A howl of grief erupts from my mouth.

And then I wish I had stayed silent. I am a soldier. Soldiers don't cry.

But in the aftermath, I see what war is.

Men I've known all my life.

I can't bear to look at what's left of them.

And all the people I do not know, that rode valiantly to defend my city.

They did not have to die with us.

And the horses, who did not understand the danger.

Just more innocents killed by war.

Even the enemy. The corrupted men.

Maybe what they thought what they were doing was right.

Maybe their mothers will weep when they don't return home.

Their blood stains the yellow field, too.

The city should be red, I think, not white.

White is the color of innocence.

Red is the color of death.

That city was paid for by the blood of thousands.

The smell of burning corpses chokes me and brings tears in my eyes.

Or are they from the sight before me?

Was the victory truly worth the hundreds of deaths?

The city will ever be shaken by war.

Why build it up to let it fall?

We fought for what we thought was right.

So did they.