Brom trudged through the aftermath of the battle, his combat books sinking into the blood-soaked soil. He snaked his way through the countless corpses, keeping tabs on all of the bodies that belonged to the Rebellion. The first rays of morning sun cast shadows across the flat battlefield, and glinted off the gilded pommel of Brom's sword. He gripped it tightly with his gloved hand and unsheathed it, preparing for any surprise attacks to slay him. The quality of his blade never ceased to awe him, though -- it was a sword of the finest make, composed of the strongest steel with a hilt carved intricately to mimic the appearance of rope. An exquisite ruby was welded into the pommel and refracted light in such a way that dappled his shadow like rhinestones.

"Brom!" He turned at the mention of his name, and was stunned by the presence of Alana, whom he had thought dead. Her pale, soft skin contrasted against his rough, dark hide as she embraced him. Her thin fingers laced themselves through his tangled hair and her soft lips met his in a kiss. Brom savored it for a moment before pulling away, and his hazel eyes met hers in a warning gaze. "How many have been counted dead?" Alana asked in a somber voice, emerald eyes suddenly distracted by the dirt.

"Many," Brom replied in a grim voice. He gazed out across the plain, watching as the surviving warriors piled up the bodies of the opposing side to burn. The morning was bittersweet; somber for the loss of so many treasured warriors, yet sweet victory never failed to shine. Despite the action of the previous day, all Brom longed to do was eat a hot meal, wash, and sleep in a bed for the first time in weeks. He had erased Alana from his mind, merely because if he hadn't, he wouldn't have survived war against the former king.

"Was my father amongst them?" Her grief-stricken voice stirred him deeply, and he looked into her eyes. They were wet with tears. He nodded curtly, then looked away as she began to weep. It pained him to hear her cries, and he didn't know why. How could he have stricken her from his conscious for so long, not thought of her once, and now find himself feeling like he bid her father's doom? Despite all his attempts to rationalize with himself, he turned to her and held her to his chest, even as she fought to pry herself away.

Eventually her protests died down, and she seemed to melt into Brom as her cries turned to stifled hiccups. He kissed her soft hair, like pale gold on his cracked lips. His limbs ached, his wounds screamed in pain, but above all, his heart longed to fill the empty hole left in Alana's heart by the death of her father. To erase her pain, to make her feel bliss and only that for the rest of her life.

And suddenly he felt weak, for not being able to do so. A feeling of pure contrition distorted his mind. If only he had stayed behind, not fought in the war like her father, and he could have been there to keep her from going mad with terror. If only he had chosen her over his pride, he would have never had to erase her from his thoughts. She could have been all he thought about in those weeks he spent enduring the dull throbs of sore muscles and the growling of an empty stomach.

Alana pushed away from Brom, leaving her slender hands on his chest. She met his eyes in a stern, yet somewhat desperate gaze, and her voice barely came out in a whisper. "I have waited so long for you, Brom Cromwell. Take me to your home and give me all of you." Brom clutched her side and brought her closer, and a gasp escaped her throat. He chuckled and kissed her neck, replying, "I have no home any longer, Alana."

"Then take me to water, cleanse me of my grief," she gasped again, gripping his muscled arm. "And make love to me." Brom suddenly felt succumbed with lust, but even more love, and he brought her lips against his, kissing her hard. He pulled free, then kissed her every finger, his eyes never leaving hers.

"It's all I've ever wanted to do, Alana," he laughed, sweeping her off of her feet. "So that is what I will do."