Preface:

The gleam in his grey eyes had expired as he watched the sky above him open up and the heavens shone down. With the musket wound tightly in his hand, he proceeded forward. Shots rung out and he watched man after man fall. He watched his friends fall before him and he knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Dread washed over him with each body that fell. But, despite his feelings, he continued to move.

The layout had been simple. Each man had a job to do. They were all meticulously placed on the large compilation of their furniture, ready to fight. They had been trained as well as they could have been, but nothing had prepared them for this.

A bullet flew past his head and he heard a man cry out. Another man down and only a few remained. He didn't know who, though. He was unable to see anything beyond the smoke that filled the air.

That's when he saw him. In a cloud of smoke and fire, he saw him standing tall, holding tightly to the red square of fabric in his hand. He looked as if he were an angel, which he had been all along.

"VIVE LA FRANCE!" the angel cried out, gripping the fabric.

A shot was fired and the angel fell from the highest point.

He grabbed his chest and let out an estranged scream, falling onto his back. He was gone. There was nothing left o fight for.

In an instant, the man felt his heart being pierced, not by his emotions, but by a bullet. How did he end up here? He was supposed to be a savior. He was supposed to be their guide.

It felt as if it was a dream.

Was it?