100 Prompt Challenge - Astelle

Prompt: Victory comes with a price, Asta lost so much to defeat Lucius, but he also gained something irreplaceable.

—

Lucius Zogratis was dead.

The war was over.

And the hero who slew him—who shattered fate itself, who defied gods and devils—had paid a price that no magic could ever restore.

—

The battlefield was silent.

Not in the way of peace, but in the way of devastation.

The sky, once a swirling mass of Lucius' divine dominion, had cracked apart, his magic vanishing like a dying ember. The world was still reeling from the aftermath of his destruction. Kingdoms stood on the brink of ruin.

But he was dead.

Lucius Zogratis, the self-proclaimed savior, the so-called final king, had fallen.

And Asta had been the one to kill him.

Noelle could barely comprehend it at first. One moment, she was fighting—struggling, barely holding her own against Lucius' horde of devils and angelic sentries after slaying her mother. The next, there was a blinding flash of Anti-Magic, a roar of raw defiance, and then—silence.

When the dust settled, Asta was standing above Lucius' lifeless body, katana in his one remaining hand, breath ragged and uneven.

He had won.

But when Noelle ran to him—when she got close enough to see—her heart stopped.

His right arm was gone.

His body, a mess of wounds, crimson staining his ruined cloak.

And his eyes.

The moment Asta turned toward her, Noelle saw it.

The dim, unfocused way he stared past her. The blankness in those once-brilliant green eyes.

He wasn't looking at her.

He couldn't see.

Her stomach dropped.

"Asta—"

He staggered.

She caught him just before he collapsed.

And that was the last thing he remembered before darkness swallowed him whole.

—

The world hailed Asta as the savior of humanity.

The Magic Emperor without a crown.

The warrior who had conquered fate.

But behind the grand celebrations, behind the lavish feasts and endless parades—Asta sat alone in a quiet hospital room, wrapped in thick bandages, staring at nothing.

He didn't complain.

He never did.

Even as he struggled to adjust to a world without sight, even as his left hand—his only hand now—shook whenever he tried to grip something, Asta never spoke a word of his suffering.

But Noelle saw it.

She saw it in the way his jaw clenched when he failed to do something simple—when he couldn't tie the laces of his boots, when he bumped into walls he no longer knew were there, when he reached out for his sword out of habit, only to find it missing along with the hand that used to wield it.

She saw it in the way when he veered his blind gaze to his shoulder and mumbled aloud, striking up a conversation with his adopted-brother, only to never get a response. Afterall the dead can't talk. 

She saw it in the way he smiled, too—because it wasn't real.

Not like before.

Not like the grin that used to light up every room he stepped into.

The war had taken so much from him.

And though the world saw only a hero, Noelle saw a man struggling not to crumble.

So she did what she always did.

She stayed by his side.

—

One night, as she helped him settle into their shared home—because she refused to let him be alone—Asta finally spoke the words she knew had been weighing on him.

"You don't have to stay, Noelle."

Her hands froze.

He was sitting on the edge of their bed, his back to her, shoulders slumped. He wasn't looking at her—he couldn't—but the words still hit like a dagger to the chest.

"What?"

He exhaled, running his hand through his hair. "You don't have to do this. I know it's not what you wanted."

Her blood ran cold. "What exactly do you think I wanted?"

Asta gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "A whole man."

The air left her lungs.

He kept going, voice hoarse. "I can't even see you, Noelle. I can't hold a sword properly. I—" His breath hitched. "I don't want you to waste your life taking care of me."

Silence stretched between them.

Then—Noelle moved.

Before he could react, before he could flinch, she was in front of him, kneeling between his legs, cupping his face in her hands.

He stiffened. "Noel—"

"Shut up."

His breath caught.

And when she spoke again, her voice shook.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you?" she whispered. "How much it hurt when I thought I lost you?"

His fingers twitched, as if wanting to reach for her but hesitating.

"I don't care if you can't fight anymore," she said fiercely. "I don't care if you can't see. I don't care if you never pick up a sword again, or if you spend the rest of your life learning how to walk without bumping into tables. None of that matters to me, Asta."

His breathing turned uneven.

She pressed her forehead against his. "You matter to me."

His only hand, the one he still had, finally came up—shaking—and brushed against her cheek.

"Noelle," he murmured.

Tears pricked her eyes.

And then, finally—finally—Asta broke.

He didn't cry, but she felt the way he trembled, the way his breath hitched as his walls crumbled.

She wrapped her arms around him. Held him close.

And he let her.

For the first time since the war ended, Asta let himself fall apart in her arms.

—

Asta never fully recovered.

His vision never returned. His missing hand never regrew.

He would never fight the way he once did.

But he lived.

And Noelle made sure that he lived well.

Through patience, through stubborn devotion, through sheer force of love, she reminded him that he was more than his sword.

More than a warrior.

More than just a hero destined to fight.

He was Asta.

And that was enough.

Years later, when they stood at the altar, when he whispered "I do" without hesitation, Noelle knew—

She had never regretted staying.

Because he was hers.

Forever.

And she would love him until the day they returned to the earth together.