This was a good fic to write when feeling depressed, I must say :P Descriptive writing isn't my forte, so I'd appreciate any criticisms you care to share. Thank you and enjoy.
P.S. totally spoiler free
A figure lay crumpled on the ground.
Once again it was raining. It always seemed to be raining here.
It had rained on the day they had first arrived, and the younger two of the travellers had refrained from voicing their dismay and concentrated on finding the next feather. The ninja didn't seem to care either way, though one got the feeling he felt the dismal weather was a nuisance.
Fai hadn't minded. He liked the rain. He liked to snuggle up on a cold spring afternoon as the rain battered the windows.
The rain was battering down now; each drop felt more like a cold, sharp blow to the body sprawled on the remorseless ground.
The landscape around him was cruel and broken. It was made up entirely of cold black rocks, jutting at sharp angles and dangerous inclinations. A valley of jagged precipices and dark crevices. Of jutting geological daggers. It seemed almost as if the cold rocks had grown there – as if the very landscape had expressed all the pain and anguish of those who had once lived there, and those who were doomed there now.
A feather slowly floated towards the ground, it was soft and white and light – almost in defiance to its surroundings. It was an unusual feather, by all accounts, but the eyes of the defeated man did not take in its unusual markings, although they noticed the faint glow slowly but surely extinguish.
There were tears now, mixed in with the blood. Hot tears that burned with promises unfulfilled and hope forsaken. The blood was everywhere. Spilt over the rocks in drips and pools, resisting the rain's endeavours to wash it away. Not all of it was his; in fact, not much of it was his, which was why his bitter tears now fell.
He couldn't move. Whether for grief or injury, he couldn't move – not to grasp that now lifeless feather, nor to even spare a glance at the cruel black rocks and the cold stinging rain. All he could do was lay there and sob pathetically, ignoring sticky red blood in his matted flaxen hair. He was shaking. His whole body shook and trembled as the rain bit into his pale skin, stealing the red stains that covered him. The red stains that had claimed the others. Something managed to catch his tear-soaked eyes, and he looked over, the gravel grating underneath him. It was just another rivulet of rain mixed with blood, running haphazardly over the black stone. He traced it back up to its source. Two cold, lifeless bodies. They were wrapped around each other now, for all that it didn't matter. Hands clasped tightly around each other's. The colour of life had been leached away from their skin as it trickled down the rocks, the rain paying them no heed. They were just children.
And the warrior, he was nearby, too. Like a massive statue torn down in a revolution, he lay on the black rocks still clutching his sword. The future he had given his life to evading had come to pass, regardless of his efforts. His eyes were closed against that inevitable end; his mouth set in a futile grimace.
And now there was only one left.
One to cry for them, one to remember them.
Alone, battered and broken.