It was such a foreign feeling, to be embraced at all, let alone with so much emotion clinging to the moment. "There were thousands," he whispered. "But my wife was the first," and even years later, it felt like an open wound being washed with vinegar.

He tried not to think about the war anymore, about the people he'd lost, the ones he'd killed. All the innocents caught in the crossfire.

Then he'd tried to start the cycle all over again. The guilt made him sick to his stomach, and he rubbed a hand over his face roughly. "I was never worthy."