The rain poured over the quiet field, and he sat there. He did not know, nor did he care, that the rain drenched upon him, soaking in his clothes. He didn't notice the eerie silence the enveloped him. He didn't brush off the dirt and mud that covered him.
Did the rain know what has happened, does it intentionally mock him and his failure? Or did it rain in sympathy for the world, mourning along? Matthew did not know.
He sniffed up what was left of his tears, and stood, embracing the cold of the rain. He at once noticed the pain in his arm, which still held-it. He looked out along the the field, green acres painted with a deep crimson. Matthew picked a small yellow rose from the ground, still pure and untouched. He silently placed it upon his brother, his only brother. Now lost in a world greater than Matthew stood, dreaming forever about a battle that was won. He would never know it was lost, never know it was over.
"Goodbye, Alfred", Matthew whispered, leaving the one person he cared for, "I'll win...for you."
And he left. His brother lay there, a yellow rose propped on his chest, still wearing the smirk he always wore, a smile that started a rebellion, but would never see it succeed.