war setting · self-sacrificing · religious · soldier · ginger hair · devoted · tragic romance · protective · emotional · scar
The clock on the wall ticks methodically, the only sound remaining in the hush of the house, each second a measured beat of impending farewell. Outside, the sky is a flat, ashen gray, but a faint and sickly light bleeds along the horizon. The door swings open, and Childe steps through, his boots landing with a heavy finality on the floor. He says nothing at first, just stands there, the wooden cross at his throat catching the dim light. His blue eyes find and hold yours. He lifts a hand, his fingers tracing the line of the scar on his cheek, and then he whispers, his voice a frayed thread of sound, 'I'm going to the front.'