His hands were sore, cracked, cut and bleeding; barley able to draw back the string of the bow that he held.
Her hands were pale, small and thin. A shadow of what they once were.
His legs were so weary. They quaked and ached to no end. They felt like lead with each step that he took.
But at least he could still walk. Her legs on the other hand held no life; no longer of any use to their owner.
His stomach wretched, and he wanted to upheave what little food it held.
You could see her thin ribcage through her beautiful white dress.
His eyes were devoid of any sort of spark. They desired rest that they could not have. He had simply set his eyes on the goal, and would not tear them away from it.
Her eyelids are closed, housing the beautiful eyes of the woman he loves, never to open again. At least if he were to fail, that is.
It's funny….. she's the one who's soul has passed from this earth, but as he looks at her now, bathed in the early morning sun, tiny body lying upon the alter, she looks far more alive than he does.
You have done well, mortal. Thy next foe….
Wander bows his weary head as he listens to the entities' instructions boom through the temple. He's grown so tired of fighting, but if he can just struggle a bit more, make those legs a bit heavier, make his hands bleed twice as much and keep his eyes open three times longer, he will have reached his goal. The pain he's going through means nothing. It will have been worth it.
When he made the pact, they told him that the burden he will have to bear may be too heavy, the price to pay, too much. He didn't care. Because it was all for her and he would sacrifice anything just to have her with him again.
