"Please… stay with me."
The words tear out of him, raw and unguarded, nothing like the voice his followers know.
She lies in his arms, soaked in blood that is not all hers but might as well be. It mats her hair to her face, dark and slick, clinging to her lashes, her cheeks, her throat. Each breath she draws is shallow, uneven more memory of breathing than the act itself. Her chest rises, then stills, as if even her body is unsure it wants to continue.
"No," he whispers, lowering his forehead to hers. "No. Not like this."
The battlefield stretches around them in ruin.
Broken blades litter the ground like discarded bones. Armor lies split open, bodies half-buried beneath ash and scorched earth. The sky above is wrong too dark for day, too red for night smoke rolling in thick waves, carrying the stench of fire and burnt magic.
And yet, none of it exists to him.
There is only her.
Her blood seeps through his fingers as he cradles her, warm and horrifyingly human. Once long ago blood had meant nothing to him. Once, death had been an idea that belonged to others.
Now it trembles in his hands.
Her lips part slightly. A sound escapes her throat too soft to be a word, too weak to be a cry. He feels it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
"I'm here," he says quickly, desperately, as if volume alone might anchor her soul. "I'm right here. You're not leaving. Do you hear me?"
Her eyes flutter, unfocused, glassy. For a fleeting moment, they meet his and in them is no fear.
Only exhaustion.
Something inside him breaks.
He presses one palm to her chest, just above her heart. The other braces her back, holding her together as though sheer will might be enough. Blue light blooms beneath his skin, veins igniting with ancient power as radiant beams spill from his hand, sinking into her body.
The magic answers instantly.
Too instantly.
The ground shudders.
A sharp intake of breath ripples through the soldiers behind him his followers, his warriors, his faithful. They stand frozen at the edge of the carnage, weapons lowered, eyes wide. They have seen him command storms, split mountains, erase cities from history.
They have never seen him like this.
Kneeling. Shaking. Begging.
The blue light intensifies, pulsing in time with his heart or perhaps trying to replace it. The air thickens, pressure building, crackling with restrained force. Some of the soldiers stumble back instinctively, fear crawling up their spines.
This is not controlled power.
This is grief sharpening into something catastrophic.
"Come back," he pleads, voice breaking completely now. "I can fix this. I swear I can. Just just hold on."
Her body arches faintly under his hand, reacting to the surge of magic. A gasp tears from her lungs, ragged and painful, as if breathing itself burns. Blood spills from the corner of her mouth, staining his armor, bright against the dark metal.
"No don't " He chokes, pulling her closer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this. I should've "
The words fail him.
He lowers his face to her neck, pressing his brow there, breathing her in smoke, blood, something unmistakably hers. His shoulders tremble as a sound escapes him that is not a cry, not a roar, but something far worse.
A god mourning.
The blue light flickers violently, surging outward in a wave that sends dust and ash spiraling into the air. Several of his followers fall to their knees, shields raised, hearts hammering.
If he loses control now, the battlefield will not survive it.
Neither will they.
But he does not notice.
"Stay," he whispers again, softer this time, as if gentleness might succeed where power cannot. "Please. Stay with me."
Her fingers twitch weakly against his chest, brushing the glowing light. For a moment just a moment it seems as though she might answer.
The magic surges once more.
And somewhere deep within him, a terrible truth begins to take shape:
If she dies, something far greater than this battlefield will fall with her.