They didn't send him away.
They ripped him from the only hands that had ever held him without fear.
Persious didn't guide Alex gently into the storm.
He threw him into it—
without armor, without warning—
because sometimes, the only way to forge a warrior
is to let the world try to break him first.
Alex didn't fall into glory.
He fell into hell.
Into chaos. Into realms twisted by sorrow and soaked in forgotten blood.
Into places where even gods refused to look.
And in that pain,
he learned to stand.
Not because he wanted to.
But because there was no one else left to stand for him.
He survived where others screamed.
He bled where others begged.
He rose with cracked bones and quiet eyes—
not strong, just stubborn.
Not brave, just tired of being afraid.
And somewhere, between pain and purpose,
he met them.
The princesses.
Not the fairy tale kind.
No — these were warriors, survivors, exiles.
Girls with galaxies behind their eyes and loneliness in their laughter.
Each carrying crowns heavier than their hearts.
Each hiding scars behind silk smiles.
And somehow,
they saw him.
Not the blade. Not the victories.
Him.
The boy who still flinched when hands moved too fast.
The boy who didn't know how to hold someone
without thinking he'd lose them.
They offered their hearts in whispers and glances,
not because he tried to win them,
but because he never tried to be more than what he was:
A boy learning how to heal in a world built to hurt.
And he wanted to love them.
Gods, he did.
But every time love reached out,
he stepped away.
Because he still didn't think he deserved to be held.
He moved forward—always forward—
dragging his wounds behind him like chains he didn't know how to cut.
Fighting demons, shattering realms,
speaking for the voiceless until his throat bled.
He started wars with nothing but truth.
He ended tyrannies with nothing but grief.
The world began to speak his name in reverence,
in fear,
in awe.
Hero. Monster. Ghost. Flamewalker. Cursebearer.
But those who truly knew him—
who saw the way he stared at the stars when he couldn't sleep,
who heard the pain in his silence—
called him something different.
The Rough Hero.
Because he never learned to be gentle with himself.
Because his love was all jagged edges and clumsy hands.
Because he gave everything and never asked for anything back.
He never kissed the girl.
He never said "I love you."
He just stood between her and the fire,
again and again,
until she forgot what burning felt like.
And when the time came to part—
when his road called him forward again—
he gave his farewells with a smile.
No tears.
No promises.
Just a soft voice,
and a warm word left behind like a whisper:
"Thank you… for letting me be someone."
And maybe that's why they loved him.
Not for the battles won—
but for the way he kept coming back,
even when he had every reason not to.
He didn't save the world to be remembered.
He saved it because he couldn't bear to see one more person cry
the way he once did.