I pace
Alone
In a place for the dead
Over come by woe
And here
I've grown
So fond of dread
That I swear it's heaven
The clouds had fallen overnight, soaking the blood stained grass with water and casting a hazy glow over the battlefield. The dead lay everywhere, strewn about without regard for anything or anyone else. Many of the corpses were indistinguishable; bloody masses of torn flesh and bone. Anonymity in death, as they say.
Somewhere in the middle of it all lay two bodies, one withered and pale, the other young and strong. A raven hopped towards the bodies, eyeing them curiously and cocking his head to one side. Stranger than his presence on the battlefield, the sole life form, were his stark white crest and almost neon eyes. It cawed and took flight, hovering over the hill for a moment, as if surveying the damage. Then in was only a speck in the distance, never to be seen again.
A man stood solemnly by a grave and shook his head as if to shake the memory away. Only ten feet away, under the lid of a clear crystal coffin, lay the body of a hero. He rested peacefully under a preserving spell, visited by many every year. In the twenty years that had passed, he'd become a legend. And as the man collapsed, dead of no reason, the boy's eyes flew open. The hero lived.