To Mourn a Thief
The field was strewn with bodies both dead and dying. A thin veil of blood covered everything in sight. Barely able to stand as it was, the tall man picked his way among the bodies of friends and foes alike, searching earnestly for one face, yet hoping not to find it. Not here among bloody carcasses and the remnants of hours-long fighting. Not here.
He barely registered the sharp intake of air as coming from his own lungs as he fell down, weary knees buckling beneath his athletic frame. No, it wasn't, it couldn't be…
The glassy eyes of Skif's corpse stared back at him, pain embedded eternally into a face that once held mischievous grins and winking grey eyes. Clutching the ice-cold fingers of the lad in his own hand, Dirk choked back a sob.
"Little brother, surely it was not your time," was all he managed to get out before breaking down completely. There, amidst the stench of death and the aura of defeat, the older man, once strong, held his comrade in a gentle embrace and wept bitterly.