I know you. I know this isn't you. And even if it is, I still love you. As much as I always have. You will always be mine. I will always love you, I promised you that when you left, and it's true now.
You look beautiful and tragic, just the way a heroine should on the eve of battle. Like Joan of Arc in her silver armor.
Had pretended to be Abbadon of the Dark, when always he had been working for the Light.
Because love was not the answer to every question. Because real love meant sacrifice. Sometimes love means letting go.
