A/N: Finally got back to this. Apologies for the wait, for the longest time I wasn't sure how to do a second part. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and if you do, drop a review! They are always appreciated.

His world has devolved into clashing steel and cries of pain, his mind fruitlessly trying to keep up with his surroundings even as his body fell back on his training. The never-ending cacophony of ringing steel continued undaunted, echoing throughout the stone corridor he'd found himself in.

A desperate slash at his head was easily knocked aside. Before his mind knew it, he had skewered the man on his longsword, the steel punching through mail, gambeson, skin, and bone with equal ease. The man only gurgled and died; eyes wide in surprise at the hole in his chest as the Warden unceremoniously pushed him off the blade.

The man's body hadn't even hit the ground yet when a glancing thrust speared at the Warden's back, sending him stumbling forward into the wall and luckily out of the follow-up swing. The Warden ignored the pain, another addition to the slowly-growing agony in his body and turned with a low sweep aimed at his new opponent's legs. This one, another viking, had kept his shield up to protect his torso, and didn't recognize the Warden's target until the metal bit deep into an ankle. With a howl he went down, followed quickly by the point of the Warden's sword.

Sucking in deep gulps of air and blinking the sweat dripping into his eyes, the Lord Warden of the reborn Iron Legion leaned heavily on his longsword for a moment before rising to his feet once more. The hallway was clear save for two of his own legionnaires, who quickly pushed to the other end of the hallway after he'd waved them ahead. He allowed himself only a few more moments to get his wind back before picking his way after them, his boots covered in gore from the multitude of bodies covering the floor. There was no earthen ground to absorb the crimson fluid, leaving it to collect and congeal in a macabre carpet atop the stone floor.

He blinked away the sudden brightness as he emerged into what looked like a small training courtyard nestled somewhere in the Blackstone fortress. The place, as they knew, was a veritable maze of battlements, chokepoints, and killing zones that formed multiple tiers against the mountain it had been partially built into. All but impenetrable to the Iron Legion, but they were not alone in this fight.

The thought of the enemy of my enemy is my friend was quickly dashed as one of his legionnaires suddenly collided with the wall to his left, something audibly cracking as the man collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He did not get up.

A Shugoki, covered in spikes and dark wooden armor, stood in the center of the courtyard amidst at least a dozen corpses of Chosen, Warborn, and Legionnaires of both sides. His mask, styled into the shape of a snarling red demon with two tusks jutting from its lower lip, was turned toward the second legionnaire, the man feebly batting at the thick arm holding him in the air by his throat.

The man's protests stopped as the large Chosen jerked his meaty grip with a harsh snap. Dropping the body carelessly, the Shugoki turned to the Lord Warden and jeered something in Japanese. Not bothering to answer, the Warden raised his blade and charged.

He was quickly put on the defensive from his larger opponent's crushing blows, the hunk of metal-plated wood feeling much like getting hit with a tree. He raised his blade to parry a solid blow to his head, but instead the Samurai dropped it to his side and rushed in with both arms wide to grab him. Recognizing it too late to react, the Warden was lifted bodily up to the man's shoulders before being tossed like a sack of grain over the Shugoki's head.

Landing on his side only aggravated his accumulated wounds, causing him to hiss in pain, barely managing to dodge a heavy swing that would have pulped his head. He staggered to his feet as fast as he could, blindly groping for his sword, lost in his abrupt flight through the air. The Shugoki laughs something as the large man steps forward, massive club raised for the killing blow.

The killing blow that never came.

There's a moment of confusion as a small figure drops from a balcony above them onto the Shugoki's wide shoulders. The Samurai raising his head to peer up provided the perfect opening for a dagger to snake down and cut open his throat, his savior lightly jumping off the man as he dumbly pawed at his river of blood escaping his neck. Surprisingly, the ground doesn't shake when he finally falls.

The Warden's attention quickly turns to his rescuer as she flicks the blood off her blade. The Peacekeeper's habit leaves him with a strange mix of elation and apprehension, to say nothing of the way she turns to him with her blades still at the ready. He tries to find something to say, some way to lighten the tension and make everything better, but he knows deep down that the time for jokes is long past. He settles for watching her and wondering what happens next.

The answer comes sooner than he'd thought as Mercy abruptly kicks his sword to his feet. He looks down blankly at the blade and stiffly picks it up, and when he looks to her again, she's dropped into that familiar fighting stance.

Ah.

He looks down at his blade again, covered in blood and gore. His boots, covered in blood and gore. The ground, covered in blood and gore.

