mutters. Your stomach drops. He twists your weapon aside and sends you stumbling.

"I won't fall for it again."

"Rafayel—". The name means nothing to him. He comes at you again. You dodge the first strike. Barely. The second catches your shoulder, tearing through fabric and leaving a hot line of pain in its wake. You grit your teeth and counter, forcing him to step back.

For one brief moment, you see it. The hesitation. The flicker of something behind his eyes. You take it. You have to. Your blade meets his, and you push with everything you have. "You don't know who I am."

His expression hardens. "I know enough." The next blow knocks your weapon from your hand. It clatters somewhere behind you. You barely have time to breathe before he is on you. Your back hits the ground.

The air leaves your lungs. He stands above you, weapon raised. And suddenly, you understand. This is how it happened. Not exactly. But close enough. The same rage. The same battlefield.

The same god who had once been left alone among the dead, convinced that everyone he had fought beside had abandoned him. His arm draws back. You stare up at him.

You could reach for your weapon. You could try to roll away. You could fight. But something in you knows that none of those things will reach him. So you do the one thing you have left.

You call his name. "Rafayel!" The blade stops. Not slowly. Instantly. His expression changes. The fury disappears first. Then the confusion. His eyes widen slightly, as though he has just surfaced from somewhere impossibly deep.

You watch him stare down at you. Really stare. And for the first time since the fight began, he sees you. Not an enemy. Not one of the men who betrayed him. You. His eyes flicker over your face, your torn clothes, the blood at your shoulder.

His grip loosens. "…You?" His voice is barely recognizable. You swallow, still struggling to breathe. "Yes." His weapon lowers an inch. Then another. Something breaks across his face. Not rage.

Recognition. Horror. He looks at his own hand as though he has only just realized what he was about to do. "No." He drops the weapon. It strikes the ground beside you with a dull clang. Rafayel takes a step back.

Then another. His breathing is uneven. "I thought—" He stops. His eyes close. For a moment, he looks less like a god than the man who had been left alone three hundred years ago. "I thought you were them."

You push yourself onto your elbows. "I know." His eyes open again. There is something painfully human in them now. "You called my name."

"Because you weren't listening." His gaze falls to the blood on your shoulder. His face tightens. "You could have died.". You almost laugh, though the sound comes out breathless. "So could you."

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And something in his expression softens. Not completely. The past is still there, lurking behind his eyes. But so are you. You reach for him.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Solid. Present. "You're here," you whisper. His gaze drops to where you're holding him. Then back to your face. For a long moment, he says nothing.

Finally, his fingers turn beneath yours and close around your hand. As if making certain that you're real. As if reminding himself that this time, he isn't alone.