The day he had screamed like a hellbent banshee as his broomstick hurtled into the gelatinous depths of the sea beast's brain, Ferreole LeBeau had lost his mind because he had lost his heart. He had expected, entirely, to join her. That he hadn't was no small burden, even now. There was no true bravery in the last act of a broken man. He had done a damn, stupid, desperate thing, and gotten lucky. And to this day, he still  doubted it had been the right thing. The Pacific Kraken had been majestic. Dangerous, but majestic, and Ferrole was haunted by its loss even as the losses it caused haunted him as well.

That's what it came down to, didn't it?

He could close his eyes—and he did—and see faces. Hundreds, thousands, detailed and clear. Bart Flaherty, with spots on his nose, his face round and anxious as he looked up through a mop of red-brown hair. Marabelle Wick, dusty gold and warm, with eyes huge and dark and empty no matter how many words of comfort were whispered. Jennifer Willow, ten and too young, with her lost rabbit. Jacob Starch, scared and saluting, to fight a war he was bound to lose. He could see braids on collars, freckles that formed constellations, remember the strand of hair out of place, the shoe untied, the last words spoken. Countless tragedies, small and great, and unforgettable. Broken hearts, broken limbs, lost eyes and lost souls, beyond the reach of a wizard who was, after all, only a man with a louder voice than most.

A sharp pain shot through his spine as he paced, beginning with the limb he'd now lived without longer than he'd ever had by a factor of nearly three. He winced, and sat next to the fire, sinking into the warmth and chuckling at the creaks that came from him and not the furniture.  And he felt, if one were to be entirely honest, as he always did when he lost his heart to old memories, diminished. Rough, spindly fingers brushed a photograph with a gentleness few would believe him capable of. The woman, cracked and faded in black and white that had long ago begun to yellow, didn't smile at him. Not quite. But it was in her eyes, about to start, as she glanced briefly out of the frame and back up at him.

"Ah, ma moitié, jou would scold me, eh? After all dis…"

 His hands stroked the paper, worn and thin as it was, and Ferreole LeBeau mourned.