Connor

Connor was sick of fighting.

Sick of war.

Sick of death.

Sick of blood.

Sick of Pain.

Of Hurting.

Of anger.

Of hatred.

Of malice.

The only thing he wasn't sick of, he was sick with. And that was love.

Connor was lovesick.

He had loved Miranda since they were 14 years old. He confessed this to her when they were 16. They started courting when they were 16 1/2, and they were betrothed shortly after Miranda turned 17. They had planned to be married at 19. As much as Connor wished that this war would end within the hour, he would return to the castle, find Miranda still there, hold her in his arms, kiss her and say the heck with waiting until they were 19. He'd take her to the church right then in there if he could, but he knew he couldn't.

As Connor had left to join the others and kissed Miranda goodbye, he saw death's chalk dusted on her face. He saw that his breath had touched her shaking hands, and that his mark was left on her right temple. His ink was staining her hair, and his cold hands had taken Connor's loves' in them and stolen her away from a world she was too good for. He knew that the kiss he gave her was goodbye.

Connor wanted so badly to fall to the ground right then and there and let some bloodthirsty Roman pierce his aching heart with a merciful sword, and reunite him with his one, his only. But his time was not yet. He cursed the blood that so healthily flowed through his veins. He spat upon the pink in his cheeks, he hated the strength in his bones, and was repulsed by the life in his fingertips.

He would live on. Unhappily. But alive.