The grass is scorned; the birds are dead; the air is still smoky from the artillery fire.
A lone figure stands atop the burning hill, somber. He knows how this has happened; he knows the dead men; he knows the battlefield; he knows the consequences.
And yet. He wonders.
If one is not dead, when will he be? He has survived more than this before, but nothing resonated with him as much as the piercing shrieks of the spirits still bound to the ground on which their rotting bodies lie.
He sighed, the small sound similar to the shout in the burning world.
It was just another battle, it seemed. Another life to be burnt out of existence.
The lone soldier stepped down from the top of the scorched hill, his muscles screaming for him to stop the bloodshed.
Unfortunately, this was his job; this was his calling. And he'd be a damned fool if he did not follow it.