And drops his sword to the blood-slicked stone beneath his feet with a clang.

The sound echoes through the small courtyard with all the finality of a funeral bell. Mercy straightens slightly, but he can't tell what she's thinking with her mask on. He finds himself wishing it was off.

"Pick up your sword." She hisses suddenly.

Instead, his helm, dented and bloodied, joins his blade in the ground. The humid air is little relief to his sweat-soaked skin, but a cool breeze from somewhere is most welcome.

"No," he whispers, gazing at his bloodied gauntlets and wondering if he should remove those too.

Mercy, standing tall again, takes a threatening step. "I said pick up your sword." Her shortsword's tip is pointed at his throat.

"No." He repeats, looking into where he knows her eyes are. "If you're going to strike me down, then… do it. I'm tired of fighting."

"I don't care. Pick up your sword, coward."

"I'm not going to fight you, Mercy."

She makes an uncharacteristic noise of frustration and marches up to him, tucking one of her blades in her belt to pick up his and press it into his chest. When he doesn't move to grab it, she tries to force his fingers around the hilt, cursing at him when his fingers remain stubbornly limp. He allows his free hand to rise, to gently cup the side of her head. For a moment she pauses, takes a shuddering breath, and he finds himself thinking of her lips before she suddenly bats his hand away and shoves him away with a frustrated cry.

He falls to his knees, not bothering to get back up.

"Why won't you fight!?" she rages, muscles taut like a bowstring as she stands over him.

"Fight for what?"

She pauses, deflating slightly, as if surprised.

"Fighting got me here today. A failure." He says, looking through her, not at her.

"I failed as a contracted mercenary to Daubeny. I failed as a Warden when I followed Apollyon. I failed as Lord Warden when I couldn't stop the combined armies of three peoples falling to senseless battle." At the last admission, he gestured around them at the bodies.

"But most of all, I failed you. Abandoned you when I should have been better. More understanding. More forgiving."

He can see the way her blades tremble in her hands. "My story is a litany of failures. And if this is how it ends, well… for what it's worth… I'm glad it's you, Mercy."

She doesn't bother to hide her shuddering breath now, something between a sob and a cry that escapes her lips.

"Stand and fight. Don't-don't die like this!" She hisses, but there's no venom this time, just a desperation that's too late now.

He bowed his head. "Kill me, Peacekeeper."

"Fight, damn you!" She screamed this time, raising her blades into the air.

He doesn't react, even when her steel slashes toward his throat. Before the blades can connect with his exposed flesh, they are suddenly clattering the ground and her arms are on his shoulders, violently shaking him.

"Why don't-won't you just… just…" She sobs into his plate now, and he can only lean his head against the top of her hood.

"I'm sorry, Mercy." This is a good ending, he thinks. Death now would not be so bad.

"Aurelia," she whispers.

He blinks. "What?"

"Aurelia. That's my name-the one my mother gave me."

He's not sure what to say, or if it will matter soon. His wounds are still weeping his lifeblood through the cracks and tears in his armor, and his limbs feel more lethargic with each passing second. And when did it get so cold?

"I love you, Aurelia," he says, without thinking.

He can feel her tense suddenly, and she pulls back to look him in the eye, her hands still on his shoulders. The only thing keeping him upright, probably.

Her mask is quickly torn off and she cups his bruised face, searching his eyes. He didn't know what she was looking for, or – oh. Right.

Neither of them had ever gone there. Said… that. To speak of love… it had been something they had never mentioned, always skirting around it with awkward silences or hasty retreats. The one word that maybe neither of them could come back from, the one word with the power to shatter their relationship into a hundred thousand pieces or reforge into something… different.

Suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He managed a weak smile for her, before she suddenly crashes her lips against his. He's dying, covered in blood and sweat and grime like her – and yet he finds he wouldn't change this moment for anything.

It's ruined as he coughs, of course, managing to turn his head before the flecks of blood and spittle spatter on her. Not terribly, romantic, that. Her brows knit in concern, and she examines him more critically, sucking in a breath at the extent of his wounds, even hidden as they are by his armor. She fusses over him, pulling out a strip of cloth from a pouch and wiping away the filth on is face. He closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of her touch, when a slap abruptly brings him back to reality.

She gives him a piercing glare. "Eyes open, Caius. I'm not losing you. Not-not again."

Her look is equal parts pleading, desperation, and commanding, and he finds himself smiling.

"For you, my love, anything."