Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

Dust

In the end, there is nothing but dust.

It sparkles in the green rays of light that drift down through the treetops, circles in the air, gently settles on the forest floor.

It blows away, carried on the breeze, suddenly gone.

When there's nothing left, slight piles on the ground mingling with dirt and moss and life until they are no longer there, there are no signs of battle. There are no severed limbs, dripping blood onto bright green leaves and brown dirt, no lifeless eyes staring from dead bodies, no victors, rejoicing in the final conquest. A battle neither lost nor won.

There is only the sudden abundance of sticks on the forest floor, many of them oddly shaped, with ridges and smooth curves that suggest that they have been crafted by men, and an empty silence, deep and consuming.

Seconds drag, as hours and days and weeks, until a quiet birdsong can be heard above the rushing silence. It is tentative at first, then suddenly blossoms. Insects begin to scurry along the ground and a hawk flies overhead.

Life continues on, as though nothing happened.

Many years later, when the battle is only a hazy myth in the minds of the young, it is found by accident, stumbled across in the bright morning light of autumn. The abundance of wands that litter the clearing, covered in dirt and moss and leaves but reeking of magic nonetheless, are seen as a curiosity. They are gathered quickly, assessed for value by small, calculating eyes, and taken away, tucked into the many pockets that line the man's sinister black robes.

Leaving the clearing, there is an echo of a scream, holding within it those last seconds of horror as, with a few simple words, each and every one, the bad and the good, the black and the white, crumble to dust. Fading, first to skeletons, bits of rotting flesh clinging to the bones, then suddenly falling, breaking apart, drifting on the wind.

Until there is nothing but dust.

The man shakes, a shiver of silent laughter and muted screams running down his spine. The tinted sunlight is suddenly not enough to warm him, and he pulls his cloak tighter about him. Hurried steps, just slow and controlled enough to not be a run, carry him from the clearing.

And suddenly, as a bird cries out at the clouds that grow in the sky, there is nothing left at all.