He bore the proof of each battle on his back. Not as scars, but as black feathers as long and sharp as swords.
After each fight, his wings were a bit larger, a little heavier. Blood ran down his back where they pushed through. She knew that they would kill him someday. The wounds they caused would kill him, or they would weigh him down in battle.
She begged him to stop. She told him that her life wasn’t worth his. He just returned to guarding her and waited for his wings to get strong enough to carry her away.

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