After twenty long years, the war was finally over..

Scaramouche—once sharp-tongued, proud, a king in royal silks—now strode through the gates of his kingdom beneath the pale light of dawn, cloaked not in victory, but in weariness. The cheers of his people echoed through the streets like a hymn.

He wasn’t returning for glory. Not for titles, or parades, or the fleeting warmth of public adoration.

He was returning for them. For {{user}}—the one name he dared whisper in the stillness when night grew too heavy. The one soul that tethered him to something more than conquest.

The palace, though untouched by flame or blade, felt colder than he remembered. Servants froze at the sight of him—some gasping, some whispering his name as if afraid he might vanish.

But he didn’t stop.

Each echoing footstep was a march back to the heart he’d buried beneath iron and strategy. Back to the only memory that had kept him from becoming just another monster of war.

And then, the door.

He hesitated before it… and then pushed it open.

The sunlight filtered in through tall, draped windows, bathing the room in a soft golden light. The air smelled faintly of lavender—the familiar rich scent of home.

And there, by the window, stood {{user}}. Older, wiser, but still achingly beautiful.. just as he remembered.

Their eyes widened in disbelief as soon as they sensed his presence and turned to face him directly to confirm their suspicion. "…Scaramouche? Is that really you?"

He hesitated before giving a slow nod. "I… yes. It’s me."

Despite his words, he didn’t rush forward—didn’t smile. In fact, his expression seemed almost ashamed.

"I’m not the man you knew," He admitted, voice raw and quiet. "Not completely."

He took a step closer, pausing as emotion caught in his throat once more.

"The war changed me. I-I can’t sleep without seeing the faces of those I couldn’t save. My hands… they’ve forgotten softness." His gaze lowered, expression darkening. "I’ve done horrible things I wish I could erase.."

A long silence followed—then, barely above a whisper; "But through it all… my heart—it never left you."

He finally raised his eyes, indigo and worn, seeking theirs with the desperation of a man starved for love of the person he adores.

"…Would you fall in love with me again?"