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His death, that they'd each pictured a hundred times, came so close, and yet, miraculously, was evaded.
A relief too good to be true - one that only causes further grief. A sinking realisation of how fragile everything is. Of how much it weighs. A nightmare replayed behind closed eyelids like a memory, an inevitability ; life becomes a long ropeway, a thin thread bound to snap eventually. A fine line dividing life and death, heaven and hell, two halves barely held together by sweat, faith and glue.
One day, he'll open his eyes. One day, he'll look back. He'll feel the dull pinch of what could have been, the vast weight of what's no more, the discomfortable death of what was hidden and never said - and still won't have a clue what it was all for.
For now, he walks. He remains, head held up high and basking in the sun, feet firmly planted in the nightly shade, as the demon that stands besides him - the two of them leading the rest.
As long as he lives, he'll carry on that role. Take him and his words inside of him to follow them into the grave, even if the thread snaps, the miracle wears off, the sun comes down and disappears - he'll hold onto its warmth, and spur other onwards as it did him.
Content in that sole purpose, he can smile for the present. Worrying neither of the past nor future,
- and that's enough.