She was older then him, maybe around five years. Her soaked hair was blonde, nearly white, and her unfocused eyes blue. Her face blushed from the cold, shoulders reddened, skin peeling itself from a sunburn once received when the weather had been hot. She was kneeling in the rain, her knees in the mud. Her fair hands on the black soil gave a sharp contrast. She was shivering. Slowly she rose her head until her eyes met his.
He stared at her, his face not betraying any emotion. His back hurt – the cannonballs that had burned themself into his skin, ripped it open had done a great job to bother him – and he thought that he should go to the hospital ward or it would get infected and he would die. He didn't know if he cared that much.
„I don't know what to do...", she whispered. „Oh, I'm too afraid to touch him, I'll kill him, kill him for sure."
It was then when he noticed the little babybird she was shielding from the rain with her body. It lay on the ground, helplessly, blood around him.
„It fell out of his nest, and it started to rain."
He stared at her helpless figure, and bowed down. The bird was still alive, turning his head from one side to the other.
He felt her heat, as he moved forward, stretching his hand out to get the animal.
She looked at him in awe. He held the bird out to her, and as she took it in her palm, she smiled gently.
„Thank you. May I know your name?"
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
When the fever got the better of her and she fell, the bird still safe in her palm, he catched her and carried her inside. On his way to the hospital wing every drop of water hitting his aching back felt like iron. He didn't care.
Maybe he had finally seen the light.