A/N: Well, look who's back from the dead! So this is something that I wrote last year in November, and I was looking back through my files and saw that this story has yet to see the light of day. I realise that this account is no longer a fair representation of my writing skills now, but I'll post it here anyways.

He wasn't sure exactly when it happened.

He wasn't sure at what moment did he spiral down into the seemingly infinite darkness, as his fingers desperately grasped for a hold on something, anything, that shed the light on the side of humanity that he couldn't see.

Maybe it was when he started jumping at his own shadows, or perhaps when he stopped visiting their graves every day like he used to. Maybe it was when he stopped drinking coffee every morning because it reminded him too much of Halt, and the way the grim features on the old Ranger's face softened momentarily as he drank the beverage, relishing the quiet mornings that they both, in comfortable silence, sat in as the sun rose. It could've been when he stopped stoking the fireplace in the corner of the room because all it brought was pain. Pain. Agony. Torment. Because it was the same thing that killed Alyss.

The cozy little cabin he called home for so many years lost all of the defining qualities that made it so. The flowers that he used to pick fresh and put out on the windowsill every morning were long since wilted and withered. The rug needed a good beating to rid the dust, and the dishes needed to be cleaned. It was cold. Not just in the cabin from the lack of fire and open windows, but everywhere else that he had feeling. Not that he could feel much of anything these days. He didn't pay much attention to his old weapons that had used to mark him as a Ranger. They reminded him too much of Horace. Every time he dared to even look at his saxe knife, thrown carelessly in the corner of the room, he saw Horace, running a whetstone over his own sword, and hearing the metallic hiss as any imperfections were smoothed out. He gave back his horse to Old Bob long ago, and he didn't even flinch when Tug nudged his shoulder with his nose and looked at him with sorrow in his big, brown eyes. He silently patted the horse's neck and walked all the way back home, even when rain started pouring.

He drummed in his head, over and over again, don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Don't show weakness because heroes aren't weak. Halt doesn't want you to break. Don't disappoint him. Don't cry.

Heroes don't surrender. Not even when death's ruthless grip strangled you until you couldn't breathe and the world started spinning. Not even when you saw them all die; crashing to the ground with a deafening thud.

Heroes didn't beg for mercy. Not even when you saw them draw breath for their last plea. Not even when you saw your best friend's calm and guileless face with tears streaming down his cheeks as he cried out, "Don't let me die, Will. I can't die. Please don't let me, Will." Even when you held him close and promised him that you wouldn't let death take him. Even when his eyes closed and the blood had run cold.

Keep your chin up and puff out your chest, look stronger than you are. Pretend you're okay because it's your job and they're all depending on you to do it right. Do it with a smile, or don't do it at all.

Heroes didn't cry.

But Will was no longer a hero.

A/N: I noticed I have a twisted fondness of writing Will in situations in which everyone's dead, but I promise that if I post another one here again, then it'll be somewhat happy/humourous. I also wanted to thank the lovely people who have reviewed my stories written years ago; I very much appreciate every single one.