The sky was too blue. If she had it her way, she would paint the whole sky black – no, bleak grey – to match the feelings of both her and her companions.
Riza stared at the sun, its harsh yellow glare blazing in the sky. She could hear pain, touch the mourning, taste the sheer ache of her fellow soldiers as they gathered to the grassy graveyard.
Over her shoulder, she could hear Maria sobbing quietly into the shoulder of Denny, whose face was contorted with the tears he was refusing to cry. She caught his gaze, and he nodded slightly, obtaining her permission, before a singly solitary drop slid down his cheek, landing silently in Maria's hair.
Next to her, Major Armstrong stood tall and silent, seemingly a rock in the midst of all their drifting, but she could tell he was aching to crumble. Havoc stood beside him, face drawn and gaunt, leaning heavily on the major in an attempt to stay upright. Besides him, Falman was standing tall, his face wrinkled as he fought to remain in control. Fuery had no such qualms – his face was glistening with tears, and Breda matched him. Together, they made a sorry sight.
But her colonel was standing tall, noiseless, seemingly without emotion. He never reacted, not even when the coffin, stately and silent, was carried past him in a whirl of emotion. He didn't move when Elysia, poor Elysia, was crying that her daddy had to work, that he promised, that he said so, she didn't want her daddy to go. He didn't even seem to flinch when Maria, propped up by Denny, left in a flood of tears, unable to carry on, unable to witness any more.
He simply stood, not betraying a hint of the turmoil she knew must be going through his head, and she wondered whether he was simply keeping up appearances or whether he was afraid.
As she gave herself up to the overwhelming pain she felt in every muscle of her being, she thought she saw him look at her, but her world was dissolving rapidly into a haze of green grass, blue uniform, and brown coffin.
A few days after, in the military office, she looked up to find him staring at a photograph taken in the Civil War, in the days of violence, when they had all thought they would never escape the horror they themselves had caused, when Maes had kept their spirit alive. She watched him, as he slowly stroked the frame, as his mind flashed over all the memories.
She watched him fall, slowly, to the floor. His face crumpled, and, softly, he began to cry silent tears of anguish.
She walked over, trying not to weep at not only her grief, but also his. She gently put her arms around him, and held him tightly, her embrace encompassing both their heartache, as he sobbed into her military uniform, dying it an even darker blue than before.