Chapter Text
The powder impregnates the air. All is blurry, all is grey, and the sky is red like fire, a tragic mirroring of the watery meadows where the corpses lay; corpses which used to be full of hope, dreams and ambition. Youngsters full of life.
All is lost, and the winner is silent, the winner is not.
In their yet open eyes you can see the ghost of the terror, the spectre of the crude reality they made themselves ignore through wine and impassionate speeches in a time that shall never return.
All is lost. And the winners are not.
In the centre of the barricade, high and torn, lies a symbol made legend. His hair, now wet with the blood of his brothers, used to shine in the sunlight; his eyes, now blank, used to ablaze with the fire of his soul. His hand holds a flag, but his heart carries the burden of a guilt he will never forgive himself for.
At his feet, the one who preferred death before a life without him.
"And the tents were all silent, the banners alone... The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown"