Loss
"No!"
There's so much blood. It's pouring out faster then could ever be stopped, seeping into the dirt beneath them and turning it an awful crimson. Gloved hands press at the terrible wounds, but there is so much, and he's only one person.
"No, no, no!" He's crying, he can feel the tears fall, see them splash against his knight's rent armor. "Please….please.."
He doesn't know what he asking for, begging for, but somehow Mythos knows it won't be enough. His knight, his lover, his friend….
" 'm sorry…." Glazed eyes stare up at him a last time, asking forgiveness even as they grow dark.
"Please don't go! I love you, Fakir, please don't go!"
But it's too late.
Mytho will never admit that he remembers the dreams, never admit that he woke in a cold sweat every night. And Fakir will never know how he sat, pale hands fixed in ebony hair as he counted each of his knights breaths.
He had been unable to stop the first loss. He would not be so foolish again.