A broad shouldered man stood tall above thousands of bodies.
Dead bodies.
Their deaths were not due to hate or prejudice. Not to racism nor to discrimination. Men and women laid atop one another.
Some were old, some were young.
Some had racial markings, while some did not.
Some had masks, while some did not.
Some wore sheets of armor, sliced like paper by an edge forged by sin.
Some wore thin clothes, impoverished by the elites. They, too, sat at the bottom of the mound.
But, all were human. They bled the same, crimson red blood. Their flawless fetid liquid poured like a river, trailing down through valleys of arms and legs. A mountain of death, lakes of blood and tears ridding its unholy surface.
The skies were grayed, yet the rain refused to fall. Clouds rolled and roared, yet the air was still. Those above preferred to turn a blind eye. Perhaps they did so because of shame, perhaps they did so because of pride.
The wind held its breath, the air not even wavering. The grass stiffened, stained by the crimson liquid of those who were innocent.
But were they really innocent?
They were song users after all. Their souls rang clear with the faint hymns of divinity. The echoes of their resonances reverberated within the empty chambers of their dead souls.
They spelled doom for the world. So abusive, these people were to the song. They used it akin to a slave, always asking for a bidding for nothing in return. These people were willing to drown their own world if it meant that their power would be more absolute.
How greedy.
How selfish.
The broad shouldered man had grown tired of their machinations. Their endless strings of control and fate bound to scarred hands. But, he had grown to accept it.
For if he couldn't break the strings of fate, why not pull on them?
Why should he, the man on the receiving end, be controlled by the frail fingers of figureheads and authoritarians. If he pulled hard enough on the strings, their fingers would surely break. Their frail bodies are thrown off balance, falling into their own ornate web of manipulation.
Because unlike these filthy cretins, the broad shouldered man had no song.
His eternally bleeding heart beat with a silent conviction; his cursed crimson blood coursed through veins forged by pain and trauma. For once, he finally felt free. The strings of control bound to his wrists slackened, the puppeteers having fallen off of their pedestals. He smiled, baring teeth which had chewed through nail and bone.
As he did, the world fell still.
The wind, as silent as it had been, ceased to exist.
The clouds shielded the heavens from what laid below.
The crimson blood of sinners slowed their flow, the man baring his hand in a fist.
The world fell silent, for it was witnessing a revolution.
A revolution of silence.
A revolution which stood atop the crumbling shoulders of giants, pioneered by the man atop them all.
A promise of a crimson silence.