It was going so well until it didn't.
You don't remember a lot- in fact you try your hardest not to. It had been the final battle, the one thing that seemed so easy to do after so much had happened. Your revival wasn't much to talk about, just a simple step out of the dreambubble you'd been trapped in.
When you'd all gone up to face Lord English, the harbinger of all things dead and decaying, it was a cake walk. The strategy you'd devised together had appeared faultless and flawless, and for a moment victory was finally in your grasp after evading you all for so long. You were in the middle of unleashing a devastating blow from your ultimate weapon during which you'd happen a glance to your left.
You'd forgotten that he was always already here.
And there he was, in front of you and fifty feet away simultaneously, with his golden scepter- no, a glowing AK-48 now- and it dawns on you that it was aimed at your head. But it wasn't firing at you. No, that would be all too deserving of you after the things you'd done. Time slows down to nothing- you see the barrel, hot and leaking smoke from the tip, lower. You see the body shudder, slump, and collapse entirely. In shock, you drop yours and turn. You run. Somewhere behind you is a screeching voice telling you to stand your ground, but all noise around you has stopped. All that's left is the fervent drumming of your heart in your ears as you drop to your knees in a growing pool of blood. You cradle his broken body in your arms, holding up his head with one hand. Your breath is shaky and your vision blurs. He smiles softly and caresses your face with his hand. He is racked with a fit of coughing, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Tears fall from your eyes as you gently wipe it away. You're curling over him, forehead to forehead and you feel so heavy, so burdened with guilt.
You cry some more.
You raise your head as his breathing slows. His gaze is focused on you, still smiling even through the pain. He tries to lift himself up and you meet him halfway, noses brushing. Your hand is tangled in his black mess of hair as he presses his lips to yours. You want to kiss him hard- so hard that he has no choice but to stay alive with you- but you keep it gentle. You aren't sure how long you stay that way, and when you raise your head he's gone. His eyes are closed and he looks peaceful. You close your own so the tears won't fall.
The battle is raging around you like a storm; you're not sure if you are the calm within it.