He comes to her with weary steps, lost and unsure, wounds flowing and drained of energy he slumps upon the doorstep of her small cottage. Lifting him up and bringing him inside with strong sure arms she kneels beside him and kisses him to sleep, smiling and beautiful As he sleeps peacefully, a light smile on his face, she opens her chest and takes out her heart. A thing of beauty it is, crafted with practiced hands, mottled in many colors as though worked and reworked over years until it is perfect in every way. Soft it is as she holds it, salt tears soaking in from her gentle eyes, making it softer yet. She digs her fingers into this perfect thing, removing it's substance and leaving wicked holes. Taking the material she has thus removed she begins to spread it upon his wounds, into his heart she massages her own heart, her soul and her being until finally his heart and his being is complete and as perfect as once was her own heart. She leaves her heart on the table and curls next to him as he dreams.
In dreams she embraces him, bringing him deep into her warmth, holding him as tight and warm and close as swaddling on a baby through the long nights of his sleep.
Finally one morning he wakens smiling and strong, his eyes bright, his step light and his limbs full. He smiles on her and holds her close, giving her a taste of his love, his being. Tenderly he feeds her rose petals, walking in the sun, they speak of futures that do not exist and laugh at birds on the wing. Finally, returning to the cottage she hands him his spear and sword. He has an urgency in his step now, he has remembered that there are things he must do. She assures him that she will always be there, waiting, when he should finish his purpose. Strong he strides down the path and watching his back recede she knows she will not see him again.
Into the small cottage she returns with heavy step and picks up her ravaged heart. With weary hands she carries it to the small work area behind the rose covered dwelling. Crying on the ground she kneads the mud thus created and rolls her heart in mud and ashes, rolling it and rolling it round till it fills all the spaces torn out; mud, ashes and tears. Holding it to the fire of her pain she hardens her heart.
For many days she tempers it in anger and fire, it hardens till it is brittle, and she then holds it, thinking how easy it would be to smash this thing, this hard thing that hurts so much. Again she cries, her tears flowing ever more freely upon her heart so hard from ashes and mud and fire. The tears soak into the tempered thing, making it soften and shine and she massages her tears, feeling her heart. She knead it and massages it just as she did the man's heart not so long ago. Before long it sits perfect and mottled and soft, a thing of great beauty. waiting in her cottage, she hears a weary step upon the path outside and knows another soldier returns wounded from Love's battles.
Her duty calls.