Crimson.
Blood of crimson shone no light of the starless, inked sky, crawling ever so patiently through ruined crevices of scorched earth. The moon watched atop the throne of heaven.
A silent hymn hummed in the breathless air. It was lost for words.
To drown is one thing.
To die is another.
Here, on this ravaged field of suffocating terror, people died.
People of one kind, people of another. Those who have fought valiantly with the spirit of their lives; those who reveled in cowardice, holding dearly on to the shred of sanctity within their tainted souls. Daughters of mothers, fathers of sons; friends of many, friends to themselves.
Two, three, four, ten…
One hundred, three hundred…
Two thousand…
Three thousand…
Thousands…
So many lives extinguished…
Not because of prejudice, not because of hate or discrimination, not because of appearance nor class…
…And not by the hand of Mercy.
Mercy was but a dream in this world.
The wind caressed the cold, dry fingers of the dead as it swept across the expanse of crimson earth; the steel-hard scent of metal scattering through the air.
A stream of golden divinity curled and ebbed within the vast pool of blood—of placid, lusterless crimson. The gleaming ichor of a slumbering god bled from a hand of judgement; the hand which had severed and saved too many lives to keep count.
A broad shouldered man stood tall above thousands of the dead.
The dead who bled the same crimson red blood. Fetid liquid poured like a river, trailing down through valleys of arms and legs, wounds and bruises. A mountain of death, lakes of blood and tears ridding its unholy surface.
Their souls once rang clear with the faint hymns of divinity.
Not anymore.
No more, did the harmonies of their souls recite the hidden hymns of the world. Now, the echoes of their resonances reverberated within the empty chambers of their hollow bodies.
Perhaps it was for the better.
No… perhaps it wasn't.
Crimson-tainted sea advanced upon the scarred shorelines—the edges of the battlefield. Soon enough, the tides would lay claim to scattered islands that once were towering mountains and cliffs.
With or without the hymns of their souls—their song—the world would still drown.
Pearlescent tears dragged down his injured face—stubbornly dragged downwards by the weight of the world. His eyes danced the colors and hues of the hiding sun and memories, forgotten.
Countless memories…
He was himself, who was formed from the him of others.
His eternally bleeding heart beat with a silent conviction; his cursed crimson blood coursed through veins forged by pain and trauma.
Would he accept this destiny of his?
He pondered that thought over and over in his aching mind.
Then, he smiled.
Not too wide, not uncanny, unlike a tyrant who dreamed the dreams of the mighty—of the righteous. The tears of the world licked the blood off of his dry lips and settled on the ivory-white of his teeth.
the world fell still.
Maybe, he would dream. Dream a dream which he had never dreamt before. The dream of the world—of everyone but his own— captured by the lens of his weeping eyes.
Yes, he would dream today.
He closed his eyes.