[The ache that comes at such massive loss settles into his bones, a weight so strangely familiar that only with its return does he realize it was missing. With his wounds so comparatively mild (ish), and almost no one to call upon him, he has nothing but time--time to think about the ways he'd failed, the people he couldn't save. Lying awake, he can hear the devastated cries of the ones left behind; when he drifts off, he sees the faces of the dead. There's no escape, but he wouldn't take it even if there was one.
It goes on like this until the door does open, finally--and he doesn't even need to see her face, really. There's something about the click of her heels, the rhythm of her steps, that stirs his heart even through the haze of his amnesia.]
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It goes on like this until the door does open, finally--and he doesn't even need to see her face, really. There's something about the click of her heels, the rhythm of her steps, that stirs his heart even through the haze of his amnesia.]